“Grazie for seeing me today,” Cross said.
“Of course, Cross.” Tommas Rossi barely glanced up from homework he was surveying on the table. The man had one son, and two daughters. Tommaso, his son, was the only one out of school, well into the family business, and married to Cross’s sister. “This looks good, Rebeka. Now, go find your mother and tell her I will be a few minutes late for dinner, please.”
The teenage girl preened up at her father. “Yes, Daddy.”
Once she was out of sight, Tommas turned and waved a single hand to silently demand Cross follow. The old Trentini mansion—although, Cross knew the Outfit boss only allowed people to keep calling it that because of his wife, a born Trentini—was a two wing, tri-level monster. A person could get lost inside it. Cross had only been inside a handful of times, as usually his business was better done in warehouses when he was in Chicago.
Tommas, however, navigated the large mansion as though he could do it with his eyes closed. It wasn’t long before Cross found himself sitting in a large private library, while Tommas poured himself a glass of brandy.
“Drink?” Tommas asked, tipping the glass in Cross’s direction.
“Not today, but thanks.”
He scrolled through his phone, trying to check if there were any flights that had any open seats due to cancellation. He had been checking all damn day, and still, nothing. He was right when he told Catherine he wouldn’t be back until tomorrow, it seemed.
Cross shoved his phone into his pocket as Tommas came to sit across from him in the library.
“I did not expect you back until next month, at least,” Tommas said. “That’s when the next run is, isn’t it?”
“As far as I know, yes.”
“Why the visit, then?”
“Something came up a few months back,” Cross said, deciding to just get into the meat of the matter. “I owed a favor to a Marcello, actually.”
Tommas’ face blanked. “That family does like to collect.”
Cross nodded. “I was asked to run a boat of guns down along Cancun to a drop in the Gulf. The details of what happened aren’t important, but I ended up botching the run, and dumping the guns.”
“The worth?”
“The run was a total of a half of mil. Half was already paid. I dropped the entire load—they’re out that other quarter of a mil.”
Tommas whistled low. “I would have cut your fingers off for that, Cross.”
He laughed low. “I’m sure they considered it, too.”
“Yet, your hands are quite fine.”
“I suppose they need them to be for me to keep running their guns on an exclusive basis.”
Tommas stiffened.
Cross cleared his throat, and added, “See, that was the deal made for my choice. I agreed. I wanted to let you know, so that you understand why I’ll be stepping back here in Chicago.”
“I’m pretty sure Theo made it very clear you were not to be offering your skill to any family but ours.”
“I wasn’t making money on this run—it was to repay a favor.”
“You’re missing the point.”
“I’m not, but I am a man of my word. I did what needed to be done, Tommas.”
The older boss scrubbed a hand down his jaw. “You understand that this feels like … a betrayal, to me?”
Cross lifted a single shoulder. “I’m sure it would.”
“I had hoped with you working for our side of things, and Tommaso marrying Camilla, we would not have issues between our families. New York always seems to find a way to fuck that up proper.”
Cross didn’t quite know what to say, so he chose not to say anything at all.
“And what should I do for the gun situation now?” Tommas asked with a sharpness edging his tone. “On my side of things here. What do I do?”
“I would think you could finally allow Tommaso the chance to run guns like he’s been trying to do for years,” Cross offered.
Tommas’ brow dipped in his anger. “Pardon?”
“Your son—he wants to run guns. He’s good at it. You keep him very busy as to distract him in his current position. I understand why. You want him to focus on being a proper underboss for the Outfit. Maybe stop doing that, and let him figure out what he can or cannot handle. You’ve got a great gunrunner right here in Chicago, and I bet he would never do to you what I have done.”
“I think this meeting is over,” Tommas said gruffly.
Fine by Cross.
“Again, thanks for seeing me,” he murmured as he stood.
Tommas scowled. “Keep in mind, Cross, I will not want to see you step foot in Chicago for a long time.”
“Understood.”
This was just how these things worked.
Unfortunately.
Cross tossed the keys to the rental car onto the coffee table, and fell to his back on the couch in one fell swoop. His small Melrose apartment was nothing particularly nice to look at. He hadn’t bothered to decorate it over the years, but it had done the job when he needed a place to crash. He used his arm to cover this eyes, and considered calling Catherine, only to close his eyes one second, and drift off to sleep the next.
