The Thief

“That’s a mahmen. How ’bout your sister-in-law. You think Bella’s leaving Nalla for anything?”

“God no. No way. Nope.”

“Beth? Layla? Mary? I don’t think so. So cut the guilt crap. The race had an overlord who barely functioned quit. That’s an opportunity, not a tragedy for any of us to worry ’bout.”

Phury took a deep, shuddering breath. “I guess you’re right. Thanks, V.”

“You’re welcome. You’re a softie, but I love you.”

The guy laughed, as V had intended him to. But the truth was…Phury was one of the brothers that he worried about. Too big a heart, that one. Which was the good news and the bad news.

Vishous stepped back and had little interest in going to his next stop, but he wasn’t going to quit until he got an answer from somebody. And at least he had a full roast on board.

“If I were you,” he said as he went for the back door, “I’d be more worried that someone stole from you.”

“Hmm?”

“Jane and I were just in the Treasury, you know, upstairs. That’s where I found her after—well, anyway, there’s something missing from one of your cases in there.”

Phury frowned. “No one’s been up to the sanctuary who shouldn’t have been. Access is never granted beyond the original bunch of us who are allowed.”

“Then it’s somebody you know.”

“What’s missing?”

Vishous put his hand on the knob. “Looked like a book or something.”

“A book?” Phury asked.

“I dunno. That was our guess. Maybe we’re wrong—”

At that moment, V’s phone went off and he took it out. “Shit, trouble downtown.”

THIRTY-NINE

“You know, you don’t have to do this.”

As Marisol spoke up from behind the wheel of his Range Rover, Assail shook his head. “I rather think it is an imperative at this point. Your grandmother has cooked for us non-stop, and as much as we adore her food, all her one-sided effort is making us feel unchivalrous.”

In the glow of the dash, the smile that hit his female’s face was lovely, small and private, as if his thoughtfulness, and that of the other males in his househould, had touched her grandmother very deeply.

“I would have you look like this always,” he murmured.

“Then all you have to do is be nice to my vovó.”

“I intend to.”

The bridge across the Hudson was lit from above, the illumination strung along its soaring suspension girders such that it appeared as though great wings were swooping over the river. Previously, he had always imagined them as that of a bird of prey. Now, he saw them as far more peaceable. A dove’s. Or mayhap a seasonal cardinal coming in for a branch landing.

“I think it is amazing, the places life brings you.” He glanced over at his female once more. “I would never have pictured myself here in Caldwell when I was in the Old Country.”

“I know, right? It’s all so random, and yet seems inevitable somehow?”

“Tell me of your family. Apart from your grandmother.”

The change in Marisol was immediate, an abrupt tension stiffening her in her seat and furrowing her brow. “What do you want to know.”

“You do not have to speak of them if you do not wish.”

“It’s fine.”

“Perhaps another subject would be best?”

“Whatever you think.”

Unsure of what to do, he went quiet. And the awkward silence in the vehicle lasted all the way through their getting on the Northway on the far side of the bridge and progressing several exits up to the first of the suburban areas where the Big Hannaford, as his cousins called it, was located.

“I think I’ve been to this store before,” Marisol said as she guided them onto a descending ramp and to a stoplight at a four-lane road.

“Ehric tells me this is where we must go,” Assail offered, “and I do not argue these things.”

Although in truth, he didn’t believe he’d been to a supermarket in…all right, so it had been a very, very long time. With little to no culinary skills of his own, he’d always been an eat-out kind of male, but Marisol was changing this. Just as she was changing everything.

When they arrived at the grocery, she found a space for them very close to the entrance, and he got out, buttoning up his fine black cashmere overcoat. Underneath, he was in one of his suits, which was a tad overdone for this sort of thing, sartorially speaking—but this was a bit of a date, was it not?

“May I give you my arm?” he offered.

It was a relief to have her accept the gesture, and as they walked to the garishly lit entrance, he told himself all was well. All was fine. He was going to leave the subject of family well enough alone, and when they returned home, he and his cousins would prepare a nice meal for Mrs. Carvalho—and hopefully thereafter, he and Marisol would discreetly retire upstairs for some private enjoyment.

And then what, a voice in the back of his head asked. More of the same on the morrow? A housemale living out his hours—

“I’m sorry, what?” Marisol asked as the automatic doors parted for them.

“Nothing, my love. Shall we get a cart?”

She went over and untangled one from the lineup, and then they were in the store proper, surrounded by a surplus of such magnitude, he was momentarily struck stupid. The fact that the interior of the grocery was lit up bright as the outer crust of the sun did not help. And then there was the ocular insult of aisle after aisle after aisle of colorful labels and logos and foodstuffs of incalculable variety.

“Don’t tell me you’ve never been in a supermarket,” Marisol said. “You look like you’re facing Mount Everest.”

“It is…a bit daunting.”

“You want to do vegetables first?” As he just stood there, she laughed softly. “Maybe I should rephrase that. Let’s do vegetables first. Come with me.”

Assail followed her to the left, past a floral display where pre-made bouquets were wrapped in cellophane. He grabbed two bundles of white roses.

“She’ll love those,” Marisol murmured.

“One is for you.”

He kissed her as he put them in the cart, and then they were penetrating a forest of fruit and vegetable displays.

As Marisol stopped them in the midst of the bins and bushels, and looked at him with expectation, he realized he was going to have to make the decisions—and tried to recall recipes from the Old Country.

Mayhap he should have thought this through a bit more.

But surely he could remember something. Surely…he could think of one dish, one soup, one meat.

As it turned out, Assail had to go way back in his memories. To the castle he had grown up in…it had had a kitchen separate from the main living area as a fire preventative, and he could remember being little and staying for hours and hours beneath the rough oak table, watching the doggen turning animal carcasses, and root vegetables, and grains, into proper meals.

“Turnips. Onions. Potatoes. Carrots,” he announced.

Like a dam released, he connected with what he wished to prepare, and he was aware of a feeling of pride as he led the way now, picking and choosing and filling plastic bags…then taking his female and the cart to the meat counter and securing lamb.

After that, they were in the dairy section, and he had to pause to ponder how much cream he required—

“My father was a criminal,” Marisol said in a low, tense voice.

Instantly, Assail grew quite still and then he swung his eyes to her.

“Have I shocked you?” she said tightly. “It’s the truth. He died in jail under circumstances that I’ve never truly gotten to the bottom of. Could have been a fight. Or cancer. But I believe he was murdered, although I will never say that in front of my grandmother.”

Assail blinked. “I am so sorry.”

The way she shrugged and wrapped her arms around herself broke his heart. “That was how I got into…you know, my side of things. He taught me how to steal. How to break in to places. How to take things without being caught. And you know, all that would have been fine if it had been a case of him teaching the younger generation the family trade, so to speak. But that wasn’t why he did it. He discovered that someone cute and disarming could be a great thief—and then he could have more things to sell for the drugs he wanted. It was all for him.”