Making Angel (Mariani Crime Family Book 1) (33 page)

Bones used Italian when he wanted to remind people who he was. Who we were. Ginger… Elaine… swallowed hard and nodded. “I understand.”

“Good.” He smiled and stepped out of her way.

She fled. In her position, I would have done the same thing. Bones had packed more malice into that thinly veiled threat than if he’d written a step-by-step manual for what he planned to do to her. I hoped Ginger was smart enough to realize Bones never bluffed.

Needing to dispel the intensity of the situation, I shoulder-checked my friend. “Wow. You’re getting better at this,” I told him.

He flipped me off.

“No, no, I mean it. I gotta hit the john. You straight scared the piss out of me.”

He told me exactly what I could do with my pisser.

Feeling hopeful about the curve ball we’d just thrown my father, I laughed and headed to bed.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Angel

“A
NGEL. ANGEL, WAKE up!”

The urgency in Bones’s voice snatched me from my dreams and shoved me upright, reaching for my gun.

“Whoa, no need for that,” Bones said, his leg pushing against the nightstand drawer to block my access.

Confused, I sat up, shielding my eyes from the light. “What’s going on?”

Bones pulled a T-shirt over his head. “Ari called. Markie’s in the hospital.”

“What?” My mind raced. Father had threatened her life, but she’d left Nonna’s. Why would he go after her now? “Wait, the hospital? She’s alive?”

Bones nodded, his expression unreadable.

The old man never left anyone alive. Especially not anyone who could pick him out in a lineup. If he’d gone after her, she would have disappeared. I let out a breath and asked about the next likely suspects. “The Pelinos?”

Again, Bones shook his head. “No, it’s not like that.”

“Not like what?” I asked, reaching for my phone. “And why didn’t anyone call me?”

“Ari tried. You didn’t answer.”

I thumbed on my cell phone and confirmed Bones’s words with a blinking notification that I had six missed calls and two voice mails. The last one came in at four thirty-four a.m., seven minutes ago. My phone was silenced. I felt disconnected and angry. Someone had hurt Markie and Bones was acting strange. “What the hell’s going on?” I demanded.

“Um… I don’t know how to say this.” Bones collapsed into the chair in the corner of the room, socks in hand, a blank expression across his face.

“Just tell me, dammit!”

“Ari wasn’t making much sense. She was talking about a tumor.”

I had to have misheard. “A tumor?” I asked.

“Yeah, a brain tumor. Markie has cancer.”

Cancer?

The word slammed into me like a wrecking ball, throwing me off balance. It wasn’t true; it couldn’t be. “What? She doesn’t have cancer! Are you sure she said tumor?”

Bones shook his head, looking as shocked as I felt. “Yeah. It doesn’t make sense, but what else sounds like tumor?”

I shook my head. “I don’t know. There’s got to be some mistake. We were just with her. We’d know if she had cancer. Her hair would be falling out or something.”

Bones nodded. “Yeah. You’re right.” But he didn’t look too convinced. In fact, he looked like a damn zombie, staring straight ahead as he put his socks on.

And why was I still in bed? I jumped up and headed for my dresser. “We’ll get to the hospital and straighten this all out,” I said, trying to reassure us both.

But the knots forming in my stomach told me something was very wrong.

“Angel, you need to slow down,” Bones said.

We were halfway to the hospital and I looked down to see the speedometer clocking me at eighty-three in a fifty-five. Surprised, I eased off the gas pedal.

Bones had his hand on the dashboard, as if he could manually slow our speed. “Do you want me to contact Tech and get us the lights?”

I shook my head. Until I knew exactly what was going on, I sure as hell didn’t want to draw my father’s attention to the matter. No doubt Tech was already monitoring our early morning drive.

Maybe it was made to look like a brain tumor?

I dismissed the ridiculous thought as soon as it popped into my head. Certain poisons could cause reactions that would point to a heart attack or a stroke, but I’d never heard of anything that could mimic the symptoms of a brain tumor.

The admittance clerk buzzed me and Bones back, and a nurse greeted us and led us to a small examination room where we found Ariana. Still in her pajamas and bare feet, she leaned against the bed, hands clasped in front of her. Bones marched in and hugged her. I squeezed past the two of them, desperate to get to Markie.

Markie lay under a pile of white hospital blankets. Her eyes were closed, and cords connected her to an IV and a couple of ominous-looking machines. Her face looked worrisomely pale.

“How is she?” I asked, turning back toward Ariana.

Ariana pulled away from Bones and glanced at her sister.

“Awake,” Markie interrupted. Her eyelids flickered, and then she raised a hand to shield them. “Can you hit the lights, please?”

Bones flicked the switch and she lowered her arm.

I looked from the machines to Markie, searching for clues. A tumor? It sounded too unbelievable to say aloud.

“Are you just going to stare at me all day?” she asked.

Dreading the answer, I summoned my courage and asked, “What happened?”

“Minor complications.” She gave me a weak smile.

“Like …?” I asked.

