"Hell yes," Nixon said at the same time I said, "Hell no."
"Andi…" I was already exhausted. She ran conversational laps around my typical mornings where I didn't even speak until two hours after waking up. "…why don't you clean up while Nixon and I check out the perimeter."
"I'll come with," she said cheerfully.
"No." I laughed. "Sorry, Andi, but this is guy business."
Her eyes narrowed. In an instant, she had pulled open one of the kitchen drawers, pulled out a gun I'd never seen before in my house, loaded it, then pointed it in my direction. "Dude, I got your back. I told you this. Why don't you listen?" She turned to Nixon. "He always this dense?"
This time Nixon did laugh. "So, married life seems to be going well."
"Bite me," I muttered.
"Andi…" Nixon nodded toward the door. "…feel free to help us out. We could always use an extra set of eyes."
"Awesome."
I rolled my eyes. "Don't forget to duct tape her mouth — it's a dead giveaway to the bad guys."
"Ooo, say bad guys again, only this time make your voice lower and whisper in my ear," Andi said in an excited voice.
"Russians." I looked heavenward.
"Thought they didn't smile," Nixon said more to himself than to me. "And she hasn't stopped since I got here."
"And she probably won't," Andi said triumphantly. "I've got a lot to be excited about."
She was kidding, right? And this is why I kept reminding her of death, because she seemed to forget every damn second! Why the hell was I the logical one in this situation? Newsflash. Dying. Death. The End. Do not pass go. She had to realize that.
Yet she smiled.
Yet she lived.
Damn, she pissed me off.
Because she was one puzzle I honestly couldn't figure out. The numbers didn't match. They certainly didn't compute.
CHAPTER TWELVE
Andi
I LOVED SHOOTING THINGS.
It was a strange obsession I never could quite figure out. I loved the feel of the heavy gun in my hand. The way my finger hovered over the trigger and squeezed when I found my target. I'd never really been scared of guns, maybe because I'd grown up around them, and knew they served a purpose. The minute you started to fear something was the minute you gave it power.
Just like cancer.
If I feared it — suddenly it was bigger than me, something I couldn't conquer, something that could choke the life out of me.
Without fear, it was just a word.
And the power behind the word was meaningless unless I chose to give it power, which I didn't.
I could never understand why people allowed themselves to become overpowered by things they had no control over.
Control was a fa?ade. A word people used in order to feel better about life. When really, the word in and of itself was a fabrication.
People thought they could control cars, but really? Cars controlled them; they were mechanical; the tires could go flat; the brakes could stop working.
Even remote controls were fallible — everything in our life had the potential for error.
Which meant there would never be a situation or thing you would have real control over.
Maybe it was because I'd lived a life outside my control for so long — it was easier for me to swallow.
I shot a sideways glance at Sergio. He was in mafia mode, his sharp eyes taking in every detail around the perimeter of his house as he barked orders to the men.
Surprisingly, Nixon let him.
More surprisingly? Had I been in Nixon's position, I would have too. There was a scary awareness about Sergio. Like he saw everything, even the dust particles in the air, and was able to measure just how fast the bullet would go if it was shot against the wind.
Man had skills.
I knew that.
I just didn't want him to know I knew that, lest he get a big head. Already I felt the need to bring him down a peg — or ten. He was cocky as sin; then again, he had the looks, body, and intelligence to basically make his smug attitude understandable.
I licked my lips and looked around the house. Nixon had brought ten men with him.
All of them armed to the hilt.
I'd been around organized crime my whole life, but it surprised me how loyal the men seemed to Nixon.
In the Russian mafia? Sometimes it seemed like every man was out for himself. With the Italians? Well, a part of me wondered if it was more than just a job to them, more than even a lifestyle, but a belief system.
Almost a religion.
Protect blood.
Luca had said that a handful of times, and I was beginning to see it play out before my very eyes.
Regardless of what Sergio had done to the family, he was still blood, Nixon would die for him.
And Sergio would return the favor.
Neither of them would hesitate.
My chest clenched a bit. What would it feel like to have that type of real loyalty? Or even that type of love?
I was Sergio's punishment.
I wasn't blood. Not even really a wife other than on a piece of paper.
Whatever. I wasn't going to go there because I knew if I went down that road, it would only lead to selfishness and a stupid pity party that would only leave me depressed about life.