Page 190 of Rosetti Family New York
The bar is loud and packed, a sea of bad ideas. This one? This time? An easy no. I stand and start to button my jacket.
She pouts and kicks out a hip.
"Don't be like that, sexy, I—"
I cut her off, looking her dead in the eye.
"Is your name Sloane Carter?"
She blinks, thrown off, and I see I've got her right where I want her.
"Er, no," she says.
"Then fuck off."
I don't wait to see her reaction. I've got more important shit to deal with. I need to find where the money's going, and I need to keep Sloane from getting herself killed. The second one shouldn't matter as much as it does, but I don't have time to analyze that problem right now.
I stalk away and push open the bar door with my black-gloved hand.
Outside, the cool air slaps me awake. I head for my car—a stupid move, but I'm doing it anyway. I'll drive by her place, make sure she's safe, then get back to what I should be focused on: the missing money, the Callahans, and keeping the Rosetti business intact.
The second I do anything more than that—the second I let her know I'm watching, or worse, let myself care too much—we're both screwed. And in my world, "screwed" usually means "dead."
13
Sloane
It feels like I’ve walked into a living, breathing thing. Lucas’s house, aka Maddy’s old place. The faucet ticks like a metronome, and the floorboards groan as if complaining about the February chill. I can practically hear my own heartbeat echoing off the walls, reminding me she’s gone.
I spot a mound of sneakers and boots by the door two sizes too small for Lucas. My chest tightens. Maddy’s not coming back. Somehow I’d tricked myself into forgetting she’s dead, and now grief slams into me like a freight train.
I pad down the narrow hallway. The air is heavy and stale, radiators huffing, windows sealed shut. A wilted plant on the sill looks as exhausted as I feel. I trace the old scar on my left hand, the one that still itches every time I step inside. Bright blue paint peels from the wall, posters of punk bands crowd the ceiling above the couch, and that faded yellow throw she picked up at some street market lies folded on the armrest. She’s everywhere.
“I thought you’d given up,” Lucas says from the kitchen doorway. His hoodie droops around him, and dark circles underscore eyes that haven’t seen sleep in weeks.
My voice comes out too soft.
“Not a chance. Maddy is…was…” I begin, but it’s awkward to speak in the past tense. “I should’ve come sooner.”
He exhales a short laugh.
“You know where to find me,” he says, gesturing at a lean tower of takeout boxes. “Lo mein. Day-old special. Help yourself.”
“I’ll pass,” I say, perching on the couch arm, careful of tangled headphone cords. “I got a name and an address. Maddie’s boyfriend. We were right. He’s into some serious stuff.”
Lucas stiffens, eyes snapping up to meet mine.
“Who?”
“Ethan Reyes,” I say. “He’s got ties to the Red Hooks.”
“Shit.” His voice is a breath away from breaking. “That gang?”
I nod.
“They’re low-level, but they operate all over Brooklyn. There’s no telling what else he’s into.”
He kicks at the edge of the carpet, staring at a spot on the floor.
