My Cruel Salvation (Fallen Saint # 3) - J. Kenner Page 0,48
it. You didn’t take over Daddy-O’s business, but you’re living off his money.”
“No. I’m not.”
“Eh. Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s still money they couldn’t lay their hands on. But there’s the man who killed their boss profiting off patricide, or at least it looks that way. Not a way to win friends. I’d have to say a lot of them would be pissed off.”
Mr. Giatti shrugs. “Then again, a lot of them are dead. The ones who went on and tried to build up their own little fiefdoms? They all seem to be getting picked off. Either by in-fighting or hush-hush government operations, or by I don’t know what.”
He narrows his eyes at Devlin. “Don’t suppose you know anything about that.”
“I hear gossip. I read the news. But if you’re asking what I think you’re asking, then the answer is that I run a charitable foundation. I’m not in the business of hunting down criminals.”
I force myself not to react, and wonder if Mr. Giatti also noticed the way Devlin sidestepped that question.
“Good news for me then,” Mr. Giatti says, his expression as flat as his tone, and both unreadable.
“You really think someone is picking them off?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” He takes a sip from a beer can sitting beside the ashtray. “The ones still working … well, it’s a dangerous gig, isn’t it? I’ve heard rumors about a few hits following some nasty operations. Brutal competition, pissed off law enforcement, man with a grudge. Who the hell knows?”
“It’s impossible to tell,” Devlin agrees. “You live that life, you piss off people.”
“Did you?”
Devlin frowns. “What makes you think that’s my life? You know I never wanted it.”
“No, you never did. No matter what your daddy wanted, you stayed your own man. Saw that in you even when you were young.” His eyes dart to me again before returning too Devlin. “Also saw a fire in you—you’ll protect what’s yours.”
“Without the slightest hesitation,” he agrees.
Now, Mr. Giatti turns his full attention on me. “So, Elsa Holmes, what’s your agenda?”
I move closer to Devlin as his arm goes around my waist. “I don’t have any agenda except Devlin.”
Mr. Giatti nods, then shifts in his rocker until he can pull out his wallet. He opens it, takes out a photo, and hands it to Devlin, who steps away long enough to take it, then moves back to my side. It’s a picture of a beautiful young woman with hair that looks to be from the seventies. “My Maria. Do you remember her? That picture’s from before you were born, but she never looked a day older in her life.”
“I remember.”
“A good woman. Kept me steady.” He reaches for the photo, and Devlin hands it back to him. Mr. Giatti takes it gently, as if it’s both precious and fragile. To him, of course, it is.
“It’s good to have a compass,” he continues. “Your father never did. Thought a woman was nothing but a slash—pardon my French,” he adds to me.
“My father was dead wrong about that.”
“Yeah, he was.” Mr. Giatti turns to look me straight in the eyes. “You make sure our Mr. Saint treats you right.”
“He does. He always has.”
“Always,” he repeats, his mouth curving down into a frown. “You’ve known him awhile, then?”
I glance sideways at Devlin, but he’s no help, so I just shrug and say, “Yeah. You could say that.”
His eyes narrow. “Good God,” he finally says. “Holmes. You’re Peter’s niece. Must be getting old not to have made that connection before. That man … well, he thought you were the cat’s whiskers.”
My chest tightens with the words. My Uncle Peter did so many things wrong, but he took care of me, and he loved me. And it’s nice to know that I’m not the only one who saw that. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He narrows his eyes and cocks his head toward Devlin. “You two look good together. Like maybe between the two of you, you can find that compass and stay on the path.”
“We can,” I say. “We will.”
Beside me, Devlin’s fingers tighten their grip on mine. “And what about my question? You hear anything about anyone making me—making us—a target?”
“You’ve got at least one enemy for sure, boy. But all in all, I think there are less folks aiming for your head than you might have feared. That’s good news,” he says with a thin smile. “Gives you better odds. Then again, I never was much of a gambling man.”