Mark (Mallick Brothers 3)

"And you don't?" I genuinely wanted his opinion. Her brothers were the biggest part of her life. They knew her like the backs of their own hands. Their opinions were likely not only accurate, but necessary.

"Look, I honestly don't know if this is smart. This staying in the US, let alone staying in a town we ripped off thing. I don't know. I just know we all wanted it. What I do know, though, is I have never seen my sister look how she looked the day before yesterday. If you are what put that look there, then I think she's a fucking idiot for letting the source of it slip away for 'your own good,' or whatever she is thinking. At least she should have talked to you about it."

"So why am I still standing here and not holding an address in my hand and on my way to New York to have that talk with her?"

He chuckled at that, shaking his head. "I'm so in the fucking doghouse for this. But the Midtown Hilton. Room 142. Pretty sure King will let you in. He said she sobbed half the ride to the city. Which, know you haven't known her long, but it's totally not like her. He's worried."

I swallowed back all the other questions I had about her, wanting to know as much of her well-being as I could. But there would be time for that when I went to the city. Instead, I needed to know what they found out.

"So if you're worried about the NBPD, why the fuck are you just out here walking the street?"

"Because there has been no indication that it was us they were looking for. My best bet was there was some old person alert two towns over. Some dude with dementia broke out of his old folks home and went missing. It could have been that simple."

"So why are they still in the city?"

Rush looked down at his feet and sighed. "Look, she wanted a clean break. King is just stalling shit to see if he can talk her into coming back and talking to you, explaining. So far, she's fucking stubborn as shit."

"Well, he won't have to worry about trying to convince her to come back. That's my fucking job. Thanks, Rush."

"Hey," he called as I moved to walk away.

"Yeah?"

"Use your A-game, would you? I kind of like it here. I sure as shit like it better here than Russia."

"I'll do my best," I said with a grin as I headed back toward my house, threw some extra food to Nugget, and made my way to the city.

By the time I got there, it was almost one in the morning, there was an insistent aching in my temples, and I was trying hard as hell to convince myself to swallow the pit of uncertainty that had wedged itself into the back of my throat.

It wasn't that I was doubting what I was doing. I needed to see her. I needed to talk to her. I needed to tell her that the taking off shit was ridiculous.

I just had no fucking idea what to say.

Over an hour in the car didn't really help either.

But I kept forcing myself forward, through the lobby, back toward the elevators, then down the hall to number 142 where I knocked hard three times.

There was a shuffle and footsteps, too loud to be Scotti, before the chain slid and the door pushed open.

And there was Kingston, looking more disheveled than usual, and tired, worried, tense. Even more so than he had when they were fresh off a job. Which was weird as fuck. But Rush did say he was worried about his sister.

"About fucking time," he half-growled at me, reaching inside to grab his wallet, tucking it into his back pocket. "I'll get another room," he explained, moving into the hall, but not letting the door close. "Fix her," he demanded, giving me a hard look. "I can't watch her like this anymore."

With that, he moved off as I caught the door, took a breath, and pushed it in.

I don't know what I had been expecting.

Maybe, from the description of her crying on her way to the city, I imagined her curled up in bed.

And she was in bed, sure. But she wasn't curled up. She wasn't crying.

No Scotti was... plotting?

That was the first word that came to mind to find her sitting cross-legged on the beige comforter of one of the full-sized beds with a huge assortment of paperwork and books piled haphazardly around her. There was one earbud in her ear, a pen behind the other one, and her finger was rapidly flipping through the pages of a book right in front of her. Her long dark hair was pulled up into a top messy knot, a few pieces drifting out indicating she had maybe had it that way through a sleep cycle.