He didn’t know how long he had been sleeping before his phone starting ringing. He almost ignored the damn thing, but subconsciously reached for it out of habit. Before he knew what happened, he was shoving the phone to his ear and mumbling, “Yeah, what?”
“Cross?”
Catherine’s panicked voice had him flying up into a sitting position on the couch. “Catty?”
“Something’s wrong,” Catherine whispered.
Cross was already up and grabbing his keys off the table. “What’s wrong, babe?”
“I don’t think I have a lot of time.”
“Catherine, I need you to speak to me.”
He was out of the apartment and jogging down the hallway before he even finished his sentence.
Catherine let out a shaky breath that crackled over the line. “I went into the underground parking at the penthouse when I got home, like I do, but my enforcer didn’t follow.”
“Cath—”
“Three black cars, nine men, and I don’t recognize any of them.”
What followed her statement sent Cross to his knees.
Glass shattering.
Piercing screams.
Grunts.
Catherine’s shouts echoed far louder than any of the other noise, but he still heard the threats of the men she told him about, too.
Don’t fight, and go easy, girl.
The sounds suddenly got quieter when thumps came through the phone’s speaker. Muffled, even. Then, air whistled through.
“Let Dante Marcello know he owes Rhys Crain guns. Not money, guns. We expect to have them before the week is out, or he’ll receive his daughter back in pieces.”
The phone went dead.
So did Cross’s heart.
Cross barely registered the many vehicles parked in the Marcello drive. He simply parked the rental car behind someone’s red Hummer, and left the engine running as he exited the vehicle. Inside the Marcello home, he found everyone gathered between the dining room and the kitchen.
Even people he didn’t expect to be there.
His father.
Wolf.
Zeke.
His people.
There were far more of Catherine’s family, though. Far more.
“What the fuck took you so long?” Dante barked from across the room.
Cross looked at Dante, and found chaos staring back at him. Sure, Dante was good at hiding it, a lot like any made man was, but it was still there. Cross thought he could probably see it hidden in the man better than most because he understood Dante’s pain.
They loved Catherine differently, but they still loved her.
That was the very same.
“I would have just been getting on a flight out of Chicago now had I waited,” Cross said. “I chose to drive.”
Calisto glanced at his son. “All night?”
Cross shrugged.
He hadn’t slept.
He wouldn’t until he had Catherine.
Zeke, always his best friend no matter the situation, stepped up beside him. His hand landed hard to Cross’s shoulder, and gave him a nod. It was enough. It didn’t help, but it resounded. That was fine, too.
“You good?” Zeke asked.
“No,” Cross admitted.
“We’ll figure this shit out, man.”
“Listen to this garbage,” Dante said.
The Marcello boss reached over and hit a button on a phone. Instantly, a message started to play. No one else seemed surprised at what was being said on the message, and Cross suspected they had all already heard it a dozen times over.
“Dante, it’s been a few years since we had a face to face, no?” Rhys Crain’s voice echoed through the speaker into a silent room. “As long as business is good between us, we never needed a meet, I suppose. Nature of the beast, my man.”
A shuffling sound followed, and then a hollow chuckle.
“Your daughter—she’s quite a beautiful thing,” Rhys murmured. “I was told she takes quite a bit after her mother. Catrina, I believe your wife’s name is. A vicious little Queen Pin. How cute.”
Cross’s gaze found the woman in question standing on the other side of the kitchen island. She had been sipping a glass of wine. At the mention of her name, Catherine’s mother stiffened, and her knuckles went white around the glass.
Rhys’ voice brought Cross back to the message at hand.
“Listen, Marcello, your daughter really has nothing I need or want. I could certainly use her for something, but she’s a bit too Italian for my tastes. What I want are the guns I was promised. See, those guns have a place to be, and hands to be in. They’re going to make me a lot of money when they’re on the ground being put to use. I had some research done—seems the man you were using to run me the guns has ties to your daughter as well. Cross, they told me. Imagine, the gunrunner they use to ship my guns to me. What were the odds? I needed to make a damn good point here, didn’t I? Get me my guns.”
Rhys barked out a date, and added, “You know where you can usually find me, Dante. Do make sure my guns are delivered.”
Then, the call clicked off. Everyone in the room stayed silent, waiting for someone else to speak. Cross didn’t plan on being the first one to do so. At the moment, he didn’t have anything to say.
