Guns Will Keep Us Together by Leslie Langtry

decorated with kittens. (Insert shudder here.)
    The island had it all. A large, resort building with rooms for every member of the family (keyed in to our biometrics, of course, so we don't have to mess with keys or plastic cards—I hate those). All the resort amenities are there—pool, staff that only understand Spanish (all men, though—I always wondered why.) and a penthouse for each member of the Council.
    The Council lived on Santa Muerta on and off. My cousin Missi and her twin sons Monty and Jack, her mother, Cali, and grandmother, Dela, lived there year-round. They took care of the general upkeep, etc. The rest of us Bombay rabble only visited when summoned or for the family reunions every five years.
    You think your family reunion is lame? Try a Bombay reunion. The resort was equipped with a customized conference center with auditorium. We had meals and meetings, but instead of the sack race, we had a full ropes course for team building. The only Bombays I trust are my immediate family. But on the ropes course, you had to pick relatives you didn't see much. I've never seen so many twitchy trigger fingers in my life. (As you can imagine, weapons aren't allowed.)
    The island also had a private airstrip and dock, and south of the resort were a handful of beachside luxury cabins we could use. It was a great place, until my teenaged libido kicked in, since there are no girls. I stopped going there just for fun. Too bad too. It would have been a great make-out hideaway.
    "You're going to meet Great-Grandma Maryland!" Mom said brightly with Louis safely tucked away on her lap—a blissed-out smile on his little mug.
    The way she said that sounded like we were just going over the river and through the woods to a little clapboard house with a picket fence, musty doilies and home-baked cookies. Not the chic, penthouse of an old woman who could snap a man's neck like dry pasta.
    Mom really blew a fuse when I had told her that Grandma wanted to inspect Louis. It would be good to have her with us. Mom was still chafing from not being there when Gin had to rescue Romi from Grandma and the Council six months ago. And honestly, in a death match between Mom and Grandma, my money's on Mom. Every time.
    "Great-Grandma lives on an island in the Southern Hemisphere?" Louis asked for like the fiftieth time. This wasn't a kid you could baby talk and lie to.
    "Yup," I answered. "You'll like it on Santa Muerta." As long as my family doesn't try to kill you.
    "And we have our own jet?" Louis raised his right eyebrow.
    I nodded.
    "Why does everyone have place names?"
    "Well, it's a family tradition dating back for centuries," Mom answered patiently. She's so good with kids. Mom then told him about Uncle Louisiana, Uncle Petersburg, Aunt Virginia, my cousin Mississippi and her sons Montgomery and Jackson. Most of us shortened our first name as soon as possible. My sister, Gin, was Ginny until college when everyone (me included) thought it was funnier to be Gin Bombay.
    I still hadn't given my son the whole rundown on the family. At this point, I figured that monosyllabic responses and head nods were the safest route.
    We landed on the airstrip on the island after flying all day. I was nervous. And this was unusual for me. In my whole life, I'd never taken being a Bombay very seriously. Of course, unlike Gin or Liv (short for Liverpool, now that you know the name thing), I never had to introduce outsiders to the lifestyle of the rich and deadly.
    But now I was worried, and most of it was for my son. I felt a twinge of affection. Louis was my son. How cool is that? Hey, he has a place name too! But don't think I'm adding "Saint" to it. That would be ridiculous.
    "Dak!" Missi came running toward the plane and threw her arms around me, then Paris, then Mom. "And is this Louis?" She bent down and hugged my kid, and he responded with a big, gap-toothed grin.
    "I'm your dad's cousin. You can call me Missi." She took Louis by the hand.