Page 79 of Tainted Blood
“New York has open container laws, you know,” RJ mutters, flipping through radio stations.
I pause, the tip of the bottle inches from my lips. “You shot a dealer’s kneecaps off yesterday for missing a coke drop. You’re seriously worried about a class one misdemeanor?”
Since the sober are easily flustered by drunken logic, he just chokes the steering wheel with his hands. “If I knew ‘pervert’ was going to be part of the job description, I would’ve stayed in Houston.”
“The job description is what I say it is,” I correct, swinging the bottle toward him. “Besides, I don’t think you’re in any position to question shit.”
As usual, any mention of his indiscretion ends arguments before they start. We’ve been treading in shallow waters since returning from Italy, moving in opposite circles and dancing around the whole Rosalia Marchesi situation. I haven’t demanded any further explanation, and he sure as hell hasn’t volunteered one.
I’m not too concerned. Just like everything else, the truth will come out eventually.
No one knows that better than me.
Releasing his death grip on the wheel, he exhales a frustrated breath and checks his phone again. “I’m not questioning. I’m advising. It’s bad enough you have half our sicarios parked outside her apartment, twenty-four-seven, like dirty cops. If she finds out you’re out here stalking her like some fucked up Dateline special, she’s gonna have Grayson blow your nuts off.”
“Don’t be stupid,” I scowl, tipping back another drink. “Grayson would go for the kill shot.”
“You mean your ego?” he mutters. “It is the biggest target.”
“I’m going to give you a pass on that one. Judging by the way you keep staring at your phone every five seconds, your attitude is coming from the fact your balls are in a jar at the vet.”
The only rise I get out of him comes from his middle finger.
A flicker of light in Thalia’s window draws my attention beyond the windshield. Seeing no movement, my focus returns to RJ and his incessant scrolling. Porn I could ignore… But this motherfucker is tapping “Rachel Marlow’s” contact page like he’s sending out Morse Code.
“Trouble in paradise?”
“Fuck off.”
“You’re my cousin, RJ—a damn good lieutenant. But don’t think I won’t break this bottle over your fucking skull for talking shit to me.”
The rhythmic tic in his jaw is his only response. “No trouble, or paradise. Just silence.”
Instead of being moody about it, the cabrón should accept it as a gift and move on. He’s lucky we’ve been too busy driving back and forth across the Hudson for me to call attention to his ever-growing sins of omission. My second-in-command’s actions in Tuscany will eventually be answered for, as well as Lola’s confession concerning their dangerous liaison pact of secrecy.
The latter, I’ve decided to keep in my back pocket for now.
It’s always good to have a trump card.
“Gianni Marchesi has her under lock and key, and for good reason. Dios mío, RJ, you stupid motherfucker. You know she’s taken. Marchesi promised her hand at birth.”
“Not Gianni,” he bites out between clenched teeth. “Her grandfather. That bastard was as sick and sadistic as yours.”
I shrug. Not a hill I care to die on. He’s right. Alejandro Carrera and Marcello Marchesi were a pair of antichrists. Even death can’t stop that kind of evil. They’ve probably overthrown hell by now and set up an underworld trafficking ring on the river Styx. Still, Italian arranged marriages tend to be more solid than a block of ice.
“Not sure Gianni has much of a choice. He can’t break the contract without starting a war.”
“Everyone has a choice.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“Never mind.” Shaking his head, he glances up at Thalia’s window then levels his condescending gaze at me. “How long do you plan on playing the shitfaced stalker role tonight? I have things to do.”
Lifting the bottle again, I smirk. “Oh? Like what?”
Cursing, he clasps his hands around the steering wheel again. “I really hate you sometimes.”
“Get in line.”