Dante’s blazing green eyes turned on Cross. “Guess what I don’t have on hand right now?”
Cross dragged a hand through his hair. “The guns he wants?”
“Oh, I have lots of fucking guns stored all over this city, but not the kind you dumped. I have those assault weapons coming in next month to stock up, but that’s not when he wants them.”
Yeah, that was bad.
“What a terrible way to spend the Christmas holiday,” Catherine’s grandfather murmured.
Everyone turned to look at the man.
Including Cross.
It was the first time he realized how close to Christmas they actually were. This was not how he wanted to spend it this year. Not when he had Catherine back finally. Except … she wasn’t back at all now.
“Who is this man?” Calisto asked, taking everyone back to the conversation at hand.
Dante sighed heavily. “No one.”
“Someone, clearly.”
“An associate,” Dante countered. “We all have them, don’t we?”
Calisto still didn’t look like he was buying it.
Lucian, the Marcello underboss, spoke up. “As far as we know, Rhys Crain is essentially a gun supplier to war-torn countries. He supplies anyone from terrorists to guerillas. He also likes to antagonize issues in those areas. Typically, he has some kind of gain to be had in the countries he supplies. Investment in corrupt government, or whatever powers are keeping the unrest at a dangerous level. He’s very rich, and very dangerous.”
“So are we,” Catrina said quietly.
“Pardon?” Lucian asked.
“I said, so are we.”
“So he wants some guns,” Wolf muttered, glancing between the Marcello family members. “Let’s get him his fucking guns.”
Dante coughed out a bitter laugh. “Didn’t you hear what I said? I don’t have the fucking guns he wants. I can’t get them in the time that he wants them. We’re—”
“I can get those guns,” Cross interjected, “or at least half of what he wants. I mean, it’s something. We can deal with whatever else after, as long as we have AKs and ARs for him to look at. Fucking dismantle them, and he won’t know the damn difference about how many there are.”
“And after?” Dante asked sharply. “When he does realize we fucked him over on the shipment this time around?”
Giovanni, the Marcello consigliere, cleared his throat. All eyes turned on him. “What if we made sure he never got the chance to know we fucked him over? Permanently.”
Dante rubbed a hand over his mouth. “Tell me how we’re going to do that, Gio.”
“Give me some time to figure it out and I will.”
“We can all work on that,” Calisto said, looking to his son, “as long as you’ve got some kind of guns to run to him in the meantime, right?”
Cross nodded.
Dante shook his head. “Don’t even think about it. You’re not going to be the one running the guns this time around, Cross. You fucked this up once, and now we’re here. We don’t have the option for you to fuck it up again.”
“You know why I did that, Dante.”
“Fact remains—”
“You’re a fucking idiot if you think I’m just going to sit around and hope you bring Catherine back to me in one piece,” Cross said calmly. “I have never known you to be a stupid man, Dante.”
Dante glared.
Cross held strong.
“She’s my daughter,” Dante finally said.
Cross nodded. “I know, but she’s my heart. I’ll get you the fucking guns—I’ll run them. You just tell me where, and make sure that man never comes down on us once it’s all been said and done.”
“I—”
“We can do that,” Catrina interrupted her husband.
A look passed between Dante and Catrina.
Then, the Marcello boss turned on him. “Twenty-four hours. Get those guns in port.”
Cross was already heading out of the room before Dante had finished his order. He needed to move his ass because the clock had started, and time was running out already. His fingernails dug into the palms of his hands as the voices behind him lessened as he came closer to the front of the Marcello mansion.
One person had followed him.
Zeke.
His friend hollered after him, but Cross was too busy running shit scenarios through his head. He didn’t even hear Zeke behind him until his friend shoved his back into a wall.
Zeke grabbed Cross’s face, and forced him to look at him. “Relax, huh? You’re not even hearing anything right now, Cross. You don’t work well when you’re being stupid.”
He was so numb.
So cold.
So pissed.
“Kind of can’t right now,” Cross managed to get out.
His friend’s fingers dug into his skin. “It’s going to be fine.”
“You don’t know that.”
“Hey, we’re going to do what we have to do, and run some fucking guns. That’s what you do anyway, right? This time, you get a nice little gift when you get there. Figure it out. I’m going to do whatever the hell you need me to in the meantime; I got your back. You just do you.”
