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“What’s he look like?” Hayes asks, his deep voice carrying over our bickering. It’s strange, but this is the most normal thing in my life. Picking fights with the Reaper, hanging out with Hayes. Sneaking off to places I shouldn’t be in, and praying Maeve never finds out. This is my childhood manifested.
“Is he tall?”
I glance at the Viking wannabe. “Maybe?”
“Maybe?” Killian drawls.
“Easy. We’re online friends. We keep our identities secret.”
He pinches his brow. “Briar…”
“Incoming,” Hayes interrupts, subtly blocking me from the approaching person. It’s almost cute that he cares.
A bulky guy, rivaling Hayes in height, stops short of us. He ignores my guards, looking at me head-on. He’s attractive, with pale olive skin, a dark mop of hair, and vibrant blue eyes. Those babies remind me of the summer sky outside.
Dressed in a utility jacket, jeans, and boots, he’s unassuming in this place. Yet, he keeps his head angled downward, avoiding detection. Grinning, I nod and wink.
“Hey Gabe.”
“Briar.” His voice is gruff, deep. The slightest trace of an accent flavors his words—New York. Yeah, this is my guy.
“Want a drink?”
He throws up his hand to the elderly bartender. No words are exchanged and the old man prepares the order.
They must know each other.
“Come here often?”
He gives me a dry look. “No.”
Killian tilts slightly, legs spread, and regards Gabe. No emotion passes over his face, and I tense. That’s never a good sign with the Reaper.
“Have the information we need?”
Gabe scans Killian twice. “You must be the Reaper.”
“I am.”
Gabe smirks slightly. “I heard what you did to Renaud.” A flash of anger pulsates in my gut. The name dredges up all kinds of horrible memories—and makes me want to hit something.
He was the last man who tried to buy Maeve when my father was alive. Killian was sent to broker the deal—and to kill him to keep Maeve—when Renaud discovered what he was doing. He captured him, imprisoned Killian, and it took a divine fucking act of God to get him out of that pit.
In his escape, Killian killed Renaud and left the New Orleans clan to his heir. There’s a favor owed there, I’m sure.
“Were you friends?” His fingers flex, as if to grab the knives on his hip.
“Fuck no,” he scoffs. “The old bastard deserved what he got and more.”
Killian nods, a lightness appearing in those black eyes. Oh, great. They’re friends now.
“Anyway,” I interrupt, sealing that old wrath back up. Not the time. “What do you have?”
Gabe digs into his jacket as Hayes grips his wrist. “Hold on. How do we know you’re on our side?”
I hold out a hand. “Go for it, Gabe.”
He tosses the USB drive at me, turning toward the hitter. “My name is Gabriele Rizzo, and my father is first cousin to Marco Scipione.”
