"I don't know. You hear anything?"
Dak shook his head. "I heard Uncle Troy almost got busted in Malaysia last year. But he's on the Council, and they don't bust you for almost fucking up."
I snatched the Milano bag from him. There was only one left. "Yeah, I haven't heard anything either."
"I guess we just see who shows up and…" He gave a dramatic pause a la Christopher Walken, "…whoever doesn't." (Insert creepy, "dun, dun, dun," music here.)
I looked at him, and not just as treacherous cookie thief. "How can you be so cold? We're talking about our family here!"
"And there's nothing we can do about it until it happens. I just hope it isn't someone we like."
Dak was right. If it had to be someone, I hoped it would be one of the more assholish relations. Everyone has someone like that in their family. Right? There are definitely some folks I wouldn't miss too much.
I picked up my cup of coffee. "We didn't mess up in Chicago, did we?" My mind raced to remember the details.
Dakota shook his head, but seemed disturbed. "No. It was a clean kill. Nice work, by the way."
"Thanks." Our hit had been screwing so many married women that there were plenty of suspects in his death. Of course, we'd done such a good job, the police didn't even consider murder. I smiled, remembering painting the inside of the chain smoking son-of-a-bitch's condoms with pure nicotine (which of course, killed him). That was fun. Rolling each condom up and putting them in the bags so they didn't look "tampered with" on the other hand, was not.
"Maybe it's nothing," I murmured. "Maybe they're going to give us an earlier retirement age." Who was I kidding? Bombays are allowed to retire at fifty-five, although most don't. I mean, Grandma's pushing eighty, and just last week she rubbed out a made man in the Sicilian mob. There's definitely something to be said for loving what you do.
Dak laughed. Pushing a stray lock of sand-colored hair off his forehead, he replied, "Could be Uncle Lou has found a new poison."
I perked up. Poison was my specialty. Everyone in the family had a favorite way of killing people, even though we were required to cross-train. With my brother, it was asphyxiation and/or strangulation. And while I should probably worry about that, it made us a good team because we both liked to make each job resemble death by natural cause. Of course, occasionally we ran out of time and had to leave the scene of the crime with a plastic bag still on the victim's head, but that happened only once when I'd been running late from picking up Romi from preschool. And Romi always came first. I had to have my priorities straight, after all.
Most gigs took place in other parts of the country. We had to maintain discretion. But occasionally, the job had to be local. We were supposed to get more time to plan those. Oh well, Murphy's Law, blah, blah, blah.
"I haven't heard any gossip," I said absently.
"Maybe with Delhi turning fifteen, and Alta and Romi turning five, they just want to focus on the ritual?" Dak offered, albeit not helpfully.
"I don't know…they've never done that before." And there it was. My baby would learn about the family. She'd start practicing with the chemistry set and sniper rifle that came standard with the blood oath. Ooooh, I hoped she would get the new, tricked-out Remington with laser sites! What? It wasn't different from First Communion, a Bat Mitzvah or Quinceañera. Right?
Dak slapped the table, startling me into spilling my coffee. "Well, there's nothing we can do about it until we get there." He rose and kissed me on the cheek. "I gotta run. I need a new swimsuit for the trip." He punched me in the arm and left with a wink.
I guess I'd have to start packing soon. The reunions were always held at Santa Muerta, a private island the Bombays owned off the coast of Ecuador. Hmmm, the weather would be hot. And as beautiful as it was there, I wasn't sure I wanted the family to see me in a swimsuit.
Who was I kidding? Everyone was going to be way too paranoid to notice I'd put on a few pounds. And then, I thought about Romi.
Picking up the phone, I called my cousin Liv (short for Liverpool, if you're keeping tabs on the place-name thingy. And if anyone had a right to hate her name, Liv took first prize). She answered on the first ring. The Bombays practically invented caller ID.
"You got it?" she asked breathlessly.
"Yup. You?"
"Yeah. I'll be over in five." On that, she hung up.
Actually, she made it in four minutes flat. Assassins really know how to kill time. (Sorry. I couldn't resist.) I let her in and we went into the kitchen, where I poured her an iced tea.
I loved my kitchen. I hated cooking, but I loved the kitchen. Considering that I dealt in death so much, I had filled the room with bright, cheery colors. The paint was yellow, and the curtains and potholders were citrus green. It was the room of my denial. And for me, sometimes denial was better than most orgasms. Not that I had been on the receiving end of an orgasm in a while. Try years…
Liv sipped her tea, then set it down, "I hate this."
I nodded. "Me too."
"I'd say it's not fair, but there's nothing I can do about it."
"Well, we went through it and survived," I mused, realizing I was parroting Dak's words.
Liv shook her head. "I never wanted this for Alta."
"Woody took it in stride…" I started.
She raised her right eyebrow. "I know, but he's a boy. I don't mean to sound sexist, but they're different." She wisely avoided looking at me. (I hated that "boys are different" crap.) "So you're okay with it?"
"Not really. But