Yeah …
Cross could do that.
Maybe.
“I have to go back to Chicago,” Cross said. “Except I was just told not to step foot back in that city for a long time.”
Zeke’s brow furrowed. “What, why?”
“I screwed them over.”
“Shit.”
It didn’t matter.
“Chicago has guns, and I know how to get them. That’s where we need to go.”
Zeke grimaced. “Let’s try not to get killed before we can even get Catherine back, all right?”
“I need those guns. I’m going to get those damn guns.”
“Holy shit,” Zeke muttered as his eyes stretched wide. “You’re sure there’s enough guns in these crates?”
Cross shrugged, taking in the back of the eighteen-wheeler and the three crates filled with disassembled assault rifles. “Probably not, but we just need to drop guns and get the hell out of there, right? This was supposed to be a run for next month. We were taking it down close to the Mexico border, and then pack some of it on planes. A bit of it was heading into the underground tunnels beneath the border for travel, too. This is one of two. They were waiting on the other half before we headed out with it.”
“Where were they going from the plane?”
“I don’t know. My job was going to be to get them on the plane. I only focus on what I am told to do, nothing else.”
“All right, so what now?”
Cross clapped his hands together. “Now we get this truck out of here and on the road. We’ve got fuck all for time, so let’s try not to get pulled over speeding back.”
“Because that would be bad,” Zeke mumbled.
“Really bad.”
For everyone.
“How are you going to explain this to Chicago, man?”
Cross hadn’t really thought of it. He simply knew where the Outfit kept their guns hidden, how to get inside the warehouse, and a few other details about this particular shipment to benefit him.
“I think I might just let Dante handle that one,” Cross admitted.
“A war between New York and Chicago. That sounds fun.”
“Let’s not get ahead of ourselves.”
Except … he knew it was a damn good possibility.
Catherine was worth it.
“Okay, we’re just wasting time,” Cross said.
The longer they stayed there, the better chance they had of getting caught by someone from the Outfit. He hadn’t been all too surprised to find the warehouse wasn’t being watched, but that was only because Theo DeLuca, the man who trafficked guns for the organization, had his rules.
One of those was keeping the locations of the guns a secret as much as possible. Only a handful of people ever knew what was happening with the weapons during runs, and where they might be being held until they started moving again. The weapons didn’t need to be constantly babysat if no one knew where they were to steal them. Cross, on the other hand, always knew because Theo trusted him.
He sent a silent apology to the man. It was what it was. He had to do what he had to do.
Cross turned and jumped out of the back of the truck, landing on the cement floor almost soundlessly. Zeke quickly followed. Cross pointed across the warehouse to a small office that was blocked off by a few cardboard boxes.
“That’s where the keys for the rig are. In the desk, left side, top drawer.”
“I mean, at least we know the Outfit is not going to report the damn thing as missing in an hour or something,” Zeke said to himself as he headed for the office. “It’s probably already hot as hell.”
Cross didn’t deny his friend’s assumptions.
Zeke was right.
While Zeke searched for the keys, Cross headed to the back of the warehouse to unlock and open the bay doors. He pulled the chains to lift the heavy doors, and froze in place.
Tommaso Rossi stood on the other side with his arms crossed over his chest, and his gaze stabbing with accusation. “Cross.”
Shit.
“Tommaso.”
“Camilla says hello,” his brother-in-law said.
Cross scratched at the underside of his jaw. “I meant to come over and have dinner the other day, but shit happened.”
“Shit like my father telling you to get your ass out of this city?”
“Kind of like that.”
“Yet here you are,” Tommaso said.
“Tom, let me ex—”
“I don’t think I need you to. It looks to me like you’re about to steal our guns.”
Cross tipped his head to the side. “Well, yeah?”
The truth was supposed to set a man free, after all.
Tommaso did not look impressed.
“Theo has a guy come around and check on the warehouse once or twice a night, but the guy asked me to do it for him tonight as he had a thing to handle. I did not think I would find you here.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“I doubt that.” Tommaso let out a hard breath. “What, was fucking us over on gunrunning not enough for you? You figured why not sneak in and steal their shit, too? Jesus, I didn’t peg you for the type, Cross.”
“You know I’m not, man.”
