I hear the words Cav is saying, but they can’t be right. I know for a fact that Creighton didn’t have a damn thing to do with our uncle’s disappearance. But how do I tell Cav that his and Creighton’s father probably did?
“Are you going to call Dom?” I ask.
Cav shakes his head. “I hadn’t planned on it. Why?”
“Because he’s going to know a hell of a lot more about this than either of us.”
He studies me, clearly getting that I know more than I’m saying. “Just say it, Greer.”
I bite down on the inside of my cheek, figuring out how to explain it. Now is not the time to mince words.
“This was Dom’s gift to Creighton when everything went south with our uncle and he accused Creighton of all sorts of crap at a shareholder meeting. Dom was going to take care of it. It was never supposed to come to light or blow back on Crey.”
Squeezing his eyes shut, Cav scrubs a hand over his face. “Fuck. I should’ve known.”
By silent mutual agreement, Cav and I jump out of bed and shove stuff into our bags. I’m dressed and ready faster than I’ve ever been before. He’s already called to get us a flight and a driver, who is minutes away.
“Holly has to be freaking the hell out, which can’t be good for her or the baby.”
He squeezes my hand as he carries our stuff to the front door. “She’s going to be fine. Crey has the best lawyers money can buy, and you know this won’t stick.”
“But what about Dom?”
Cav doesn’t answer for a long moment. “Dom will always look out for Dom.”
The car pulls up and Cav carries our bags out. An hour later, we’re in the air, headed for New York. I’m antsy and need a distraction, but all I can do is worry about Holly and my aunt and Creighton, and wonder what the hell really happened to my uncle.
When Cav delivered the news, I felt a sharp stab of grief, but it wasn’t the kind of pervasive grief you feel when you lose a loved one. My uncle tolerated me. My aunt was a bipolar mess of either full-on doting or complete indifference. When my uncle “went to rehab,” my aunt drew inside herself. I called every week, but all she’d say was that she was fine and didn’t want any visitors.
The one time I’d gone against her wishes and shown up at the house, the longtime housekeeper, Elisabetta, had greeted me with a hug, and my aunt had been sipping coffee in the sitting room. Nothing was out of the ordinary. It was all stiffly formal—her indifferent side making an appearance. After I left, I continued to call weekly, but didn’t attempt to see her again. Neither of us ever mentioned my uncle, and she didn’t appear concerned in the least about his whereabouts.
I wish Banner had told Cav more. Where was my uncle’s body found? How did he die? I needed details and answers.
“Babe, calm down. There’s nothing you can do right now. Your brother isn’t helpless, and he’s going to be okay.”
Cav’s right about that. Creighton is the least helpless person I know, but right now he must be irate. Our uncle’s death is his last gasp at screwing with my brother and his companies. He probably would have loved knowing that, the cold bastard.
“I know, but Holly. The baby. Why were they even in New York? I thought they were staying in Nashville until the baby was born. It doesn’t make sense.”
“We’ll find out everything when we get there. In the meantime, just try to chill. Worrying isn’t going to do you any good either.”
Objectively, I know he’s right, but it’s a waste of breath. Being largely cut off from communication since the day we landed in Belize has actually been strangely amazing, but now I hate not having my phone.
“How did Banner have your number anyway?”
“She must have figured out how to recover the text messages I sent myself and deleted. I’m surprised she didn’t call before now, if you want the truth.”
His phone rings again, as though on command. Cav looks at the display and sits up straighter. “Fuck. This isn’t going to be good.”
“Who is it?” I ask, but he’s already answering.
“Tell me what the fuck is going on.”
I can’t hear the other side of the conversation, but the expression on Cav’s face darkens with every word. Not good news.
“Fuck. What a disaster. They actually took him in for questioning? Like this is going to stick?”
Dom? I’m practically vibrating on my chair with the need to demand to know the whole story, but somehow I find a measure of patience and wait.
“Okay, I’ll be there in a few hours. I’m not coming for him, though, I’m coming for Greer and the Karas family. Dom can get out of his own mess. He’s never needed me before, and I’m sure he doesn’t need me now.”
My heart aches at Cav’s statement. I always wished I knew my dad, and Creighton has told me so many times what an amazing guy he was. Cav clearly didn’t have the same type of experience with his father, and that makes me incredibly sad for him.
He hangs up and tosses his phone to the seat.
“What happened?”
“They got a tip that your uncle had some link to Dom, and they brought him in for questioning. Basically they’ll use any reason, but I’m not worried about him. Like I said, his connections are scary and there’s no way they’ll nail him with this.”
“So you think he did it too?”
Cav frowns and shakes his head. “Hell no. Dom never gets his hands dirty and hasn’t in probably thirty years. He gives orders and the soldiers carry them out. That’s how it works.”
This is news to me, since the inner workings of the mob aren’t exactly common knowledge in my bubble. Which brings up my next question.
“Were you a soldier?”
Cav’s expression shutters. “Does it matter? That’s my past.”
I shrug, but my curiosity level is climbing now that he’s dodged the question.
“So you were.” I take a stab at the truth.
His gaze, greenish-gold today, meets mine. “I never had a real designation other than Dom’s errand boy.”
It’s not a real answer, but I’m hesitant to push further. If it’s important, he’ll tell me. I’m not going to make wild conjectures in my head. We’ve come too far for that nonsense. I trust him.
“So, what else did they say?”
“Not much. Your uncle was found in a hotel in Midtown. Cause of death is still unknown. A heart attack is the speculation, or possibly something that mimicked a heart attack if it was truly foul play. The questioning is standard procedure. It isn’t a murder investigation . . . yet.”
It’s the yet that has me wrap my arms around myself. Please, God, don’t let it come to that.
We each spend the rest of the flight lost in our own thoughts.