Her anger might not come out often, but when it did, the world shuddered in the face of it.

But, for once, Joan was going to let her daughter take the lead on this. To be honest, she wanted to see what her daughter would do. How she would handle it. If Olivia handled it well, then at least Joan wouldn’t have to worry about her safety. Not involving herself in the family business put Olivia at risk in a way she wouldn’t be if she was involved.

Then again, there was that time Olivia was snatched by full-human men who wanted her father to do a job for them. Olivia had only been sixteen at the time, and both families had quickly gotten together, plans on how they would deal with the kidnapping already in the works, when Olivia had suddenly walked in the back door of their Washington house. Covered in blood, with a handcuff still dangling from her wrist, she’d walked barefoot through the kitchen, stopping only to point at her father and inform him that, “After what I just went through, you better pay for my art school.” Something her father had initially refused to do—even after a painfully long plea from Antonella Jean-Louis Parker on Livy’s behalf—because he’d rightfully thought it was stupid.

But when they didn’t find anything but the empty van and lots of dried blood, Damon went ahead and paid for that education he didn’t believe in.

So maybe Joan didn’t need to worry about her ridiculous daughter with her ridiculous ideas about being a great artist.

A glass of scotch was held in front of her face and, smiling, Joan took it.

“Thank you, Baltazar.”

Her husband’s brother sat down next to her. It was freezing cold out, so he also wore his mink coat.

“Don’t be mad at little Olivia.”

“Who says I am?”

“You did. I heard you say to your sister, ‘I am so mad at her.’ ”

Yeah. She had said that.

“Besides,” he went on, “did you really expect her to do anything else once she found Damon in some full-human’s house? Stuffed and on display like some deer?”

“You have a point.”

Balt pressed his shoulder against Joan’s and lowered his head a bit so she had to look him in the eye.

“Stop it, Balt.”

“What? I said nothing.”

“I’m still your brother’s wife.”

“My brother’s ex-wife. Or, if you were still married . . . widow. Besides, you cannot live your life alone and miserable.”

“Who says I’m miserable . . . or alone?”

Balt’s back straightened. “Who? Tell me his name?”

“Balt—”

“I want to know his name.”

“Stop.”

Balt drank his shot of vodka in one gulp and poured himself another from the bottle he’d brought out with him.

“Let’s focus on somethingelse.”

“Fine,” he grumbled, sounding like the seventeen-year-old she’d met all those years ago. A seventeen-year-old who never gave up on trying to get in her pants.

Joan put her arm around Balt’s giant shoulders. “Tell me the plan.”

“Right now, we need name. There is someone very important who protects this Whitlan. I want their name. So tomorrow, my brothers and I go to Florida.”

“What’s in Florida?”

“The company that shipped Damon’s body.”

“Good. You deal with them. I’ll deal with Allison Whitlan.”

“Olivia will not like if you kill her, my beauty. Unless Whitlan girl is involved in all this.”

Joan chuckled. “You listen to my daughter too much. I’m a thief, not a murderer.”

“Your daughter has never said either. My brother, though . . .”

Joan laughed and kissed her brother-in-law on the cheek. “I’m glad you’re here, Baltazar. But I want you to be careful.”

“I will not promise to be careful,” Balt admitted honestly. “But I do promise many will suffer.”

Laying her head on his shoulder, Joan smiled. “I know, Baltazar. I know.”

CHAPTER 21

Vic woke up with Livy tucked in his arms. They were both fully dressed and on top of the covers. It had been a long couple of days, and they’d been exhausted. So he wasn’t surprised they’d sort of passed out without having dinner.

It was still early, though, so Vic was ready to go right back to sleep when he caught sight of Kyle at the foot of his bed.

“Kyle?”

“Someone needs to feed me.”

“Feed you?”

“Yes. I’m hungry.”

“You can get food on your own.”

“I could. But I won’t. I’ve got work.”

“You’re twelve.”

“I’m well aware of my age. I also know that legally someone has to feed me.”

“Where’s Cooper?”

“Practicing in the basement.”

“Okay, then—”

“And he throws things at me when I interrupt him. Your soft eyes suggest you’re weaker and won’t physically harm me. So I need you to feed me.”

“He won’t physically harm you,” Livy growled from her spot against Vic’s chest, “but I will.”

“You won’t because of your loyalty to my sister. And she’s in Siberia. Not metaphorically, either. Literally . . . in Siberia.”

Livy pushed herself up on one elbow, locked those beautiful black eyes on Kyle, and said, “But you’re also a shifter, which means you’ll heal before she gets back in the country. So get out of my room!” she ended on a screech.