Guilt won't do much good now, but the pangs of it wrack my chest anyway. He's wearing that bruise because he accepted this mission from me. I bite down on it, take a lesson from his book and bury it.
“And what did you find out?” I ask.
I hear the sounds of movement, his shoes on the dirt, his shirt as it brushes my arm. He rounds me and faces me, blocking my way to the stairs. He's close enough that I can smell him, sweat and men's bath products. For a moment, I think he's going to touch me again, or lean into me, he's so close. But he just catches my eyes with his and holds them.
“Where is everyone?” he asks.
Everyone?
“Izzy's still asleep,” I say with a frown.
“And Abuela?”
“She's gone. Didn't come back last night. I guess she has some business.”
He stares for another stretch, then flicks his chin at the house.
“Let's go inside.”
He turns and I follow him up the stairs. The sun is already hot on my back.
He leads the way into the kitchen, grabs two coffee mugs from the cabinet, and pours them. I neglect to mention the cup I left abandoned on the back porch. Instead I'm intrigued by his measured movements, the way he won't rush the moment. He spoons sugar into the cups and he doesn't look at me as he snatches the milk from the fridge with precise grace.
He knows he's got my attention and he knows I'm watching, waiting for him. He passes me a mug and leans back against the counter. He stares down at the creamy liquid for a long time, his expression downturned.
I take a scalding sip. Pushing him won't do. Anxiety spreads like a rash through my insides. Still, he won't look at me.
“About three months ago, Gram lost his deal with his biggest supplier, which nearly stalled him dry. He re-formed ties with Derrik in order to secure another source, something I would have known if we had still been here, instead of out in the bumfuck country.”
His voice is quiet, but his eyes fire. He hasn't sipped his coffee, but it seems to be a good anchor for his hands. He continues.
“Word is that those connections kept the Reaps afloat, but they still took a big hit. Turns out Gram's supplier went through a division of Abuela's operation. When she found out, she put it to a stop. A couple weeks ago, Gram found out that she's the reason his man cut him off.”
Now, finally, Frederick looks me in the eye. Suddenly I'm paralyzed. My head becomes a rush of buzzing. The coffee shakes in my hand, spilling some down my hand. I don't even feel it. My stomach turns. For a moment I believe I'm going to puke in the sink beside me. Tears threaten to rise, but a slow rage forces them down.
My voice is hoarse when I say, “You're telling me my brother died because Gram got spiteful?”
Frederick stares, gray eyes bright with emotion, measuring my composure. Will I keep my shit together under the weight of this news?
Finally he says, “Abuela has been slowly weeding Gram out of NOLA since we left, and it's damn near worked. Gram took a much bigger loss after that shit with the Feds, mostly because his operation never has been as big or . . . international as Abuela's. She took full advantage of that and has been kicking him while he's down ever since. This feud has been going on above and without us this whole time.”
I slam the mug down on the counter, spilling more coffee. I flick it off my hand like it's blood. My whole body buzzes with the urge to get into the car, drive again to Gram's doorstep, and rip his throat out with my hands.
“Fucking coward,” I spit. Still, no tears.
Frederick sighs. He's staring at his coffee again. And it makes sense, that sadness I saw in him. His voice is steady when he speaks again.
“Gram's current supply comes from a homegrown operation in rural Louisiana. The quality is good, but the price is high, and that's cost him a portion of his slum business. Not to mention that the house in Biloxi had quite the pretty price tag, capital and cash that they really couldn't afford to lose. He gets his shipments at a place in the Ninth, personally oversees the transactions. Lots of guns and cameras and guards involved.”
He lets a few beats of silence pass that draw my eyes to him. He looks so calm, but there's a storm in his eyes.
“Gram is a cornered, injured snake. He's ready to snap at anything that threatens him. For us to send his partner back with no hand to shake was a slap in the face. He's pissed, and he's slowly drowning. To even show our faces in NOLA is dangerous at this point.”
I take a few steps toward him, the movement and proximity winning his attention. The hard look is set firmly on his face and, maybe for the first time ever, he bristles at my closeness. It hurts more than I care to admit. I've never seen him this agitated.
I say, “I don't care if it's dangerous, I want to finish what my grandmother started. I want to wipe them from this city's streets. My intentions have not changed. You've known that all along.”
He thumps his mug onto the counter with as much force as I had, ignoring the liquid that sloshes out. “I don't like it, Maria.”
My verbal advance halts immediately in my throat. Rarely does he oppose me so strongly. I say, “You think I do? I think you're missing the point a little, Frederick.”
His mouth snaps closed and his eyes narrow, despite the pain the action must cause in his black eye. He takes a long breath through his nose, then says, “Doesn't it bother you?”
The rage growing in
