Outside the Lines (7 page)

“Wow.”

His smile grows and I realize he's got a dimple in his right cheek—the same one I've seen on Sherm's face. “It fits her, believe it or not.”

“She's a general?”

He laughs, and for the first time an expression other than caution makes it all the way to his eyes. An electric current buzzes through my insides at the change in his face as it warms. “In her own mind, maybe. She knows what she wants, and she's never been afraid to bowl over anything that stood in the way of getting it. Sort of the take-no-prisoners mind-set.”

“Does that attitude run in the family?”

I wish I could take it back when the warmth leaves his expression and it grows cautious again. “To some degree.”

He moves out the door, and I mentally flog myself for killing what trust I'd built. I watch from the window as he strides toward the parking lot, where Sherm is waiting at the car.

I feel like Rob might be starting to let down his guard a little, but I still know nothing. In every way that matters, Sherm's family is still a complete mystery. One I should probably keep my nose out of. But if I'm going to help Sherm, I'm not sure I'm going to be able to do that.

Rob

Watching Adri jump through hoops these past two weeks trying to bring my little brother out of his shell, I can't help but gain some respect for her. But the thing I know beyond a doubt is that I'm the one who put him in that shell. I thought the most important thing was for him to keep his mouth shut. What I know now is that he needs to open it.

But only to the right people. That's not Adri.

I glance at him in the passenger seat. He's got the book Adri gave him open in his lap. He's always loved to read, but usually it's a running commentary. He reads a few pages, then tells anyone who will listen everything that happened and what he thinks about it before reading on. There are times, like now, that I think more than anything else, he just needs to be somewhere I'm not. The dark circles under his eyes confirm that he's not sleeping. He tosses with his nightmares every night, wakes up around two, and slips out the door into Lee's room.

He's terrified of me.

I've lost him, and I'm pretty sure I'll never get him back. Which means I'm the wrong person to try to teach him to fight. I'll talk to Grant.

“How was school, champ?”

He shrugs without lifting his face from the book.

My heart knots. “Sherm?”

No response.

I pull to the side of the road, cut the engine. “Sherm.”

He tenses but still won't look at me.

“Listen, buddy, when I told you never to talk about what happened . . . I was wrong. I think we should talk about it. Just you and me. Okay?”

He finally lifts his face and I want to die. Tears pool in his eyes and terror fills his gaze. He shakes his head, shrinks back against the door.

“Sherm, please. Talk to me.”

He sits, frozen by his fear, as I reach out to him. A tear rolls over his lashes, tracking a crooked path down his cheek.

My heart beats in my throat as I lower my hand and tip my head into the headrest. I close my eyes, pull a deep breath, fight to keep my shit together. “I'm so sorry, Sherm,” I finally say. “I'm so sorry.”

I open my eyes and turn the ignition. I don't look at him again, because it will kill me to see him looking back at me in horror.

But my guard is instantly up again when we pull up to the house and find a green VW Beetle parked in the driveway.

“Stay here,” I tell him.

He flinches away from me when I reach for the glove box. I try to palm my piece so he won't see it as I pull it out, but when I hear the faintest of whimpers, I know I wasn't successful.

I step out of the car, move up the stairs to the porch, the Glock leading the way. When they groan under my weight, I spit a curse on a breath. I duck behind the wall next to the door, steal a glance through the window. The living room is empty. Lee's back is to me in the kitchen beyond.

I try the knob. It's unlocked. I draw a slow breath, then burst through, leveling my Glock at the unseen threat.

“Holy shit!” Lee says, spinning and throwing her hands in the air. “What are you doing?”

“Whose car is that?” I bark.

She fists her hands on her hips. “Mine. I'm setting up interviews. I've got to get a job or I'm going to go crazy. We need two cars.”

I lower the gun, start breathing again. “Fuck, Lee. You could have given me a heads-up.”

She scowls at me. “I texted you.”

I shove the Glock into the waistband of my jeans, yank out my phone . . . and see a text from Lee. It came half an hour ago, when I was busy flirting with Sherm's teacher.

What the fuck was that, anyway? How did I suddenly turn into some hormone-driven teenager, willing to spill my guts to the pretty girl for a smile? But that's how it felt, talking to her. She's like a snake charmer, hypnotizing me with her genuine gaze and forcing all my defenses into submission.

