color drains from her cheeks. “Do you know how that looks? It will make it seem as if I’m corrupt.”
“If you don’t accept it, no one will think you’re corrupt.”
She stops frozen to glare at me. “Exactly how do I reject his offer, BJ? Thanks for the bundle of cash, Mr. Gottle, mob boss of New York, but I don’t want your money. Here, take it back.”
I’m an ass for smiling, but I can’t help it. I forgot how cute she is when she’s angry.
“BJ… don’t… this isn’t funny.” With each word she speaks, her anger lessens. She must put her frustration into her fists because when she whacks me in the stomach, the air in my lungs evicts from the strength of her punch. “You shot a goon, got knocked out by another, then threatened to kill a mob boss if he so much as ran the back of his hand down my cheek. Now is not the time for laughter.”
My smile grows, loving that she heard my unvoiced threat, but when our eyes collide for the quickest second, the seriousness of our situation smacks back into me. “There are many ways we can handle this. But first, I need to disclose some things to you.”
“I don’t like the way you said disclosed. That didn’t sound like a good disclosed.”
As I guide her into the living room, I ask, “Do you remember the first night we slept together? When I said I needed to rock my hips up for just a second, and that it will hurt, but it won’t last long.” Melody looks as uncomfortable as I feel when she nods. “That’s kind of like this. It will hurt, but the pain won’t last long.”
While guiding her to the couch, I ponder on how to tell her the news. Should I rip it off like a band-aid, so it’s quick and fast or gently ease her into it.
I lose the chance to do either of those things when our trek to the sofa covered with a sheet has me veering Melody past the last family portrait taken of her family. Even without deducting the aura of arrogance that forever pumps out of Henry, the similarities between him and Liam are uncanny in this photo. If you added a decade of wariness onto Liam’s face, you could pretend he was Henry.
Even a woman bogged down with grief can’t deny their likeness. “He’s my actual uncle.” Melody shifts on her feet to face me. “Henry Gottle is my uncle.”
26
Melody
As I stare at my family portrait for the umpteenth time the past three days, unease melds through my veins. I don’t know how I missed it. Even with him being a mob boss, Henry’s face is well known to all levels of society. I’ve perused it many times the past ten years—in papers, on reports, during depositions. I’ve seen him a hundred times, if not more, yet, I failed to notice how his nose is the exact shape my dad’s was. How his top lip is slightly bigger than his bottom one, and that his eyes can share a lifetime of secrets without his mouth opening.
I’m shocked, but in all honesty, my dad’s overbearing parenting style now makes sense. He left that lifestyle for my mom, he did everything to protect her from being hurt by it. However, it didn’t work. She was still brutalized by his family’s enemies.
Although my adult nightmare slowly overtook the one from my childhood, I still recall how my mom’s nails dragged across the floorboards when she was pulled away from me and the vibrations of her screams hitting my chest.
I also remember how the pleas in my dad’s eyes shifted to anarchy when they refused his numerous requests for clemency. It was the same look Brandon’s eyes held when he played the video on the USB stick Henry gave him.
Joey didn’t kill himself. He was murdered. Brandon’s CIA friend, Phillipa, identified two of the men in the footage. The third is still under investigation. They’re hoping he’s one of the men killed during the Castro raid last week, but until their faces are digitally reconstructed, we won’t know for sure. A shotgun wound to the face makes identification a little hard.
We could have asked Castro, but that avenue was lost when Henry finished tying up the loose ends as he mentioned earlier this week. Castro was found hanging in his cell the same way Crombie was. Neither Phillipa nor Brandon believe it was suicide.