Blood and Fire (McClouds & Friends #8)(141)

The feeling he got was . . . solid. Like a rock, but dynamic. The guy wasn’t bullshitting him. He might be inconvenient, but not tricky. He wasn’t here sniffing for glory. He was hungry for the truth.

Who knew? Maybe he really could help. At the very least, like he said, he was another gun. “That was a dirty trick, showing Zia those photographs,” he said.

Zia Rosa batted away Petrie’s supporting hands, her face martyred. “I was so shocked,” she said. “I fainted.”

Petrie shrugged. “I’m sorry.”

People swirled around them, carts buzzing past, people dragging carry-on luggage trolleys, shoving strollers. Seconds ticked by.

“Who took him?” Petrie asked again.

“If I knew who, or where, I’d be there right now, blowing their asses to hell and gone,” Kev said. “It’s the same ones who’ve been trying to kill him for the past week. You heard that part of the story?”

“Might have heard that part betteif he’d asked for formal assistance from the authorities,” Petrie said calmly.

Kev looked at Zia Rosa. “We don’t have time for fainting spells.”

“’Course not!” Zia struggled to her feet. “Just tryin’ to stonewall this bozo.” She glared at Petrie and brushed herself off. “Get lost, babycakes. Sparisci. We got things to do.”

Petrie stood, unmoved. Kev sighed at the thought of the conversation that would immediately follow his next statement.

“He’s coming with us, Zia,” he said.

“He’s what?”

The yelling, the vituperation in Calabrese about his idiocy and Petrie’s perfidy, etc., etc., lasted to the curb outside in the ground transportation area. There was no point in explaining to Zia about perceptions from other dimensions, or following one’s instincts. That would be talking to a wall. Zia Rosa’s opinion of cops was as dim as Tony’s had been. Kev let the tirade flow through his head and past it.

Petrie marched alongside and had the good sense not to allow himself to look entertained.

Sean swooped in to pick them up. His reaction to Petrie’s presence was not as loud as Zia’s, but fully as strong. The look he gave his twin was more than enough. Kev looked away as Petrie got into the backseat next to him. “OK,” he said to the car at large. “Ignore him if you want, treat him like a piece of furniture. Zia, where to?”

“Gaetano’s house,” she said promptly. “He retired to a place out in Rupert. He’ll know who’s doing this.”

“Why him? Why don’t we just go directly to Michael?” Sean asked.

“I don’t know Michael from Adam,” Zia Rosa said. “Gaetano’s the one I got clout with. And Costantina, his wife. My man-stealing cousin. If Pina didn’t pack up Nonna’s jewelry box from Magda’s apartment, that puttanella Costantina must have it. She always thought it shoulda been hers. Then she married the man that shoulda been mine. I bet when Magda died, Costantina went over and helped herself to it. It’s time I had a talk with that dirty, thieving slut.”

“That dirty, thieving slut is pushing eighty, Zia,” Kev observed.

“So?” His aunt twisted in the seat and stared. “A slut is a slut. I ain’t afraid of Gaetano. That bastard jilted me. He can’t look me in the eye. Lo mangio crudo. I’ll eat him raw, eh? For breakfast!”

Kev leaned and put his hand on Zia’s shoulder. “Hey,” he said. “Seriously, Zia. You wouldn’t have actually wanted to marry that guy, would you? To be caught in Mafia turf wars for decades? Costantina Ranieri is not a lucky woman. Would you really want her life?”

Zia Rosa gave him a look that was completely real. No jokes, no theatrics, no hamming it up. A look that Kev had almost never seen on her face in the nineteen years he’d known her, aside from Tony’s funeral.

She shrugged. “Boh,” she said, her voice bitter. “The bitch has eleven grandchildren.”





“No,” Bruno repeated, for the tenth time. “You can’t be.”

“Yes, I can. You know that it’s true. Look at me. See it?”

Bruno looked. The guy made his flesh creep, but he saw it. Those dimples. Like Bruno’s own. And Julian’s. The shape of the eyes, the teeth, though Julian’s and King’s had benefited from orthodontia that Bruno’s had not. The guy’s body, too. Tall, broad shouldered, lean hipped. The shape of his jaw, his hands. He’d seen it in the mirror. Bruno swallowed to calm his trembling throat. “So you were the pig who knocked my mother up and then ran out on her.”

King looked affronted. “Not at all! I was in love with your mother. She was brilliant. But so uncompromising. We had discussions about philosophical positions that we did not share. She became angry, told me to leave. I took her at her word. She never told me about the child. I found out about you seven years later, Bruno. By chance!” He sounded aggrieved, as if he’d been wronged.

“She figured out that you were bugf*ck, and ran,” Bruno said. “But by then she was pregnant. She tried to keep me a secret. But you checked up on her.”

“Out of nostalgia, I suppose,” the older man said. “I expected to find her married and fat, with six children, stirring Ragu, growing a mustache. But no. I discovered you.” His eyes shone. “My own seed.”