Page 73 of Bare
“Tell me. Was my son really going to kill you?” Don Moresco asked after they were seated at the poker table
Sal’s olive skin looked more green than tan.
Rosemary flinched. Aleksei squeezed her fingers reassuringly. If only he could get her out of this place and away from the evil in the room. She was too good to be here.
“I...I don’t know. He didn’t use those words. He told Nico to take me for a walk.”
He hated the quiver in her voice. Hated that the only comfort he could provide was the connection of their joined hands.
“And what about this FBI agent? This Phillipe Forcheaux. Was my son involved in his death?”
Phillipe. Aleksei was sitting at a table with the man who’d been responsible for his best friend’s death, yet he didn’t feel the overwhelming rage that had consumed the past two years of his life. The pain was less now, more subtle. It was the ache of a healing wound rather than an open one.
Yes, he hated Salvatore Moresco. Yes, he wanted him to pay for what he’d done, but loving Rose had shifted something inside him. Living had become more important than revenge. The future had become more important than the past. Love had become more important than hate.
“I don’t think so,” Rose said. “Kemper told me he did it. Kemper killed Phillipe because Phillipe found out he was taking bribes from your son. Phillipe confronted him, and Kemper killed him.”
Rose’s answer felt like a too-low jump when you know your chute will be late, no matter how fast you pull it. The words hit with the force of gravity and hard ground.
Kemper had murdered Phillipe. Kemper had betrayed the badge and his own man. The idea had skimmed across Aleksei’s mind when he saw those sketches in the notebook, but it hadn’t seemed possible. Kemper had joined them for beers dozens of times. He’d spoken at Phillipe’s funeral. He’d held Samantha while she sobbed in his arms.
It was so much worse than Moresco. So, so, so much worse.
Smooth hands squeezed his fingers and rubbed his arm. A warm, soft body pushed into his side, offering strength and comfort. The need to lean into the solace Rose was offering was basic and primal. His wounds needed her soothing balm, needed her to fill the holes in his heart and soul, needed her to make him whole again.
But what would happen to those holes if he lost her?
His years with Phillipe flashed through his mind. Playing hangman and telling stupid jokes on long stakeouts. Arguing over who had the best cheesesteaks in Philly. Celebrating their softball league victories at McGillin’s. Drowning their sorrows over their softball league losses, also at McGillin’s. Holding Phillipe’s newborn sons. Playing wiffleball with them at picnics. Hunting. Fishing. Eagles and Phillies games.
If he hadn’t chosen Phillipe’s friendship, he’d have missed out on every one of those perfect moments. If he didn’t choose Rose’s love, he’d miss out on perfect moments with her. He wanted to experience all the wonderful things he knew they could do together. He wanted to live. He wanted to love. He wanted Rose.
He rested his head on her shoulder and let her citrus ginger scent slide through him, softening the edges of his pain, replacing sorrow with hope.
Creak. Creak. Crackle.
He lifted his head. The noise was coming from the shelves of stolen goods.
Creak.
His ears zeroed in on the sound, and his eyes followed. A gun barrel slid between boxes, followed by a shadowed silhouette. Someone was hiding among the pallets. He followed the direction of the circular metal. The gun was pointed toward Don Moresco and his son.
“Get down!” he yelled, jumping out of his chair and pushing Rose toward the floor.
He leapt just as a series of soft pops and flashes came from the stacks of boxes. He stretched out his arms, and his body crashed into the chairs occupied by father and son. Hard concrete knocked the wind from his chest. Wood splinters poked his thigh. Soft flesh spared his head from slamming against the floor. He rolled, sucking air into his lungs, and found what he was looking for—the table legs. He yanked hard, flipping the heavy poker table.
Chaos erupted. Guns blasted. Men yelled. Furniture splintered. Bullets chipped wood. Cold metal pressed against his hand. He whirled his head. Don Moresco crouched behind him, shoving a gun into his hand. He checked the weapon automatically and then peered around the edge of the poker table, his gaze locking on the narrow space among the pallets where the tiny lights flashed.
He aimed and fired, emptied the weapon, and watched Gary Kemper fall to the ground.
Phillipe’s murderer was dead.
His best friend could finally rest in peace.
Aleksei fell back against the carpet, letting adrenaline and relief claim him. Lying flat with his head angled, he had a perfect view of Kemper’s motionless body. Blood leaked from his head and hands. The location of Kemper’s injuries mirrored Phillipe’s.
Gandhi was right. The law of karma was inexorable and impossible of evasion.
Gentle hands probed his body. He turned his head. Rose knelt next to him. Warm tears fell from her eyes and dripped onto his face. A table lamp glowed behind her, making her appear as if she had a halo. She looked like an angel. Herlips moved, but he couldn’t hear what she was saying over the constant ringing in his ears.