And I totally fucked up. I was so absorbed in what Sherm had written that, when she asked me how old Sherm was when Mom died, I told her the truth. He was four. That was five years ago. But our cover story is that both our parents died in a car accident
two
years ago. If Adri thinks to dig, she'll probably notice the discrepancy.

Which makes her the most dangerous thing on this island.

“Sherm is in the car. I think you should go get him,” I say, jamming my phone back into my pocket.

Her eyes widen. “Is he okay?”

My lips purse. I give her one shake of my head.

“Shit, Rob!” she hisses as she bolts past me.

I move to the kitchen and find what Lee was working on. There's a new laptop open on the counter, the box it came in on the floor. Next to it sits a portable hot spot. The screen is black, but when I swipe my finger across the touchpad, it flashes to life with the résumé the relocation consultant built for Lee.

We each got one, and none of them have anything real on them—jobs we never had and schools we never went to. Things the Feds will back up with a phone call if necessary.

But then I notice the open Internet tab on top and click it. Oliver Savoca stares out at me from the screen. The one man I want dead more than any other.

Because there's every likelihood that he's the reason we're here.

He's decked out in pinstripes and a red bow tie, with his dark hair slicked back. And on his arm is my ex, Sophie King. It's from three months ago, the night of her most recent premiere—some movie she did with Channing Tatum. She begged me to go with her. I dumped her instead. Heartless, I know, but that scene isn't my thing anymore. I like my private life private. With her, everything was all about the flash.

I glance at the picture again, wonder if Oliver got the same memo I did. Pop has PR guys, same as any other service-oriented business. They wanted to shake the old-school mobster image, so as soon as I turned eighteen, I became the public face of the Delgados. Fresh blood. A new start. Dating the darlings of the media was considered good PR, so that's what I did. I was introduced to singers, models, movie stars at private fund-raisers for all the trendy causes, arranged and paid for by my family. What I found out was that the beautiful people were no different than anyone else. A decent line, a cocky smile, a drink or two had them dropping their panties for me whenever and wherever I wanted. For a year and a half, I was living large—sex, drugs, a party every night. But then Mom died and everything changed.

The Delgado family mission became all about revenge. Pop dropped me headfirst into the bloody pool of the family business and I never looked back. Having my so-called personal life splashed across the society pages of the
Chicago Tribune
got old. I started pulling back from the social scene. Not that I didn't indulge, I just kept it more low key.

When I met Sophie, she was different. She seemed to have more self-respect than most, which made me respect her enough to take her out a second time, and then a third. She's the only long-term relationship I've ever had, if six months counts as long term.

As my eyes flick over the
People
magazine article under the picture, I hear shuffling behind me and turn to find Lee ushering Sherm through the door.

When she sees me at the laptop, her eyes widen and she pales visibly. “I was just—”

I give her a shake of my head, gesture with a subtle tilt of my head to Sherm, because I suddenly get it. She's doing the same thing I am—pretending that this is our gig now, the whole time plotting her revenge. It's not going to happen. This battle is mine alone. “Take him upstairs.”

I'm not going to let my sister fall into the vengeance trap that ate our father alive. She's perfectly capable of exacting revenge. She could probably get to the younger Savoca easier than any of the rest of us because they went to school together at Northwestern, but I wouldn't survive if I ever saw Sherm look at her the way he looks at me. He can't lose Lee too.

If anyone's going to rain hell down on the Savocas for what they've done to this family, it's going to be me.

She lowers her gaze and shuttles him up the stairs.

After a minute, I follow and hear her talking to him softly behind her door. I open the door across the hall and find Grant still in bed.

He lifts his head, gives me a sleepy squint. “Get the fuck out.”

I go to his suitcase on the floor, which he still hasn't unpacked, and find the last clean pair of boxers. I toss them at him, then dig for a pair of athletic shorts and a T-shirt. “Get dressed.”

“Blow me,” he says, burying his face in his pillow.

I rip the pillow out from under him, yank him up by the hair. “I said, get dressed.” I keep my voice low, because the last thing I want to do is upset Sherm more than I already have, but the look in my eye tells Grant I'm dead serious.

His face pulls into a mask of pure hate. “And I said, blow me.”

“Sherm needs your help,” I say, letting him go.

He cocks his head at me in suspicion. “What do you mean?”

