“My dad said the Alphas all took rooms in town, so they probably won’t show up until tomorrow morning,” Vic said, as if he’d read my mind. Or my expression.
“Oh.” Good.
At the back of the van, Brian was stacking luggage on the ground. I zipped up my jacket and grabbed two suitcases, then followed Vic up the sidewalk toward the house. We were halfway there when the door creaked opened and a tiny woman in creased jeans and a dark blouse appeared on the porch.
“Victor!” Donna Di Carlo raced down the steps and stood on tiptoe to hug her son, heedless of the bags he held, or the cold that must have blown instantly through her thin shirt. She looked older than when I’d last seen her, the lines on her face deeper, her hair grayer. Losing two children was likely the hardest thing she’d ever endure, but Vic’s mother was strong; she hadn’t let it kill her.
In that respect, she reminded me of Manx.
“Why does it take a tragedy to get you to visit? Just once I’d like to see you when nothing’s wrong. When you just came home to say, ‘Mom, I love you.’”
“Mom, I love you.” Vic grinned, but there was pain beneath his pleasant expression. He hadn’t seen his parents since Sara and Anthony’s funeral, and I suspected he wouldn’t see them again for quite a while. Because being home made him remember.
“That’s much better. Now go put those bags in the front hall before they freeze out here.” Vic did as he was told, and his mother turned her eagle-sharp eyes on me. “Faythe Sanders, I’d say it was nice to see you, if you didn’t look so thin. Has your mother stopped cooking?”
“No, ma’am, and I haven’t stopped eating, either.” I smiled. “But I burn a lot of energy on the job.”
“Job?” She looked confused for a moment, hands propped on hips that flared from her tiny waist. “Oh, yes. You’re enforcing for your father. Hardly a proper line of work for a young woman, but if you’re going to fight like a man, I can certainly feed you like one.” Her smile softened the sting of her censure. “Come on in. We’re about to sit down to a big pot of gumbo. You like gumbo, don’t you?”
“Yes, ma’ am.” I followed her up the porch stairs and into the long central hallway, where I dropped the bags I carried next to those Vic had abandoned before he’d disappeared.
“Bert, come on out and say hi,” she said, taking the jacket I shrugged out of.
But before Umberto Di Carlo appeared, soft footsteps clicked on the hardwood behind us, and I turned to find Manx standing in the doorway, a blanket-wrapped bundle clutched close to her chest. Her gray eyes were wide, her cheeks flushed from the cold beneath her smooth, olive complexion.
“Well, you must be Mercedes.” Mrs. Di Carlo propped her hands on her hips again and stepped forward boldly to inspect Manx, who towered over her by at least six inches. “My, aren’t you a beauty. I’ll have to warn my boys to keep their distance.”
Whether she was thinking of Manx’s fear of being touched, or her status as a serial killer, I wasn’t sure. Either way, her greeting obviously wasn’t what Manx had expected. The tabby stared at Vic’s mother and clutched the baby tighter.
“Well, come on in before you let out all the heat.” Mrs. Di Carlo ushered Manx into the entry, and Brian slipped inside carrying two more suitcases before she could close the door. “And who is this little gentleman?” Mrs. Di Carlo leaned over to peer at the baby’s face, the only exposed part of his tiny body.
“This is Desiderio Carreño.” Manx’s eyes went soft as her gaze fell on her baby. “He smiled just this morning.”
“Did he!” Mrs. Di Carlo beamed, clearly thrilled by the news, though she’d barely even met the child. “Well, this is a pleasure. We haven’t had a baby in the house in such a long time. I’ll show you to your room.”
Manx and Brian trailed our hostess up the central staircase, and they’d no sooner vanished from sight than a door opened down the hallway, admitting Umberto Di Carlo into the entry. His wide-set brown eyes brightened the moment they landed on me.
“Faythe! Come in and warm up. Your brother and I were about to indulge in a predinner drink. Join us!” He turned without waiting for my reply, and I followed him through an arched doorway into a room filled with overstuffed furniture, dark woods and thick rugs. On the far side of the room, facing a cozy arrangement of couches and chairs, logs blazed in a stone fireplace, casting jumping shadows on the warm, wood-paneled walls.
Michael stood when we entered, frowning in concern the moment his eyes found mine. “Dad told me about the ambush. Are you okay?” He took my arm before I could protest and pushed my sleeve up carefully to expose the half-healed bite marks I hadn’t bothered to rebandage that morning.
“I’m fine. None of us was seriously injured, which is a miracle, considering how badly we were outnumbered.”
Michael looked half relieved and half jealous to have missed the excitement.
“Sit!” Vic’s father ordered pleasantly, after a glance at my new scars. His footsteps thundered as he crossed the room toward a small cherry bar in one corner. “What can I get you to drink?”
“Scotch?” Michael sank onto the left-hand sofa beside me, and Bert nodded in approval.
“Just like your father.” He pulled a half-empty bottle of Chivas Regal from beneath the bar and poured an inch into two short glasses, then looked up at me. “Faythe?”
“I’m fine, thanks.” I’d had enough alcohol the night before to last the rest of the month, at least.
He nodded and crossed the room to hand one glass to Michael. Then he sat on the sedate green couch opposite us, resting a thick hand on the scrolled arm. “So, how are things at the Lazy S?”
“A little tense right now,” I admitted, scuffing the toe of my boot on the red and gray rug.
Michael cleared his throat. “I can’t tell you how much my father appreciates your support, especially at a time like this.”
Di Carlo nodded gravely, and I could see that his decision to back our dad hadn’t been made lightly. “The council’s going to hell in a handbasket, Michael, and if someone doesn’t stand up to Calvin Malone, it’s only going to get worse. But I’m afraid this one won’t be won easily.”
“Nothing worthwhile ever is.” Michael frowned sagely, and I knew the conversation would turn quickly to unpleasant politics. If I didn’t deliver my message soon, I’d lose my chance.
“Mr. Di Carlo…”
“Child, call me Bert.” He grinned, and leaned toward me conspiratorially. “I saw you streak through your father’s office in the buff when you were no higher than my knee. I’d say that makes us friends.”
I flushed, but nodded. “Bert, my father has an idea he wanted me to mention to you. About Manx. Mercedes. Assuming the tribunal finds in her favor… Well, she’s lost her whole family, and you’ve lost your daughter…” I broke off, unsure how to continue. Saying it aloud made it sound like I was trying to restructure the Di Carlo family—sticking my nose in where it definitely didn’t belong.
But Bert finished the thought for me. “Your father thought we might want to keep her?”
“Well…” I wouldn’t have phrased it quite that way, but… “Yes. Assuming she gets along with everyone. And wants to stay, of course.”
Bert nodded and sipped from his glass. “I have to admit I’ve had similar thoughts. Your father assures us that her crimes were the result of severe physical and