“Swelling and pain. The doctors got the swelling down and the pain is… tolerable. I’m still a little nauseous, but nothing some saltines couldn’t cure. You don’t have any, do you?”

She seemed so calm and collected as she skirted the real issue. Whatever that was. Surely someone with a brain tumor would be freaking out.

I squeezed her hand and shook my head. “We’ll ask for some.”

“Thanks.” Another weak smile, this one barely hinting at her dimples.

I couldn’t take it anymore. “Stop bullshitting me, Markie. What’s really going on?”

“Let’s give these two some privacy,” Bones said. He put his hand on the small of Ariana’s back and led her from the room. “We’ll be right outside if you need us.”

The door closed. One of the machines beeped, and the cuff around Markie’s arm tightened. Her blood pressure levels showed up on the monitor. Silence stretched between us. I opened my mouth to break it, but she beat me to the punch.

“His name is John,” she whispered.

I gave her a blank look.

“The man in the photo. His name is John. He’s my end-of-life counselor.”

My blood turned to ice and the hair on the back of my neck stood up.

Not an agent. An end-of-life counselor.

Markie wasn’t working for the government. She was getting counseling for the end of her life.

My legs came out from under me and I collapsed into the chair beside her bed, elbows on my knees, head in my hands. The world spun out of control, and I couldn’t make it stop.

“Your end-of-life counselor,” I acknowledged once I finally found my voice.

“Yes. I have a brain tumor. It’s terminal.”

“This was your secret,” I breathed. Now that she’d shared it, I wanted her to take it back. I’d rather her be a federal agent. That, I could have dealt with. This… well, there are some options for cancer. I leaned back and stared at the ceiling. “What about surgery or chemo? Isn’t there something they can do?”

“Expensive, risky, and painful, with no guarantees.”

“How much time do you have?” I don’t even know where the question came from. It just spilled right out of my mouth.

“They don’t know. They keep changing it.”

My mind struggled to wrap around what she was telling me. “So, it’s like there’s a bomb in your head. Nobody seems to know when it will go off, and the odds are against them defusing it?”

“Exactly.” She chuckled. “Where were you when I was looking for a way to explain this to Ari?”

I didn’t laugh with her. I couldn’t. I couldn’t say anything.

“You’re right, Angel. And everyone I’ve told expects me to sit around and wait for my life to go boom. They want me to play it safe to stretch out my days.”

“Even Ari?” I asked, finding that hard to believe.

“She’s the exception. She thinks I’m nuts, but she gets me. She understands why I’m trying to live every single minute I’ve got left.”

“But surgery or chemo wouldn’t—”

“No,” she interrupted. “I’m not going to wait around on some list for the surgery, and I can’t shoot hoops with Myles and the other kids when chemo is sapping my strength.”

She sounded resigned, but not upset. Markie had come to terms with her tumor, but I had not. I would not. I reached for her hand. Her skin felt warm and soft beneath my touch, and I rubbed my thumb over it.

“You are such a selfless, giving, beautiful person,” I whispered. “It doesn’t seem right that you should have to go through this.”

She cracked a smile. “Trust me, Angel, I’ve committed my share of crimes.”

“Sure.”

“No, seriously. After my mom died, I kind of lost my mind a little.”

“That’s probably to be expected,” I interjected, not wanting to hear her degrade herself.

“No, let me finish. I want you to know everything. My mom was amazing. After Dad died, she was all I had. All Ari and I had. Strict as could be, but in a loving way. She worked as a courtroom stenographer and was hit by a stray bullet when this criminal, Tristan Bougher, tried to bust his cousin out of jail in the middle of a trial. He took everything from me and Ari. There were a dozen witnesses, but Bougher got off on a technicality. Since Ari and I were both minors, our uncle got us hefty settlements from the state. But nobody could give us back our mom.”

That explained the government paycheck. My father had to have known the truth. With eyes and ears everywhere, nothing could hide from him. Which meant he knew exactly who the end-of-life counselor was and had intentionally lied.

Why?

“Mom—” Markie’s voice cracked.

I patted her arm. She was finally spilling her guts. I desperately wanted to know it all, but the information seemed to be costing her too much. “Rest. You don’t have to do this right now. We can talk about it later.”

“No we can’t, Angel. You’ve been so great. You deserve to know the truth about me.”

There was a warning in her voice, eluding to darker secrets. “Wait,” I said. I stood, pulled the device finder from my jacket pocket, and scanned the room. “All clear.”

She took a deep breath and started again. “All those witnesses, and Bougher got off on a technicality. Can you believe that? I was already in the Running Start program, earning college credits in high school, but I changed my classes when it happened. I wanted to become a cop, like my dad, so when I arrested him there’d be no technicalities. Everything would be text book and the law would bury him under the jail, bars nailed shut so he couldn’t take away anyone else’s mom.”

A cop. She’d gone to school to become a cop. Of course she had, because that’s how my life worked. Yet she’d left for Africa shortly after she’d gotten her degree. Why? “What happened next?”