“Tomorrow, tomorrow, tomorrow,” Bart said, making his voice a high, mocking imitation of Paul’s. “That’s all you ever tell me. I’m tired of tomorrows. I want the money you owe me, Paulie—today. Or there will be consequences. Very painful consequences.”

   Paul’s dark gaze dropped to the gold rings glinting on Bart’s fingers. He swallowed and took another step back. At least, he tried to. He was already pressed up against the side of the house, so there was nowhere for him to go.

   Paul realized that he wasn’t going to get any sympathy from the other giant, so his head snapped to the left, looking at someone I couldn’t see. “Tell him, Izzy. Tell him I’ll have his money tomorrow.”

   A soft sigh sounded, and Isabelle Vargas stepped into view, standing between her brother-in-law and his bookie. “I told you before, when you picked me up at the bank. Stuart Mosley said the money from Peter’s life-insurance policy will be here any day now. As soon as I have it, I’ll give it to you. I promise.”

   “Funny, but that’s the same thing Peter said,” Bart replied. “He told me a month ago that he was going to take out a second mortgage on this house to pay for his little brother’s gambling debts. But it never happened.”

   “Because he was murdered,” Isabelle snapped back, her hands clenching into fists. “Not because he wasn’t going to go through with it.” Her body trembled with fresh grief, and tears shimmered in her eyes, but she blinked them back.

   Bart let out a low, ugly laugh. “The grieving widow. Aw, isn’t that sweet? At least you actually cared about your husband. Too bad Paulie doesn’t feel the same way about his dearly departed brother.”

   Isabelle frowned. “What do you mean?”

   Bart shrugged his massive shoulders. “I mean Paulie here has still been texting me this whole time, ever since Peter got whacked at the bank, placing more bets on those football games and fantasy teams that he loves so much—and losing more money. Why, he even called me bright and early this morning, before the funeral, asking about Sunday’s games.”

   Surprise and anger sparked in Isabelle’s eyes, and she whipped around to Paul. “You promised Peter that you’d quit this time. You promised me!”

   “But Izzy,” Paul said, his voice creeping up into another high whine. “I was just trying to win back Peter’s money for you. I’ve looked at all the stats, and I’ve got a matchup this weekend that’s surefire—”

   Isabelle’s hand shot out, and she slapped him across the face. Paul’s mouth dropped open, probably to spout some more nonsense about how he just couldn’t lose this time.

   Isabelle slapped him again before he could utter a single word.

   Her brother-in-law staggered back, his hand snapping up to the bright red welts on his cheek as if he couldn’t believe they were there. He opened his mouth again.

   “Don’t you dare say a word to me right now,” Isabelle growled, pointing her finger at him. “Not one single word.”

   Paul slowly shut his mouth and crept back another step, out of slapping range.

   Bart laughed again. “Looks like we have ourselves a little spitfire here. Nice.”

   Isabelle glared at her brother-in-law a moment longer, then faced Bart again, her shoulders slumping with weary resignation. “How much does he owe you now?”

   The bookie casually scratched his chin, as if he were running the numbers in his head, even though he already knew the exact amount down to the last cent. “Oh, I figure Peter’s life-insurance policy should just about cover it.” He grinned. “Along with whatever money you get from selling your nice new house.”

   Isabelle’s face paled. “You can’t take our house too. My son and I have nowhere else to go. Please, I’m begging you—”

   Bart pushed away from the porch railing and started cracking his knuckles, making all of those gold-and-diamond-crusted rings on his fingers gleam with a cold, sinister light. “There’s one thing you should know about me, Mrs. Vargas. I absolutely hate beggars. They just make me want to hit them that much harder.”

   For several seconds, the only sound was the crack-crack-crack of the giant’s knuckles, each one as loud as a gunshot ringing out across the porch, each one making Isabelle flinch with fear, dread, and understanding.

   Bart finally dropped his hands to his sides, although he kept staring at Isabelle. “You have until the end of the day to get me my money.”

   “Or?” she whispered.

   The giant smiled, baring his teeth like an animal about to strike its prey. “Or I’ll make sure that the only thing Paulie bets on is how long he’ll be slurping up his meals through a straw. Trust me when I tell you that it will be a long, long time.”

   His threat delivered, Bart jerked his head at his two goons, who’d remained silent through the whole confrontation. Together, the three of them left Isabelle and Paul and headed for my end of the porch. There wasn’t time for me to slip inside the house, so I stepped around the corner, pretending I’d come in search of Isabelle.

   “Oh. There you are,” I called out, waving to her. “I’ve been looking everywhere for you, Mrs. Vargas.”

   Bart stopped right in front of me, giving me a quick once-over. Recognition dawned in his eyes. “Hey, it’s the guy in the cheap suit again.”

   “Yeah. That’s me.”

   The giant stepped even closer to me and bent down, so that his face was right next to mine. “Well, maybe you shouldn’t eavesdrop, Mr. Cheap Suit. It might be hazardous to your health.”

   My hand slipped into my coat pocket and curled around the gun there, ready to shoot him if he came at me. “Thanks for the tip,” I drawled. “I’ll keep that in mind.”

   The giant didn’t appreciate my snarky tone, and he stared me down, trying to intimidate me the same way he had Paul, but I looked right back at him. I’d faced far worse things than Bart the Butcher, my own mother being one of them.