Page 83 of Rogue
“He’s not that bad.”
Jesus. I should have predicted this would happen. Francis, with his insecurities, his sneaky ways, his desire to fit in.
“If you’re idealizing Franco as your daddy figure, think again. He’s a criminal, for Christ’s sake. Bed buddies with a murderer who is sending money abroad. Wake up, Francis. The reasons can’t be good, not if TORC is after them. And that mobster is partially responsible for ruining Shelby. He’s not some friendly godfather figure. Don’t lose sight of our assignment. He’s our only connection to the real mark.”
“Calm down.”
“I’ll calm down once you wake up. That man will slit your throat quicker than you can snort a line.”
His eyes narrow and for a second, I’m stunned by the rage within them. Jesus, is this how mothers across the globe feel when reprimanding their kid?
I touch his arm. “Please be careful.”
“I can say the same about you.”
“News flash. I’ve never touched the stuff.”
“No. I mean about being careful.”
I stare at him. What is he saying? But I catch the priest’s nod, and immediately, my focus shifts back to more important matters.
“I have to go. Call me with the date of Franco’s party. I’ll be there.”
“Okay, Kylie.”
“My eyes and ears. Just for two days. Deal?”
“Deal.”
I let out a breath I didn’t know I was holding, then walk away from him and toward Mama’s grave.
Halfway there, I stop to pick a few wild dandelions from a patch of grass. Looking between my legs to track Francis as he heads toward a waiting limo and climbs into the driver’s seat. Nothing unusual with that. But it’s the movement behind the window in the backseat that has me straightening and turning for a better look.
Too late. The car pulls out and whoever is in the back has moved away from the window.
Damn him. But there’s a time and place for everything. And this assignment has kept me away from what’s important. I’ll deal with Francis another time.
I walk over and stand alone by Mama’s grave.
Slowly, I pluck the petals and watch them fall onto her casket. One by one until none remain and all that’s left is the red-tainted palm of my hand.
I bow my head, then recite my own private eulogy. My oath to her, a promise I should have confided in her. Similar to the one I’d whispered to my pop.
I will take care of Madelyn.
I will live a long life.
I will love deeply.
Come rain or shine. Life over death, or visa versa.
I’m going to finish what’s been started.
22
Paris
Iclose my eyes and inhale the delicate scent of fresh cut roses drifting upward from the blanket of red scattered across their graves.
