“Some Talent, huh?” Devon barked out a harsh laugh. “Tell her the rest of it.”

Claudia shook her head. “There’s nothing else to tell.”

A muscle ticked in his jaw. “You know that’s not true.” He drew in a breath and looked at me again. “It’s the reason my dad died. He was murdered because of my damn Talent.”

He said it as though it were a curse. Maybe it was, to him.

Claudia sighed. “Devon, you don’t know that—”

“Yeah,” he said in a soft voice, his green eyes dark with guilt. “I do.”

Devon surged to his feet, stalked over to the doors, and wrenched one of them open. He stepped through the opening and yanked on the door from the other side, slamming it behind him. Claudia and I didn’t say anything for several seconds.

“Who else knows?” I asked after the sharp echoes had faded away.

Claudia stared at the closed doors. “Only a few Family members. Angelo, Felix, and Reginald. Some of the pixies, including Oscar. People who would never betray the Family or Devon. People I trust.”

Meaning that she didn’t trust me. Not exactly a news flash.

“I hope you will keep this newfound knowledge to yourself,” Claudia said in a stiff voice. “If not for Devon’s sake, then for your own. The more people who know, the more danger my son is in. And by extension, everyone else in the Family. Especially you, since he seems to have taken a . . . liking to you.”

“Yeah,” I sniped. “Thanks for being so concerned about my well-being.”

Claudia’s eyes narrowed. “You have a smart mouth on you.”

“I take after my mom that way.”

Something flashed in her eyes. It almost looked like . . . aching regret, but it vanished in an instant. I looked at her, wondering if I wasn’t the only one keeping secrets, but her face was as cool as ever.

“Regardless, you should show more respect, especially to the head of your Family.”

My hands balled into fists. “You are not my family, mob or otherwise.”

She raised her chin even higher. “I am the head of the Sinclair Family, and you will treat me as such.”

“Yeah,” I sniped again. “Because you’re so kind and generous to everyone in your Family. Like me, the girl you just threatened with death for the second time in less than a week. That really makes me want to be loyal to you.”

I didn’t think it was possible, but her face became even frostier than before, as though her beautiful features had been carved out of stone. Marble left outside in a raging blizzard would have been warmer than her expression. Claudia opened her mouth, probably to threaten me again, but I waved my hand and cut her off.

“Yeah, yeah. I know. I breathe a word to anyone about Devon, and you’ll kill me. And let’s throw in Mo, too, just for good measure, because that seems to be how you roll. Well, don’t worry. I’m not going to say anything about Devon, and not because of your threats. Your son . . . he’s a genuinely good guy. He doesn’t deserve to be kidnapped or killed or to have his Talent ripped out of him.”

“Are you asking me to trust you?” Claudia asked. “A self-confessed liar and thief?”

I shrugged. “It doesn’t seem to me like you have much choice. Kind of sucks, doesn’t it? When someone has you by the throat like that? When they can take away someone you love just by saying a few words to the wrong person?”

Claudia blinked, as if she’d never considered it that way.

Not bothering to wait for her to respond, I stood and stormed out of the library.

I should have headed up to my bedroom to take a shower and wash away the rest of the blood from the fight. Instead, I slipped out onto one of the balconies, took hold of the nearest drainpipe, and started climbing.

Thud.

Thud. Thud.

Thud.

I’d only gone about halfway up when I heard the sounds of something getting thoroughly whacked. Devon was up there, just like I’d thought he would be.

I climbed all the way to the top and swung myself from the drainpipe onto the roof. Devon stood in the middle of the scaffolding, beating the heavy bag. Déjà vu. He pointedly ignored me, continuing to wale away on the bag. Please. As if that would make me go away.

This time, I didn’t wait for him to ask me to sit. I headed over to the far side of the roof, plopped down in one of the lawn chairs, and snagged an apple juice from the drink cooler. I cracked the bottle open and started sipping the juice while I propped my legs up on the iron railing that ringed the roof.

Then I waited.

It took him ten more minutes of intense, relentless pounding, but Devon finally worked off enough of his anger, guilt, and grief to leave the heavy bag behind. He slouched down in the chair next to me and grabbed a bottle of water.

We sat there for several minutes, with only his harsh, raspy breaths breaking the silence.

“I’m sorry about your dad,” I finally said. “I know what it’s like to lose someone you love.”

Devon nodded, accepting my sympathy, but if anything, his face was even sadder than before. He gestured at the heavy bag, which was still swinging from his blows.

“My dad built all of this,” he said. “The scaffolding. The lights. He hung up the bags, the hammock, everything. He loved to box, and this was his own private hideout from everyone else in the Family, even my mom. I spent hours up here as a kid, watching him work on the bags and listening to him talk about how to throw the perfect punch.”