Sparrow

He rubbed his eyes, continuing before he realized it was me he was confiding in. He must’ve been desperate. “Anyway, I did a U-turn. We ended up buying fresh clothes at Target, and he changed in the bathroom before I dropped him off. Spent the next thirty minutes sitting in my car in front of his school, practicing this stupid-ass breathing exercise from that tape you bought me for Christmas.”

I almost snorted. This was too much. The only reason I’d given him the tape was to piss Catalina off. She was whining like a bitch about Brock being too good and proper. It was a joke aimed at him. And he’d walked right into it.

Brock looked up at me, searching for my response.

I eased back into his soft leather chair and knitted my fingers together. “Some piece of work, your wife is. If you ask me, I always preferred the single life.”

“You’re married now,” he reminded me.

“I guess sometimes it’s easy to forget,” I said through my smirk.

He lolled his head sideways, stubbing the cigarette into an empty mug with a picture of him and Cat. Something she gave him to remind me of her every time I walked into his office.

It was cute how she thought I cared.

“I’m guessing you’re not here to discuss my marital problems.” Brock leaned forward, elbows propped on his knees, and tapped his fingertips. “Why are you here, Troy?”

“Patrick Rowan.” I cut straight to the chase, looking out the window, people-watching as I spoke. “I wanna know what ties he has left in Boston.”

Brock raised his brows, throwing himself back and sighing loudly. He didn’t like this turn of events, and I had no idea why. Rowan, my father’s right hand before everything flushed down the shitter, was just an old washed-up mobster. He’d kept the gambling piece of my father’s empire alive for him for a while even after my dad was dethroned, but eventually Paddy had branched out on his own. He’d high-tailed it out of the state to Miami when the Armenians decided they wanted his head on a plate. I discovered why a few months after my father was killed.

Yeah, Rowan had left enemies everywhere, but on Friday night, he’d made one too many of them in the form of me.

“Rowan?” He frowned. “Why?”

My jaw tightened when I thought about the answer to this question. Did I still hold a grudge against Rowan for stealing money from my father years ago? Sure. Did the fact that he touched my wife act as an incentive to finally seek retaliation? Hell yes. Was I in the mood to watch bad people paying for their sins? You f*cking bet.

I’d hit a dead-end with my Kill Bill list, still not sure who sent Crupti to kill my father, and I wanted to play. Dealing with Rowan might take off the edge.

“Find out how to contact his second wife.” I ignored Brock’s question.

“What crawled up your ass? Got a new beef with Rowan all of a sudden? He’s rotting of cancer, you know. Leave him alone. You’re beating a dead horse.”

“Not dead enough for me,” I countered, picking up my own cell and punching the touch screen furiously. “I’m going to pay him a visit in Miami.”

“Are you sure? I’m not feeling comfortable about you harassing a guy who is dying of cancer.”

“I’m not paying you to feel comfortable, Brock. I’m paying you to follow orders.”

He stood up with thunder in his eyes, about to storm out of the room, when he stopped in his tracks. “Is he the guy who sent Crupti?” His voice cracked as he half turned.

Brock knew I was after the anonymous motherf*cker, even had helped me seek him out.

“Just do as I asked. By the way…” I cleared my throat, avoiding the stream of hellos coming from my phone and watching Brock intently. “I hired my wife to work at Rouge Bis. Get whatever paperwork you need together for her. She’s starting next week. Make sure she and the chef don’t stab each other’s eyes out with a spatula.”

He turned back to face me. There was something unsettling underneath those gray eyes, and I wanted to rip them out of their sockets just to find out what.

“She’s going to work? Right here?” He glanced sideways, like there were hidden cameras watching him.

I nodded slowly. He knew that we had an arranged marriage, or marriage of inconvenience, or whatever the f*ck Sparrow and I were.

He also knew why Sparrow was so important to my father.

I shrugged into my Armani suit jacket, looking bored with the topic. “She was nagging. Who the f*ck cares anyway. If she wants to bust her ass instead of living a life of luxury, it’s her grave.”

“Mmm.” Brock scanned me, searching my face. “So, the tension is high between you two?”

“Not that it’s any of your business, but no. We’re fine.”

“And Pierre? He gave her trouble?”

“Who?” I didn’t even bother to pretend to recall the name, then remembered I still had my travel agent on the line. I swiveled the chair so my back was to Brock and waved him off, dismissing him like he was an average-looking day-shift stripper ogling me for tips. “Yes, I’d like to purchase two first class tickets to Miami…”



SPARROW



THE SUN WAS shining on Monday morning when I arrived at Quincy Market, but the improved weather tense did little to improve my mood.