“What was the price?” Butch demanded as he snagged another weapon and put it through the same workout.

“Ten thousand.” V opened a black nylon duffel and showed off the boxes of ammo. “There’s no discount on them, but there are also no numbers, and we didn’t have to worry about dealing with legit human channels.”

Rhage nodded. “Fritz has got to be on some kind of watch list by now.”

“What else can we get from them?” Butch asked as he palmed up a third, the sound of metal-on-metal rising from his quick hands.

“Like they have a catalog or some shit?” V shrugged. “I’m thinking ask and ye shall receive.”

“Can we BOGO some rocket launchers?” Rhage asked. “Or, I’m telling you, we could use some anti-aircraft guns.”

Butch punched Rhage’s biceps. “If he gets anti-aircraft, I want a cannon.”

“You two are a pair of fuck sticks, you know that?”

Rhage took the duffel with the ammo, and Butch took the two suitcases so V could lock up and light up. They were about halfway across the cobblestones when V hesitated. Wobbled. Shook his head.

“What’s doing?” Butch asked.

“Nothing.” The brother kept going, taking the stone steps two at a time and opening the vestibule’s door. As he put his puss in the security camera, he muttered, “Just hungry.”

“I feel you on that one.” Rhage rubbed his belly. “I need food stat.”

The comment was casual. The look he and Butch shared was not. The reality, however, was that even Brothers could be hypoglycemic, and not everything was an emergency. Going by the cop’s grim expression, he was going to be on it, though, when he and V went back to the Pit for the day.

“Where you want this stuff, V? In the tunnel?”

When Vishous nodded, Rhage took the suitcases from Butch and walked the load behind the grand staircase to the hidden door to the tunnel. Unlocking things by entering the code, he placed the load of metal and lead on the landing and triple-checked that things re-locked as he shut the panel once again. With Nalla crawling, nobody took any chances with guns or ammo, even when the shit was separated.

Doubling back, he headed for the dining room.

Inside the beautiful space, there was lots of chatter and laughing, with people everywhere, and doggen making sure drinks were served before they brought out the food. Mary was over by Marissa, and at first Rhage started to go around to them, but then he caught the tension and backed off, taking his normal chair across the way.

Meanwhile, Mary was leaning into her boss, speaking urgently. Marissa nodded. Then shook her head. Then spoke. And now it was Mary’s turn again.

Had to be about work.

Maybe even about Bitty?

Manny pulled up a chair. “How we doing, young man?”

“Hey, old fart. Where’s your better half?”

“Payne’s having a lie-down. I tired her out, if you get what I mean.”

The two pounded knuckles, and then Rhage went back to trying to look as if he weren’t lip-reading. Which, P.S., wasn’t going that well.

“Cabbage nightmare, juicing machine cassette player,” Mary said.

“Movie magic twelve times a day.” Marissa took a sip from her wineglass. “Then tennis with the can-can. Peanuts and Philly steak, bagel bagel cream cheese.”

“Saran wrap?”

“Toothpaste.”

“Garage bay, Christmas bikini wannabe Grape Nuts with Dr Pepper.”

“Fuck me,” he muttered. And considering how many food references his brain was pulling out of their mouth positions, he was so ready to eat.

Mary eventually got up and the two nodded. Then his shellan came around to him.

“You okay?” he asked as he pulled out her chair.

“Oh, yes. Yes.” She smiled at him and then sat down and stared at her empty plate. “Sorry. I’m just . . .”

“What can I do to help?”

Turning to him, she rubbed her face. “Tell me that everything’s going to be okay?”

Rhage pulled her into his lap and ran his palm up and down her outer thigh. “I promise you. Everything is going to be fine. Whatever it is, we’ll make it fine.”

The doggen of the house filed in with silver trays of roast beef and potatoes, chicken and rice, and some steaming veggies and sauces. As Mary shifted back onto her own seat, he was bummed, but he understood where she was coming from. He would just end up feeding her until she was stuffed while he starved—and then he would wolf everything that wasn’t nailed down before dessert came.

They’d been through this before.

“Sire,” a doggen said behind him. “There is a special preparation for you.”

Even though he was worried about his Mary, Rhage clapped his palms and rubbed them. “Fantastic. I’m ready to eat this entire table.”

A second member of the staff removed his charger and pushed his silverware setting wide. Then a large silver platter with a cloche was placed in front of him.

“Wassup, Hollywood?” someone said. “Our food not good enough for you?”

“Yo, Rhage, you get your own cow or something?”

“I thought you were on Jenny Craig,” another voice called out.

“I think he’s eating Jenny Craig—and that shit is just wrong. Humans are not food.”

He gave everyone the middles, and popped the lid—

“Oh, come on!” he barked as laughter exploded in the air. “Seriously? You guys are serious. Really.”

A snorkel and a diving mask had been arranged with care on a porcelain platter, little sprigs of parsley and lemon wedges tucked in around the edges.

Mary started laughing, and the only thing that saved his brothers was that she threw her arms around his meatheaded neck and kissed him.

“That’s a good one,” she said against his mouth. “Come on, you know it is.”

“You flood one goddamn bathroom, and suddenly, it’s a theme—”

“Shh, just kiss me, okay?”

He was still grumbling, but he did what his shellan told him to. It was either that or ruin his appetite . . . . by commiting murder.

FORTY-EIGHT

“You realize that he’s married.”

It was around midday that Jo jumped in her receptionist chair and frowned. Bryant was leaning on the counter over her desk, his face dead serious, his bow tie so perfectly done, it looked like it was a sculpted piece of plastic rather than anything made from silk.

“What are you talking about?” She handed him a file. “And this is for your one-thirty.”

“Bill. He’s married.”

“What are you—excuse me?”

“Look.” Bryant made a show of running his manicure around the edges of the legal-size folder. “I saw you, okay. At a stoplight. You were in his car. I just don’t want you to get hurt.”

For the first time in recorded history, Jo sat back and really looked at the guy. Funny, his aura was actually a good eraser of some minor flaws that she’d missed before: His eyes were a little too close together; his upper lip had a curious overhang; that nose had a bump at the end.

“I’m only worried about you,” he concluded. Like an older brother.

Jo crossed her arms over her chest. Come to think of it, his voice had a reedy quality that was kind of grating.

“Hello?” he prompted. As if he’d banked on a specific reaction and was determined to get it. “Jo. Did you hear what I said?”

It was definitely time to move on, she decided. Polish up her résumé. Get on Monster.com and the CCJ website. Do something else.

She had spent a good year and a half mooning over this narcissist, living off of a wink or an implication from him, bending over backward to make his professional and personal lives run smoothly—and, ultimately, checking her libido at the door because this one-sided sexual tension with a jerk was a safer bet than trying to find a real guy of her own.

“I’m giving you my two weeks’ notice.”

“What.”

“You heard me.”

“Wait, are you crazy? You’re quitting because I tell you your boyfriend has a wife? When you already knew it? The closing was here in this office. You met her—”