Tommaso had to know that about Cross, if nothing else. The two young men had worked together since before Tommaso even had his goddamn license to drive. It was Cross who championed Tommaso to Camilla when his sister wavered on settling down, or running scared from her feelings. They had known each other for a decade.
Tom was one of the very few people Cross considered a friend. He didn’t have a lot of those. They were more trouble than they were worth.
“Then what are you doing here?” Tommaso asked.
Cross shrugged. “I need guns, and you have them.”
“Cross—”
“Tom, I don’t have a lot of time. I need you to look the other way, and pretend like you didn’t see me here. Just let me take the fucking guns, and we can work the rest out at another time.”
“You’re insane.”
“Right now? Yeah, a little bit.”
Tommaso scowled. “How about this? You get your ass out of our warehouse, and I won’t tell the boss what I found you doing. Then, I won’t have to explain to my wife how I got her big brother killed. That sounds like a fair trade to me.”
“Sorry, can’t do that.”
“Cross, we good, or …?” Zeke hollered out from the office.
Tommaso’s glare turned back on Cross. “You brought someone else here?”
“Yeah, a friend. Mind your fucking business. I told you to look the other way.”
“And I told you I can’t—”
“Tom, they have Catherine,” Cross interrupted quietly. “I know you don’t know a whole lot about my personal life because I don’t share that shit, but here it goes. Catherine Marcello is my life. Everything about it, she is it. Personal. Public. Love. Hate. Every single little thing about me, is that woman. She has been my whole life since I was fourteen years old. Always. And they have her. I need guns; you have them. So right now, I need you to let me take them, and we can deal with the rest later.”
Tommaso stilled on the spot.
Cross chose to keep talking. “The thing is, I fucking like you. I like you a lot. Otherwise, you wouldn’t have gotten the chance to marry my little sister. You know what I don’t like enough about you to do? Sacrifice Catherine. So here’s the thing, man. You might not want to explain to my sister about how you got me killed, and that’s fine. But I will absolutely explain to her why I killed your ass tonight. I will do it with a smile. She’ll hate me for it, sure, but that’s okay.”
“Cross—”
“I don’t have time to explain more,” Cross barked out, “so look at it like this. If you were me and Catherine was Camilla, I would expect you to do exactly what I am right now, and nothing less. Wouldn’t you do that?”
Tommaso clenched his teeth together, and glanced away. “Jesus Christ.”
“Because you would.”
“You’re killing me here, Cross.”
“Tom, please.”
Tommaso cussed low, and waved an arm at the eighteen-wheeler behind Cross. “You’ve got two hours, and then I’m making a call.”
“Thank you.” Cross smirked, adding, “Have your father call Dante Marcello, though, and not me. I’m not cleaning up this one. Neither one of us are bosses yet, right? Let the bosses fight it out.”
“You’re such a shit. Make sure you’re out of this city when I make that call, Cross.”
Oh, he definitely would be.
“Nice boat,” Cross said.
The sixty foot luxury yacht aptly named Beauty would do the job.
Giovanni Marcello smiled. “I’ll let my father know you approve.”
Up above, Cross watched Andino and John Marcello work with the other guys that were loading dismantled weapons. The guns would be moved beneath deck, and then all should be fine, if they could get out of port first.
Cross headed back to the table that had been set up for him, and started working on the route for his run. It as a delicate endeavor—gunrunning always was. The runner had to have a Plan A, a Plan B, and if all else failed, a Plan C. Usually, each plan had a different run route, a method of escape, and more.
He just didn’t have time for all of that, and it left him with more anxiety than normal. His runs were clean and successful because he took the time to plan everything. Every mile, storm, gas station, and more. So much more.
That couldn’t be done here.
Wordlessly, Catherine’s other uncle—Lucian—slid paperwork across the table to Cross. “Coastguard info for tonight—approximate times and likely locations. We’re running a bit short on time for a proper bribe and all.”
Cross looked over the info. “This will have to do.”
He went back to the map.
Calisto and Wolf came up to the table. His father said, “How many men are going to be on the boat with you?”
“I don’t want to antagonize Rhys when we get there,” Cross said, “or make him feel threatened. Me, and the Captain. That’s it.”
“That seems … dangerous.”
“Very,” Cross agreed.
What choice did he have?
