Mia comes to the study unexpectedly—it doesn’t take two people to do drinks, but apparently she’s just in here to tell us dinner is ready a few minutes early tonight. She sounds almost apologetic, since normally we have dinner down to a science, and not everyone has had a chance to finish their drinks.
I frown, getting up off the chair and approaching Mateo. His gaze lingers on Mia in the doorway, but it snaps to me when I remark, “Joey’s really late.”
The chatter behind me comes to an abrupt stop. I glance back, confused, and see everyone staring at me. I look to the doorway where Mia stands. Even she clasps her hands together and looks down, a shade paler.
Mateo clears his throat, then throws back what’s left in his glass. Placing it on his desk with a thud heard all through the suddenly silent room, he meets my gaze. My stomach reads the signs before my brain can get there and it rocks.
“Joey had a hand in the assassination attempt that resulted in Meg’s shooting. He told Castellanos where to find me that night.”
I can’t help frowning in confusion, then denial. My head is shaking, the desire to argue completely useless, but still present. “What? No, he wouldn’t… Why would he…?”
Mateo raises his eyebrows, glancing beyond me at Vince. Then he shrugs, looking at me again. “I couldn’t say.”
“Did you…?”
“He’s dead,” Mateo verifies.
I cover my mouth, but my legs are suddenly weak and I sink into the chair in front of his desk. Mia moves to the side as people start to trickle out, giving me a moment to grasp what they already know.
“I don’t understand.” I shake my head, looking up at Mateo. “I don’t understand.”
Now that most of the room has been cleared out, Mia approaches, leaning down to place a supportive hand on my shoulder. “I’m so sorry, Francesca. I forgot you didn’t know.”
So much for tonight’s family get-together being better than the one yesterday at Sal’s mom’s. Sal comes to my other side, placing a hand on my other shoulder. It’s completely foreign to have this much emotional support, but it’s hard to enjoy it.
“How did he…?”
“You don’t want the details,” Mateo tells me, faintly shaking his head.
“I just… I don’t…” I don’t even know what to say, I just don’t know how to reconcile this. Joey is a laidback guy, not someone who would plot to have Mateo killed. He doesn’t even have a solid reason to. Sure, Mateo wouldn’t let him move back into the mansion once he got out of jail, but that was mostly a practical decision. He was still on parole, so Mateo wanted him to have his own space and not drag the rest of us into his legal troubles.
That’s not motive to try to take out your own brother.
The only person with motive like that would be Vince. Granted, Vince and Joey are best friends….
Were best friends.
I look back over my shoulder to see if Vince stayed behind with Sal and Mia, but he’s gone. Seeming to understand who I’m looking for, Mia lowers her voice—a pointless gesture since we’re all standing so close together, but she does it anyway. “Vince hasn’t taken it very well. I’m sure he just didn’t want to hear about it again.”
“Joey didn’t hate you,” I say, looking up at Mateo in utter confusion.
“But Vince does,” Mateo says simply.
Mia’s hand trembles slightly on my shoulder. I don’t know the details of all this, but I’m suddenly wary of reviewing them any further in front of Mateo. It’s too dangerous.
Briefly glancing at Mia, Mateo remarks, “I suppose he did it for Vince.”
That still doesn’t check out. Joey isn’t proactive enough to take up somebody else’s quest for vengeance.
Wasn’t.
God, I have to refer to my brother in past tense now.
My heart aches for Joey and for all of us. There shouldn’t be so much death.
“Did he even get a funeral?”
Mateo shakes his head no, but I already knew the answer. In a scenario like the one described, even though it makes no logical sense to me that it even happened, of course he wouldn’t get a funeral.
Something Sal said to me once floats to the front of my consciousness: I would ask if the bastard knows how many people it takes to keep him alive on a day-to-day basis, but he clearly does and that’s why he has you all trained like fucking monkeys.
Shaking my head faintly, I ask, “How many more people have to die to keep you alive, Mateo?”
Mia withdraws her hand from my shoulder, straightening to look at him. Sal’s grip on my shoulder tightens, a protective instinct. Mateo’s eyes are trained on me, and at least in this moment, I get the impression he understands how much he costs us all.
“Hopefully no more,” he says, simply.