Page 1 of Everything We Found

PROLOGUE

The night before the funeral, as he gazed into the belly of a casket weighed down with sandbags in place of his younger brother’s body, Thomas Donato accepted his fate. He was the villain of this story.

Years ago, he and James had sworn to look after one another when their parents wouldn’t. James had taken the brunt of their father’s abuse, often sparing Thomas from Edgar’s wrath when they’d disobeyed his rules. Thomas would go to great lengths to hold up his end of their agreement. Whatever it took to protect James.

He would even fake his brother’s death.

By the time this ordeal ended—ifit ended—Thomas expected he would be bankrupt.

He would be despised.

He would lose everything and everyone he cared about, including James.

Including her. The woman he’d loved for longer than he wanted to admit but could never have. The one person whose trust he’d treasured above all others, and whose forgiveness he’d never deserve after tomorrow.

But if the ruse kept his brother alive and safe, the cost would be worth it.

“You’re a good son, Thomas.” The funeral director said compassionately beside him. Filippo Lettiere believed what everyone else did about James: that he’d gone missing off the coast of Cancun after falling overboard during a fishing trip with a business associate and ultimately been declared dead. Because that had been the story Thomas told them.

His mother, Claire, had been devastated. She wanted her son buried beside Thomas’s father, Edgar, who’d passed earlier that year, so Thomas told her James’s body had been found. Only there wasn’t a body, and because he’d spoken before he thought the situation through, Thomas now found himself in the delicate position of pulling off a funeral where everyone believed they were burying James.

Thomas had been forced to enlist Filippo’s cooperation, and Filippo agreed that sandbags inside a locked casket would convince the pallbearers they were carrying the remains of Claire’s beloved son. What Filippo and everyone else didn’t know was that James hadn’t gone to Cancun. He wasn’t even dead.

No, Thomas was not a good son.

“My mother would disagree with you should she find out about this.” Thomas looked pointedly at the shorter man, his distended belly sagging over his buckle. Filippo enjoyed his pastas with rich sauces. “But she’s not going to find out about this,” he reminded the funeral director, his tone edged with warning. “Nobody is going to see what’s inside this casket.”

“No, sir,” Filippo agreed, the whiskers of his thick, gray-speckled mustache wiggling under his wide nose.

Filippo was a longtime acquaintance of the family, a friend of his mother’s. He’d also overseen the arrangements for Edgar’s funeral, so Thomas had been stuck using him for James’sservice. Claire wouldn’t have it any other way. But he didn’t trust Filippo to keep his mouth shut, especially when he indulged in the wine. Plenty would be flowing at tomorrow’s reception after the burial.

Filippo needed extra incentive to keep this between them.

Thomas retrieved the folded bills from his pocket. He’d been carrying a lot of cash lately; he’d been paying off a lot of people. Money bought silence. It also bought cooperation.

He counted out a sum for Filippo. The funeral director greedily took what would likely buy him a custom-tailored suit. He was one of the few men Thomas knew of besides himself who still appreciated wearing fine clothing to work.

Filippo tucked the money into his breast pocket and patted his shirt. “Ready for me to lock it up?”

Thomas had insisted the casket was locked before it left the funeral home and remained that way.

“Yes.” He moved out of Filippo’s way.

The funeral director riffled through his pockets and grunted. “I left the key downstairs in the morgue. Be right back.”

Thomas rubbed his face, groaning into his cupped palms while he waited for Filippo’s return. He was exhausted. He hadn’t slept more than a couple of hours over the last few days, and he was still wearing the same rumpled suit he’d arrived in that morning on his latest flight from Puerto Escondido where James was recovering in a local hospital. He’d suffered extensive physical injuries at the hands of the cartel soldiers after he followed their older brother, Phil, to Mexico.

Aside from severe facial wounds and broken bones, James also suffered from memory loss. He didn’t know who he was or where he was from. He didn’t remember his name, his fiancée, or that he had two brothers. Thomas used that to his advantage. The state of James’s mind enabled Thomas to fake his death.

Otherwise, James would have resisted disappearing, even if it was for his own good. He and Aimee were supposed to have gotten married tomorrow. Assuming James would have made it to his wedding before asicario, or assassin, with the Hidalgo Cartel killed him first.

Hiding James in plain sight was the best plan Thomas, with the assistance of the DEA and cooperation of the Mexican government, could come up with on such short notice. It was the only reason James was still alive.

Thomas’s phone vibrated with an incoming call from one of the people he’d negotiated with, or in this case blackmailed into helping James.

“Imelda,” he answered in a hushed, clipped tone so Filippo wouldn’t overhear. Turning away from the opened casket, he walked to the furthest corner of the room from the door. “How is he today?” He and Imelda had an agreement she’d report daily.

“He’s in pain,” she answered in heavily accented English. “His doctor removed his stitches, told me James will have heavy scarring on his face unless we do something about it. I swear he sees right through my lies. They all do. They don’t believe I’m his sister. James most of all.”