I turn my head. “Akara—”
“It’s two months.” He pulls a beanie over his head. “You and Jane can handle it.” To Tony, he says, “Long term: you can’t stay on her detail. So pick someone else.”
“Charlie,” he says. “You all say he’s the most difficult client, but he just hasn’t had me on his detail yet.” Fuck.
“Done,” Akara says. “We good?”
“All good.” Tony nods. “And Akara, if this doesn’t happen in two months, I’m going to tell Price and Sinclair what I know.”
“That’s fair.” Akara slings his backpack over his shoulder. “Everyone move out. We need to get on the road.” He leaves out the front door, a gust of snow flying in before it shuts.
Tony trailing right after.
The rest of SFO come up from behind me and stand on either side.
Farrow.
Oscar.
Donnelly.
And Quinn.
We watch Akara leave, and Oscar says, “Either Kitsuwon is the smartest motherfucker here or we’ve all just been fucked raw.”
“Tony as our lead,” Farrow says the unbelievable reality. “Count me out, boys.”
“You’re quitting?” Quinn asks.
“No.” Farrow slings his duffel across his chest, and walking backwards, he says, “I’m just not listening to a thing that fucker says.” He spins around, raises his fingers in goodbye, and exits into the cold.
Quinn grabs his backpack. “Me too.” Strap on one shoulder, he heads out.
Donnelly stuffs his hands into his pockets and saunters out next.
It’s just me and Oscar left.
I take fault for the cards he’s been dealt. “I’m sorry.”
“Don’t be.” Oscar ties a bandana around his forehead, curly pieces falling over. “We’re all glad that you and Banks switched.”
Confusion hardens my face.
Oscar is already telling me, “She needed you here.” He clasps his duffel by the short handles and follows the SFO bodyguards.
I’m last.
I stare around the quiet Mackintosh House that isolated our frustration, anger, feuds, fistfights, hurt, and rage—but I’m going to remember the good.
The laughter, the love.
Growing closer to Jane. Growing closer to her family, to Farrow and this brotherhood of men.
I smile.
And I lock the doors on my way out.
Right now, I want to see one person. Rental cars are lined up in a row, and I spot Jane in the first one. She sits in the backseat, Maximoff already in the front.
Swiftly, I slide in beside her and shut the door before cold air blows inside.
“How’d it go?” She takes my gloveless hands, rubbing my palms to warm them.
I’m entranced by Jane for a second. Her wavy hair flows out of a cat-eared beanie, a purple puffy jacket zipped up, even in the heated car. Cheeks rosy, she looks warmed. I wrap my arms around her shoulders, and she leans her weight into me.
I find the words to explain everything.
When I finish, she takes a sharp breath. “Akara said not to worry?”
“Yeah, pretty much.”
“Then we shouldn’t worry.” Her confidence is palpable.
But unsaid sentiments still claw at the fucking air. Two more months of Tony Ramella is sixty days too long.
40
THATCHER MORETTI
The townhouse smells of garlic and tomato sauce, a familiar aroma that should be comforting. On any other night—maybe.
But it’s the first night we’ve been home.
Hours ago, I learned about the break-in from my brother. I just stared at him for a long…long time, and I shook my head. I should’ve been here in Philly.
He should’ve been in Scotland. But I remember what Oscar said—and I know we were right where we were supposed to be. If I confronted the target, he’d be dead.
“You pistol-whipped him?” I asked for confirmation.
“Lightly,” he clarified and saw my concern. “I’m fine.” He’d been alone and had to wait for half the team to arrive.
That’s what gnaws at me.
I moved in closer, and we brought each other in a hug. My brother will always have my soul. Twenty-eight-years together does that.
A tough part came next.
I had to deliver the gut-wrenching news to Jane and Maximoff. After I finished, I thought it would have dissuaded them from staying in the townhouse. Hell, I’d grab a one-way ticket to anywhere but here.
Instead, they feel safer.
The intruder has been caught. He admitted to breaking in once prior and paying some tech friend to disable our security alarms. He was charged with a slew of crimes including two-counts of trespassing and violating his restraining order. So now he’s in jail, awaiting sentencing from a judge, but there’s not a chance he’ll skate by without at least a year.
Target officially neutralized.
It’s nice being back in my own clothes: red flannel over a gray tee, gold horns around my neck. But too much barbed wire lies ahead to relax.
And I have to let Jane crawl through and be torn up. I can’t move aside the painful parts anymore.
My muscles tense as I use a wooden spoon to stir thick, red sauce in a decent-sized pot, where meat has been simmering for hours. Cooking dinner for Jane is just one of the many things I love doing for her—but tonight’s dinner is going to have a side dish of hard truths.
She has a vague concept of what happened. She has no fucking clue that Banks caught a middle-aged man with his dick exposed, jacking off over her bed—or even that this bastard masturbated in his car right outside the house.
Providing the briefest, nondescript image and skimming over the full picture—that has always been our dynamic. I’ve been saving Jane from visualizing the disturbing realities of her fame.
I hate that I need to do this. I hate painting graphic pictures of what sick fuckbags say and do. But she can’t make an informed decision about living here without all of the details.
Still, this’ll hurt her.
I’m going to hurt her.
I strain pasta, steam billowing, and by the time I have food set on the iron café table, Jane climbs down the stairs and twists her damp hair in a bun. Just coming from the shower.
She sniffs the air and smiles brightly. “It smells like heaven.”
“You hungry?”
“Mmhmm,” Jane nods. “I’m mortadafam’.”
I didn’t teach her that word. “Where’d you hear that?”
“Banks.” She trots down the stairs, six cats almost tripping Jane, jumping at her calves and springing down the steps. Starving for attention from their mom. “He said it means you’re really hungry. Famished, even.” She reaches the first floor. “Did I say it well?”
“Perfect.” My feelings for Jane balls up in my ribcage and tries to crack the bones a million and one times.
And then my stomach tanks.
I fixate on the calico cat she picks off the floorboards. Carpenter nuzzles his furry head against her cheek.
She smiles and scratches behind his ears. “I missed you too, my love.”
Carpenter—that cat, he’d been in the bedroom with a fucking pervert, and that fact might kill her more than the other. It’s staking me in the chest.