“It’s fine,” Giovanni said to Calisto, “we’re going to have a boat in the water down on the other side of Mexico, anyway. We’ll fly down, be there before he even gets to that area. We’ve got a contact with some of the shit we need, anyway. The satellite phones will keep us in touch with his boat—as long as we get into the water and stay a few miles back from him, all should be fine.”
Cross wasn’t really listening. He was more concerned with his run, and the exchange that he would be doing, than whatever the rest were planning. He couldn’t pull off their plans, after all, only his own.
“You stole guns from the Chicago Outfit?”
Dante’s roar felt like drums beating in the back of Cross’s skull. His fucking vision swam with the things right in front of his eyes starting to melt together. He was dead on his feet, and the last thing he needed at the moment was someone shouting at him.
“Tell me why you would steal guns from Chicago!”
Cross rubbed at his eyes, blinked a couple times, and surveyed the map spread out over the metal table. He had a route to plan, and a single, small private island circled on the map was the place he apparently needed to get to. Or, that’s what Lucian explained when they finally got the eighteen-wheeler backed into the port.
Men moved around him, chatting and working. Crates of guns were loaded onto the boat. Zeke stayed close to Cross’s side the entire time, keeping one eye on him, but never speaking. Cross was grateful. He didn’t want to talk; he needed to plan.
“Cross, you should speak to him,” his father said from across the table.
“Kind of busy.”
“You made a bit of a mess in Chicago.”
“Still kind of busy,” Cross told Calisto.
“I swear to fucking God, Cross—”
Cross spun on his heel, and ignored the way the floor swayed beneath him. He came face to face with a raging Dante, but he didn’t even flinch at the sight of the man’s anger. “I need you to shut up right now.”
Silence covered the entire port, and all the men working around the area.
Dante’s gaze narrowed. “I beg your fucking pardon?”
“You heard what I said, and I need you to do it.”
“Do you realize what you just did?” Dante asked, suddenly calm in a frightening way. “I have managed to avoid giving Chicago even an ounce of legroom where New York, our families, and our business is concerned for my entire reign as a Cosa Nostra Don. You have effectively ruined that by forcing me into some kind of peace-making with Tommas Rossi. I could kill you right now.”
“Except I have guns to run, so fuck off somewhere and let me do that.”
“You are—”
“I have been awake for over forty-eight hours and counting. The last thing I need or want is you barking down my goddamn neck, Dante. You gave me a job to do, now let me fucking do it.”
Cross turned back around, and gave all of his attention to the map on the table. He dragged his finger from their current port, and continued out until he knew they would be in international waters. “I just need to get to here, and then we make sure we stay in international waters until we’re down in the Gulf. I didn’t realize his island was that close to the last drop, but I guess I know now why he asked for the guns to be brought there. Easy for him.”
“We’re not finished talking about this,” Dante said.
Cross still didn’t turn around. “Oh, I am entirely done talking about it. I did what I needed to do, and now you can pull your weight like we all know you can.”
“Excuse me?”
“Everybody knows you head the Commission between all the syndicates in North America,” Cross muttered, “and now is the perfect time for you to start throwing your title around. What is it again?”
“You know nothing, Cross.”
“I think I do.”
“Capo di tutti capi,” Calisto said, glancing at his son. “The boss of bosses.”
Cross nodded. “Yeah, see, my whole life has been men repeating to me that I needed to respect the Marcellos. Give them their space. Understand their rank. Know my place, especially against them. What was it you always used to tell me, Wolf?”
His father’s underboss coughed. “Uh …”
“It’s the respect of the matter, right?”
Wolf nodded once. “It always is when the Marcellos are involved.”
“Because,” Cross said, turning on his heel to face a very quiet, yet pissed off Dante, “you are the capo di tutti capi. Use it for once in your life. Otherwise, fuck off and let me run some goddamn guns. It’s what I do best.”
That, and loving Catherine.
Cross went back to the map. “Twenty minutes, and I want to be on the water.”
“We can make that happen,” Lucian Marcello said quickly.
“What about once we get there, and the trade has happened?” Cross asked. “We’re supposed to just assume Rhys won’t attack us when we’re leaving?”
Calisto shrugged. “You get the guns there, son, and let us worry about the rest.”
He could try.
Cross had never been good with trusting others to get shit done.
Catherine, Catherine, Catherine.
His heart was thrumming her mantra.
He supposed he didn’t have any other choice.