Grave Phantoms (Roaring Twenties #3)(88)

“People downtown are talking about the stock market and how buying on margin can’t last forever.” Winter shrugged. “And Aida believes it, so that’s good enough for me. Got me thinking about spreading out our interests. Maybe some legitimate shipping. And like you said, picking up more fishing, too. We’ve got no debt, and I’ve got enough in savings to keep us afloat for years.” He shook his head, as if to clear it. “But we aren’t talking about me. We’re talking about you. Where will you live?”

Though he was feeling more optimistic about his chances of escaping a right hook to the jaw, Bo was still wary about saying too much. “I’ll move back into my old apartment tonight. I asked Astrid to go back to school until I figured everything out. I have some ideas about apartments. People who might be persuaded to rent me a place outside of Chinatown. It won’t be here, but I’ll make sure it’s safe.”

“Bigots won’t leave Ju’s Russian Hill house alone.”

“I know,” Bo said. “I have something in mind that might be less of a risk. I just need to find a way to make it work financially.”

“You could stay here.”

Bo stilled, unsure he’d heard right. Maybe he’d mistook Winter’s meaning. “I can’t. Not downstairs.” He wanted to say more, but he couldn’t. His pride wouldn’t let him, and if Winter didn’t understand, so be it.

“You could have the half floor. The top of the turret. We could convert it into an apartment.”

For a moment, Bo imagined this. Living upstairs. But no, he couldn’t. Independence is what he wanted. Freedom to be with Astrid. He stuck his hands in his pockets and dared to ask what he was thinking. What he was hoping, but at the same time, didn’t dare to hope. “The turret . . . Do you mean just for me? Or for Astrid, too?”

Winter strode back across the study and stopped in front of Bo. “You are both my family, her by blood and you by choice,” he said in a low voice. “There isn’t a thing in the world I wouldn’t do for either one of you. And there’s also no one I trust more with her happiness than you. So if you both want my blessing, you have it.”

An old, uncomfortable weight sprouted wings and lifted from Bo’s chest. He wanted to weep. To collapse. To fall to his knees and thank every deity in the world. He managed to keep himself together and extended a trembling hand. “Thank you, dai lo.” Big brother—and a term of respect.

Winter accepted and shook, formally, and then heartily. They both chuckled, a little nervous. Winter exhaled a long breath and added, “You’ve also got my protection, because on the trail the two of you are about to blaze, you’re damn sure going to need it.”

—

At eight o’clock the next night, Astrid waited for two workers in overalls to carry a leather sofa past her before stepping into the elevator of the Wicked Wenches’ apartment building. She instantly recognized the handsome operator in burgundy uniform—the Jack Johnson look-alike who had helped them when Bo was stabbed. His eyes widened at the sight of her.

“Hello, again,” she said. “Mr. Laroche, isn’t it?”

“Miss Magnusson.”

“Don’t worry. No one’s chasing after me today,” she said. Then added, “He’s dead.”

He considered this for a moment and said, “That’s good news.”

“Someone moving out?” she asked, nodding toward the men hauling the sofa.

“The Humphreys,” he confirmed.

“The state senator and his wife?”

He nodded and gave her a knowing look. Yes, he remembered her altercation with the nasty woman, too. “It was all very sudden. Divorcing, I hear. Top floor?”

She grinned. “Yes. Top floor, please.”

When she got to Maria and Mathilda’s penthouse, they were waiting for her in the living room, smiling in their sparkling evening gowns and drinking champagne. Magnusson stock, Astrid thought as she eyed the black bottle. Had Lowe been here, delivering them booze?

“Darling girl!” Mathilda said and hugged her neck.

“We were so happy to hear that you’re staying in Hadley’s old apartment,” Maria said. “We’re practically neighbors, at least for a little while. Hadley swore us to secrecy, but you must tell us everything. Where’s the dashing Mr. Yeung?”

Astrid’s heart fluttered inside her chest. “He doesn’t know I’m still in town, actually. It’s a very long story . . .”

“And we have a lot of champagne,” Mathilda assured her with a wink. “Let me pour you a glass and you can tell us all about it.”

THIRTY-TWO

Nearly three weeks after Astrid’s departure, Bo strolled into Pier 26 and tipped his hat to Old Bertha the shark. As he hung up his coat, Winter’s dark head popped through the doorway.

“How did it go?”

“Signed the lease.”

Winter grinned. “Excellent.”

Nob Hill. He didn’t belong there. Or maybe he did. He wasn’t sure, but he damn well didn’t care. He was too busy being buoyed on a mix of excitement and queasiness. He’d done it, and there was no going back. When he’d first turned down Winter’s offer to live in the turret of the Magnusson house, they’d argued bitterly. But Bo wouldn’t concede. He had to stand on his own, even if it was a more difficult path.