that Marcos was okay.
Within hours, she’d been at the hospital herself, getting checked out, then hustled off to a new foster home. She’d never seen anyone from that house again. The truth was, she’d never expected to.
“I saw the ambulance,” she told Marcos now. “But they told me you were okay, that it was just a precaution.”
She must have looked panicked, because he got up and sat beside her, taking her hand in his. And it should have felt very, very wrong so close to Carlton’s house, after what had just happened, but instead it felt right. Her fingers curled into his.
“I’m okay. But I spent years wondering what bad luck it was that I’d finally found my family, only to have them torn away from me.”
Tears pricked the backs of her eyes. She knew exactly how that felt, only in a different order. All her life, it had just been her and her mom. They’d been more than family; they’d been best friends, the two of them against the world. And then one drunk driver, one slippery patch of road, had taken her whole life away.
“At least you got them back,” she whispered, even though she knew it was an unfair thing to say. It wasn’t his fault her mom had died. And it wasn’t his fault he believed she was to blame for splitting up him and his brothers. She’d told him as much.
“I did, eventually,” he said softly. “What about you? You never found anyone to call family after you left that house? I’d always hoped you would.”
Her hand tightened instinctively in his. She didn’t like to think about those days. They were long gone now. “No.”
“And what you were telling Carlton, about why you wouldn’t sleep with him? About your file? You want to tell me about that?”
His voice was softer, wary, like he was afraid what she might say, and she hesitated. It was in her file in the foster system, because back then, she’d been stupid enough to think that if she could just get out of that house, the next one would be okay. Maybe it would be like the one with Marcos. Maybe they’d even move her wherever they’d sent Marcos. But they hadn’t. And she’d learned to take care of herself.
She was going to shake her head, but when she glanced at him, she realized if she didn’t tell him, he’d think the worst. And somehow, even after believing she’d purposely set fire to their house and almost killed him, he still cared what had happened to her.
“The place I was sent to next, there were two older boys who lived there. One was in foster care, like me. The other was the foster parents’ son. The first night I was there, they came into my room, and they told me they owned me now.”
Marcos didn’t say anything, but his jaw tightened. “You were eleven.”
“Yeah. Not all foster homes were like the one we were in.” As she said it, she realized the irony. In his mind, she’d been the one to destroy that.
But all he said was, “I know.”
“It was bad.” She glossed through the rest of it. “They came after me, and I got lucky. And after that, I learned how to fight. That’s what you saw today.”
A shiver went through her at the memory. Those boys had been fifteen and sixteen, and much bigger than her. They’d come toward her, and she’d screamed her head off. One of them had tried to smother her with a pillow while the other yanked at her clothes. She’d expected her new foster parents to come running into the room, because she knew they were home, but they hadn’t. Luck had been on her side, though, because police officers happened to be on a traffic stop down the street and heard her screaming.
She’d told the cops what had happened, she’d told the foster care workers what had happened, and instead of looking as horrified as she’d felt, they’d looked resigned. They’d moved her to a new foster home, and the first thing she’d done was to steal a steak knife and hide it under her pillow. That year, she’d stolen money from those foster parents to pay off some older kids at school to teach her to fight.
“And now?” he asked. “You didn’t find family growing up, but what about afterward? You must have a circle of friends, a boyfriend?”
She shrugged. “Sure. Not a boyfriend,” she added quickly, though it would probably be better for both of them if he thought she did. “But friends, sure.” Sort of. She only let them get so close, though. Foster care had taught her how quickly people came and went, and it was usually easier to keep them at a distance.
“Are you sure this is the direction you want to go? Working with Carlton? There’s still time to back out.”
She shook her head. “No, there’s not. He and I have a deal. And I might not be totally convinced he won’t turn on me anyway, but I know one thing for sure. If I back out now, he will kill me.”
Brenna looked around the garden. It was late November, and what had apparently been a flower garden was now bare vines and plants. Around them, fir trees rose a hundred feet in the air, mixed with trees in various stages of losing their leaves. Everything was orange and red, and it reminded her of fire.
It reminded her of the fire. She wanted desperately to tell Marcos the truth, but that would blow her cover. And even though she couldn’t reconcile the sweet boy with the huge dimples with the mob-connected man jumping into the drug business, she needed to remember he was a criminal. But how had he ended up with a mafia family?
“I thought you were Greek,” she blurted.
“Yeah, well, apparently I got renamed when I entered the system,” Marcos said as he pulled his hand free and stood. “My biological family tracked me down later. I went to live with my mom, and then my dad came into the picture, got me connected.”
It made sense, and she knew it happened—people who’d lost their kids to the system reconnecting years later. So why did she feel like he was making up this story on the fly? Surely Carlton would know if he wasn’t part of a Mafia family.
But he was backing away from her slowly, and she knew whatever his story, asking about it was driving him away. And he might be her best bet for information right now.
“Have you met any of Carlton’s other business partners?” It wasn’t her best segue, but he stopped moving.
“Not really. Just his nephew. That’s how I got invited.”
“His nephew.” Brenna nodded, disappointed. She knew Jesse, too, and she felt sorry for the kid. Fact was, she felt a bit of a kinship with him. His family died, and he got thrown in with Carlton. What choice had the kid really had? Probably fall in line with Carlton or get tossed into the cold—or worse.
Anger heated her, the reminder of why she was here. It wasn’t about Marcos Costa. It was about Simon Mellor, the eighteen-year-old boy who’d died in her arms.
“So you haven’t seen Carlton with kids?”
“Kids?” Marcos frowned. “What do you mean?”
“Eighteen, nineteen. Kids who work for him?” The words poured out, even though she knew she was stepping in dangerous territory. If she
