“Dinna be daftie, my heart is right here with yers.”
“I know.” She giggles.
Brody paces the runner rug outside of the drawing room when I return. When I give him a quizzical look, he responds, “Da kicked me out. Said he’s handling all our problems.”
“Feck, brathair, I’m—”
“Nae, this happens sometimes. I’m just glad not to be solo this round.” He folds his beefy arms. “So, ye dinna have any idea where the arsehole is?”
“I could.” I rub my hands together, contemplating how I cracked Yates’ code. “Could be minutes or longer. But I’d rather show Da that I’m nae feck up.”
I grip the door handle and enter. Da’s moving the phone from his ear. Mam regards him as if waiting for him to share a bit of news. I stare at my father with intense resolve. “I’ll fix this.”
His gaze rolls away from mine.
“Big Brody,” Nan says.
Silence.
“Brody. Boy.” She clips each word.
At that, he regards her with a furious expression. “I’ve seventy-two hours to speak with the head of the Roman family.”
My hand slides across the back of my neck in confusion. “Da, I dinna know anything about—”
“Nae! I suspect ye ken nothing about nothing!”
“I know nothing about nothing? Da, am nae feckin’ bairn,” I say slowly.
“Leith, yer tone,” Mam says.
“I’ve the utmost respect for my clan and my Da. But I’ll fix this. Got myself into it, I’ll get myself out of it.”
Da places his steepled sausage fingers to his lips. “Look me in the eye. Tell me, is Chevelle aware of the Roman family?”
“Nae,” I reply. “The man who did this is Douglas Yates. All I have to do is track him. I did it before, and I can do it again.”
“Track him?” Da laughs. “Like a bloodhound, aye?”
“Yates?” Mam mumbles.
I glower at Da’s sardonic sneer. “The bawbag who shot at us. He must’ve hired these Romans. He did the same to Wendy, an attorney.” I clear my throat since it doesn’t matter. “I had him before. I’ll find him again.”
“Ye did it before?” Da’s voice bellows. “So, ye’re telling me some deid ned caused this catastrophe? Shot my house, shot at yer brathairs, yer wife, yer ma, yer bairn, aye! Shot Erika. Because ye made him suffer excruciating pain, and ya took his life! He’s a ghost come to torment ye from the depths of hell?”
“Aye! I had him.” Sniffing, I admit, “He got away. My mistake.”
Da lets his head fall back. He laughs. “Aye. Yer mistake. Yer a six feckin’ foot mistake.”
That hurts like tiny jabs to the heart with a paring knife. I roll my eyes. Wit the feck else can I do?
Mam hisses, “Big Brody!”
“Wit?” he booms. “These shites came from my feckin’ baws. Today, I’m nae longer proud to say it.”
I hang my head, running a hand along the back of my neck.
Da taunts, “Leith, this fellow who eluded ye. Now, he’s a clan problem. Though, the bampot’s not the lad I’m looking for. As I’ve said, I need to be having a meeting with the Romans. One of the oldest families from Italy, a supposed good friend of mine, just executed a hit on us—er, a warning of sorts—if you’d like to get technical.”
Brody grunts. “A warning?”
“Any of ye deid? Nae, son. Were it not a warning, I’d be scraping my boys off me perfectly mowed lawn! Dinna get me started on the look on my granddaughter’s face because then I’d fight that Roman all the way down to hell!”
“Love, make nae statements about a place ye rather not end up.” Mam clasps her cross pendant, gesturing for me to sit.
I exhale, sinking into the stuffed sofa across from them. I close my eyes, listening to Mam.
“Clearly, Brody, our son has more issues than what we have been made aware of.”
“Mam,” my older brathair says, just entering the room. “We’re sure it’s Yates. He’s a tricky bastard. Can’t be the Romans.” I look to Brody and assume he’s been listening at the door.
“I’ll find him,” I vow. “Bring him for clan reckoning.” Like I should have done from day one.
“Aye, my sons,” Mam encourages, “together ye will find this Yates lad. Our clan was blessed in numbers. We are the perfect mix of chaos and love. I’ll not doubt our capabilities. Neither one of ye are a lad apart from yer clan. Aye?”
While Brody and I agree, Da’s a silent force.
Mam concludes the fuzzy speech, yet her eyes are cemented in tortured thoughts. “Once ye’ve made Douglas