“Wait—” Roger’s hand comes to my arm. “You’re Lala? As in La Rosa? As in Ruby La Rosa?” He bangs his head against the back of the kitchen counter. “Fuck! I should have known.”

“Mmhmm,” I say, dragging the tip of my knife up the curve of his jaw. “You should have known. You definitely should have known.” I sink the tip into his jugular vein, as blood spills over my hand. I step back, grabbing the towel again and wiping my hands. I spin around, my eyes colliding with Val. “Oh, don’t judge me.”

“I’m not!” He raises his hands. “But you’re gonna have to wash your hands before we leave and I’ll call the cleanup.”

Rinsing my hands in the kitchen sink, I pick my phone up from the counter and make my way to the door. “Yes, but I want those who know me to know this was me and I want the cops to continue chasing their little piggy tails guessing.” I swirl my finger around the space, leaving the door opened for them both and making my way to our parked G 63. I slide into the back seat, opening my compact mirror and pulling out my powdered foundation. When they’re both in and reversing, Tony is the first to say anything. He usually is. Tony is for my logic, where Val is for my chaos. He fuels it. Makes me feel like my irrational actions are warranted. He’s kind of like my hype man.

“Alright, I’m going to say it. I think you whacking off the Irish is a bad move.”

“Bad, how?” I ask, batting my lashes at him in the rearview mirror. “Bad because he didn’t even know who his grandfather is, or bad because now I’ve gone and stirred the pot for the first time in years?”

“Both fucking bad, principessa. We all know—everyone knows not to cross you, and they go to great lengths to make sure they stick to that, but you being a little shit stirrer and whacking off the long-lost Irish grandson, knowing that Jeremy had every intention of taking him under the family and teaching him everything there is to know—is bad.” He isn’t lying, I know it is, but I also know why I did it. If we had it Tony’s way, we would negotiate our way out of bad situations. I’d rather leave a body count with Jimmy Choo stamps over their forehead. And anyway, the Irish aren’t going to do anything. They can’t now…

“You ready for this meeting?” Val asks, turning to face me. Val is also half Tony’s age, so he’s just—immature. I know that. He’s even younger than me. But it works. He and I—work. As long as I don’t accidentally fuck his pretty face. Which I have tampered with inner thoughts daily.