“Hey, you said it, not me,” he said, holding his hands out in mock surrender. Despite her protests, she still looked beautiful to him.
Sophie bit her lip. “I guess I’m the one in the hospital and you’re the one visiting this time.”
“Yeah, kind of a role-reversal, huh?” He glanced around him excitedly. “Is that hot nutritionist chick gonna come see you?”
Sophie grinned. “I don’t think they send dietitians for gunshot wounds.”
Frowning, Roger peeked at her left arm. “Joe told me what happened. You gonna be okay, Taylor?”
She nodded. “Did Grant’s uncle say anything about how he’s doing?”
Her voice was etched with concern, and Roger was blown away that she still loved Madsen despite him nearly getting her killed. Some guys had all the luck. “Joe was trying to get an attorney for Grant, and I gave him a name. It’ll be pricey though.”
“Well, my dad will help pay for Grant’s legal costs,” she offered.
Roger scrunched his eyebrows. “He will?”
“Yes,” Sophie confirmed. “He doesn’t know it yet, but he will.”
Shaking his head, Roger chuckled. “You got him wrapped around your finger?”
She smiled wryly. “Obviously you haven’t met my father. He’s not exactly thrilled about me dating Grant.”
“Well, that’s what dads are supposed to do—protect their kids. I bet that’s why Joe is headed off to have words with Angelo Barberi, to try to protect Grant.”
Sophie drew her hand to her mouth. “I hope he’ll be okay.” She was consumed by worry for Grant’s uncle, though nothing compared to her fear for Grant himself. He was locked up, unsure of his fate, and all alone.
*
The guard led Grant into the interrogation room, and he found himself staring at a slender brown-haired woman with piercing hazel eyes, dressed in a tailored navy business suit and lavender silk blouse.
She eyed his manacled hands and glared at the guard. “Take off those cuffs.”
“No can do,” the officer retorted. “If you want the surveillance cameras off, the cuffs stay on.”
The woman gave the officer a puzzled glance—why all the precaution? She then realized the prisoner must be on suicide watch. She had a live one here, evidently.
“Fine.” She gave a tight smile. “Have a seat, Mr. Madsen.”
His polite “Yes, ma’am” threw her a bit, and his sea-blue eyes almost took her breath away.
“I’m your attorney, Mr. Madsen. No need to kiss up. Your uncle hired me.”
Grant offered her a guilty grimace.
“My clients are invariably thrilled to see me,” she said. “What’s your problem?”
Grant looked down. “I told Joe not to do that. It’s too expensive.”
“I am expensive,” she said. “But I assure you, Mr. Madsen, I’m worth it.”
“You can call me Grant,” he offered.
“Okay, Grant, then let’s get started.”
“I didn’t catch your name, ma’am.”
“Nicole McCallister, and you can call me Nic. Now,” she said with barely a pause. “Tell me everything about your involvement with the Barberi family, and don’t leave out a single detail.”
Grant took a deep breath.
*
Joe attempted to ignore the thumping of his heart as he stood outside the gated entrance to the massive stone house. He glanced down at his khaki uniform and bit his lip. He’d debated about wearing civilian clothes, but in the end decided his military garb might make them at least pause before they tried to kill him.
Holding on to the image of Grant’s angelic eight-year-old face, Joe rang the bell on the stone pillar. Within seconds a strapping black-haired man appeared, and Joe marveled at the speedy response; the bodyguard must have been perched outside the mansion, on patrol. Joe also noticed that despite the stifling warmth of the August day, the guard wore a suit-jacket, most likely to hide the weapon strapped in his holster.
“What do you want?” he questioned in a deep voice.
“I need to speak to Angelo.”
His black eyes danced with disbelief as the bodyguard gave Joe the once-over. The visitor seemed almost as insistent as the scrumptious little brunette who’d come knocking with a guy in a suit late last night, but this guy didn’t have a badge like they did. “Nobody gets to speak to Mr. Barberi.”
“Listen, meathead, go tell your boss Joe Madsen is here to see him, and quit wasting my time.” Joe felt a catch in his throat at the heat of the broad-shouldered goon’s glare, but then the guard turned and slowly ambled toward the house.
About five minutes later the door buzzed, and Joe turned the knob and entered. With no one to guide him, he headed to the front of the house.
As soon as Joe reached the porch, the solid front door opened, revealing two more large men in the foyer. “Come in, Commander,” Tank said, limping slightly as he stepped back and exchanging a nervous look with Mario. This was Logan’s uncle on his mother’s side, and Angelo had demanded he be treated with respect.
But respect did not negate the need for safety. Mario held his meaty paw against Joe’s chest. “We gotta frisk you first.”
Joe sent the bodyguard an irritated glance but nodded. He’d expected this. He stood ramrod straight as the two men expertly searched him. Tank paid special attention to patting down his chest, and Joe muttered snidely, “I don’t think a weapon would fit in there, gentlemen.”
Tank gave a perfunctory smile. “Just making sure you’re not wired.”
“This way,” Mario instructed, and Joe followed with Tank lurching on his heels. The naval commander was in the middle of a goon sandwich.
They entered a luxurious study, darkened by rich paneling and cherry bookshelves, and Joe found himself face to face with Angelo, whose tired, red-rimmed eyes were visible through a thick haze of cigar smoke. Angelo wearily rose from a leather recliner and sent a questioning glance at Mario.
“He’s clean,” the big man confirmed.
“Leave us,” Angelo ordered.
Joe heard the door softly click shut. There was palpable tension in the room as Joe ventured, “So, you’ve heard about Carlo, then.”
A flash of sadness crossed his face. Angelo had aged tremendously in the past few days. “The detectives came by here last night.”
Wondering if they’d made it out alive, Joe furtively glanced around the study but found nothing awry. It took all of his self control to mutter, “Sorry for your loss.”
“We’ve all experienced some losses lately,” Angelo said. He gestured to a chair. “Want to take a seat?”
Sitting casually and comfortably in this lion’s den was the last thing Joe wanted to do, but he needed Angelo to feel at ease. He crossed to the other leather recliner and both Grant’s uncles took a seat. Angelo looked at Joe expectantly.
“Do you know why I’m here?”
Angelo shot him a curious glance. “To gloat?”
Joe looked horrified. “No. There’s no happiness in Carlo’s death for me. You lost your son, and I can’t imagine what pain you’re feeling right now … Well,” he swallowed, “I can imagine how much it would hurt to lose Grant.”
Angelo clenched his teeth. Joe adopting Grant behind Enzo’s back was still a sore spot.
“That’s why I’m here,” Joe said. “Grant. I assume the detective told you who killed Carlo.”