“That’s rough,” Harry murmured as he sipped Campari and soda. He was dressed rather un-Harry-like this evening: a Burberry short-sleeve cotton shirt and slim-fit cargo pants.
Rey, Linda and I had just arrived at Sven’s and were awaiting Peach Bellinis that our host had ordered as soon as we’d entered the restaurant. Tom and Duke were seated at the corner table, dunking biscotti into their lattes and thoroughly enjoying the crisp Italian cookies. My cousin grabbed a rosemary-and-olive-oil breadstick and chomped into it as Sven placed the bubbly drinks before us.
“Somewhere, I’ve heard the name Death Angel.” The fifty-three-year-old peered across the empty room as if in recollection.
We’d not yet shared the news about Antoinetta, but Rey had felt a need to immediately inform Harry that we