I turn for the door. “Get dressed and meet me downstairs.”

Being born into the Life is like being born into royalty in some ways. There are privileges. Entitlements. That part of the Life suits Grant. In that world,
borgata
and
famiglia
are one and the same. The entire crew, from the consigliere all the way down to the muscle are your family. Before Mom died, our house was never quiet. The kitchen was always full of aromatic food and lively conversation, and there were never less than twelve at our dinner table. We stuffed ourselves on pasta and sauces Mom had simmered on the stove all day long as the aunts made matches for all us kids and the uncles talked White Sox. Business was never discussed until after, over cigars and cognac in Pop's office. There's no greater sense of belonging than when you're part of an old Sicilian Mafia family.

But the more I grew to understand the business, the more I realized I needed to protect my younger siblings from it. The only way I could protect Grant was to step in when I turned eighteen and become everything Pop needed so he didn't look toward his younger son. It worked. While Pop focused molding me into his image and turning me into a cold-blooded killer, Grant was free to become a womanizing Chicago club rat. Even though he was underage, our name was the currency that got him a pass at certain establishments, and he spent it freely. It was the lesser of two evils, I figured.

But now I need him to step up and be the big brother that Sherm needs.

I duck inside Sherm's and my room and change into running shorts, then head downstairs.

Ulie is just picking the keys to the Lumina off the hook near the door in an outfit that would turn heads even on the crowded streets of Chicago. It looks like something out of
Xena the Warrior Princess
, with snakeskin straps from what was probably a purse, and leather fringe on the shoulders, and a skintight long green skirt with a slit to the knee.

“Christ, Ulie,” I snarl. “Where did you get that?”

She looks down at herself. “I made it out of some of the crap they put in my suitcase and called clothes. You like?”

I give her a bewildered shake of my head. “This isn't Manhattan. You can't wear that shit in public here.”

Grant drags his sorry ass down the stairs. “Watch your fucking language, Rob,” he mutters on his way to the kitchen.

“It's one of my designs,” Ulie protests. “My professor loved it. She said it shows ingenuity and functionality.”

“All it shows is that you don't belong here. Take it off.”

“No,” she says, reaching for the doorknob.

I punch my hand into the door, slamming it shut. I get in her face so Sherm won't hear. “If you give a shit about your little brother's safety, take it off.”

She gives me a razor-sharp glare, turns for her room.

“So what the fuck is this all about, Rob?” Grant says from where he's at the counter, hovering over a steaming cup of coffee.

“Come on,” I say, yanking open the door.

He takes a long swallow, then sets the mug down and follows me out into the cool, overcast afternoon. We wind down the path to the beach. When my bare feet hit the cold, wet sand, I start running.

“What the fuck?” Grant calls, but I'm only a couple hundred yards up the beach when I hear the pound of his feet coming up behind me. He's always been fast.

We run along the beach in silence, the only sounds the roll of the waves, the squawk of an occasional seagull, and the steady cadence of our breathing. It's pretty secluded up at this end of the island. Only a half-dozen homes have access to this beach. We haven't seen another soul twenty minutes later when we come to the spot where the beach disappears into reedy marshland. I stop and drop into the sand on my back, staring up at the gray steel of the forming storm clouds.

Grant braces his hands on his knees and breathes out, “So what's going on? And what does Sherm have to do with this little jog-a-thon?”

“I need you to teach him how to fight.”

He pulls himself upright, looking down at me with suspicion. “Why me? You're the one with all the training.”

I prop myself up onto my elbows. “Do you want to help him or not?”

He drops into the sand next to me. “Why does Sherm need to know how to fight?”

“There are some kids picking on him at school. I don't want him to initiate anything, but he needs to know how to defend himself.”

Grant rests his forearms on his bent knees and stares out over the rolling waves. “Okay.”

I sit and mimic his position, look straight ahead at the endless ocean. “Thanks.”

For a long time, neither of us moves. I watch as egrets and pelicans dive into the roughening sea, wondering what it would be like to be that free.

“Will we ever be able to go home?” Grant finally asks.

I push to my feet. “I'm working on it.”

We get back to the house just as the sky opens. Sherm is at the table, hovering over his homework. Ulie is in the kitchen. The laptop is open on the island and it looks like a flour bomb went off in there. Everything, including Ulie, is covered in fine, white powder.