Behind us, three shots ring out in quick succession. Angelo and I whip around in unison, guns cocked. We let them go slack when our idiot brother emerges from the fog, firing an AK-47 at the sky. “Good afternoon.” He squints up at the falling snow. “Lovely weather, isn’t it?” I stare at him. “It’s a miracle you’ve never been to prison.” “Mm,” Angelo agrees. “Not even a short stint.”
