Page 56 of Tainted Blood

“Smoke’s fucked up his head.” I’ll deal with his insubordination later.

My gaze shifts back toward Lola. Once again, my loyalty is being tested. I’m not letting Thalia out of my arms—she’s my wife. But Lola is my sister.

As if reading my thoughts, Grayson slides in next to Lola. Making the decision for me. “Go take care of Thalia.”

“She’s my familia.”

He nods at the SUV in front of us. “And she’s mine. That makes us even.”

* * *

After a twenty-four-hour detour via a private hospital in Florence for an emergency operation on Thalia’s leg, and a night on oxygen for all of us, we’re finally headed back to the US.

It only took a couple of million-dollar payouts to persuade two doctors to fly back with us. None of us escaped injury, but it’s mostly superficial, with the effects of smoke inhalation and a couple of bullet holes thrown in for good measure.

Thalia’s injuries were the worst. The infection in her leg was bordering on sepsis. Her other wounds weren’t as serious, but just as brutal. She’s yet to regain consciousness.

Autodefensa.

I lost count of how many stitches Lola needed to close all the dog bites on her arms.

And the third girl?

It took some digging, but a missing American mob princess doesn’t go unnoticed in our circles, especially one who’s been stolen from our own backyard.

RJ is sitting in the seat beside me, carving craters into the cockpit door.

Lifting my glass, I take a long slow drink. “How long?”

“Don’t start,” he mutters.

“How long have you been involved with Gianni Marchesi’s daughter?” His silence ticks my anger up a notch. “How long have you been fucking the New Jersey Don’s—?”

“Since Lola crossed the border.”

That’s not the answer I expected. “A year and a half?”

His gaze takes a swing in my direction, scorching me with accusation. “Are you really going to lecture me about crossing battle lines, Santi?”

“Yes. Because shit like this happens,” I motion to the back bedroom where Thalia is resting. “People get hurt when enemies don’t play nice.”

“The Marchesis and Carrera aren’t enemies.”

I glare at him over the rim of my glass. “It’s a tepid alliance at best. Don’t paint a bullet red and call it a rose.”

“Do you regret your red bullet?”

I clench my teeth, his question taking me off guard.

“That’s what I thought,” he mutters. “You worry about your choices, and I’ll worry about mine.” Rising to his feet, he strides toward the front of the jet and disappears into the cockpit.

The seat is empty for all of thirty seconds, and then Edier Grayson is inviting himself into it. “What’s his story?”

“Denial. And it’s none of your fucking business.”

“Your diplomacy skills leave a lot to be desired, Carrera,” he says coldly.

“So my wife keeps telling me.” I catch him eyeing up the bottle sitting between us. “Grand Patron Añejo Burdeos tequila. Carrera special.”