Chapter 6
I cross my arms tightly, my patience hanging by a thread. "Take me back home," I demand, my voice sharp with frustration.
Luca, the ever-calm hacker who’s probably the least worried about anything, gives me a sideways glance. "Not happening, Lenny."
I grind my teeth. "At least let me pack a better weekend bag, please. I’m not about to get stuck with only my old yoga pants and some ratty t-shirts for this... whatever the hell this is."
He doesn’t even blink. "I blew your house up."
I pause, momentarily losing my ability to speak. "I’m sorry, what?"
He shrugs, as if discussing someone else’s morning commute. "Dramatic, yes. But necessary. We needed them to think you could have been blown to bits. It’ll take them a few days to sort through the pieces of flesh and chunks of skull to figure out you’re still alive. The will reading will probably be over by then."
I blink twice, my head spinning. "Sure, because that’s totally normal. Houses just blow up all the fucking time."
Luca doesn’t even look fazed by my sarcasm. "Sometimes a dramatic statement is needed," he says, sounding entirely too reasonable for my liking.
I want no part in all of this. None. I’m tired. I want to go home. I want to get back to my quiet life—writing steamy taboo novels under a pen name and avoiding confrontation. But Enzo, the ever-competent leader of this circus, pipes up, stealing any ray of sunshine I could hope to grasp in this shitstorm.
"Now do you understand how serious this is, Delaney?" Enzo says flatly, his tone brokering no argument. “This is no fucking game, and you have no choice but to trust us.”
“The letter said not to trust anyone, though. Why are you three the exception to that?”
Enzo rolls his eyes.
“Dels, don’t act like that.” Jax almost sounds pleading, and I can hear real pain in there. Which I choose to ignore. Good. Serves him right.
“We contacted the executor of your father’s estate the moment we heard about his death,” Enzo says, cutting through the tension. “We knew where you were, and we also know we’re the only ones that can get you to Chicago alive.”
“How did you know where I was?” I cross my arms to stop my hands from trembling.
“I’ve always known where you were, Lenny.” Luca turns his head back only slightly, not looking at me as he drops a giant bomb on my lap.
“Always?” I don’t even recognize how small my voice sounds. Luca’s jaw tightens, but he turns forward, not answering me. For six years, he’s known where I was? And he still stayed away.
I’m not sure what to do with that information, so I put it where I put everything else from my past—in an airtight box of trauma compartmentalization where I can pretend I won’t think about it again.
A wave of resignation washes over me. The adrenaline from earlier is starting to wear off, and I slump back into the seat, staring out the window. The road blurs as I watch the scenery fly by, lost in my thoughts. This whole mess is spiraling faster than I can process.
I don’t know how much time passes, and I must have fallen asleep because I’m jerked out of my stupor when the SUV slows down and turns. We pull into the parking lot of what looks like a rundown motel—one of those places that’s one story, with a car parked directly in front of each room.
The whole vibe screams "Welcome, please come get murdered here." There's a drained swimming pool in the center, the water long gone, and it’s nearing evening. I’m sure serial killers will start materializing out of the shadows after sundown.
This is not what I signed up for.
The guys stopped earlier for gas and food, but I said I wasn’t hungry.
I’m starving, but my pride’s keeping me from admitting it. I’m not hungry enough to ask any of them for anything. So instead, I just sit in the SUV, focusing on not pissing my pants.
Enzo stands out like a neon sign in a back alley, so Luca gets the rooms. He’s the least likely to draw attention with his hoodie and casual cool. Jax is in the background with a fresh bag of suckers, probably from the gas station.
“Oh goody, a year’s supply of annoyance,” I grumble, folding my arms over my chest.
“Give me something else to do with my mouth and I wouldn’t need them.” Jax retorts, grinning like a cat who knows he just ate the canary. “You’re rooming with me tonight anyhow,” Jax croons as he catches the key Luca tosses his way.
“No, I’m not,” I snap.
“You are,” Enzo interrupts as he walks toward the diner across the street, clearly unaffected by my protest.
Jax smirks and unlocks the door to the motel room, holding it open like he’s doing me a favor. His hand’s full of my bookbag and another I can only assume is not filled with my favorite snacks.
I walk into the tiny room and release a deep sigh. Insert predictable one-bed trope here. I just glare at Jax as he fills up half the doorway, smirking like an idiot.
Don’t get me wrong, I’ve totally put the one-bed trope in like a dozen of my books. It’s a modern romance classic. But that doesn’t mean I want to live it in real life.
“Give me your phone,” Luca demands.
“Get bent,” I mutter, but he just grabs it out of my hand like it’s no big deal. I huff, putting my hands up like what the hell?
"Use this one," he says, pulling out a burner phone. "I made you fake accounts on all social platforms, so you won’t die of boredom. I’ve also changed all your passwords so you can’t log into your existing accounts and blast your location like a lighthouse."
I open my mouth to argue, but he cuts me off. "It’s six days, Lenny. You won’t die."
Luca hands me the new phone and walks away. I throw it on the bed next to the weekend bag. It’s packed with all my essentials. My brand of shampoo and conditioner. Clothes in my size. Everything I could need for a few days.
But also... lacey skimpy fucking underwear.
“Who packed this bag?” I ask, holding up a pair of red lace crotchless panties like I’m handling a grenade.
Jax’s wicked grin fills my vision as he lounges on the bed, looking entirely too pleased with himself. He puts his hands behind his head, his biceps flexing…on purpose. “I did, of course.” He winks, moving the sucker from left to right in his mouth with his tongue.
New goal in life: Don’t think about Jax’s tongue.
“You’re not getting in my pants, you fugitive,” I snap, tossing the panties in his face. “This pussy is a no-convict-zone, so you’ll never see me in these.”
“Never say never, Peach,” he says, that smirk widening. “Besides, it’s enough just knowing your little pussy will either be wearing the panties I picked out for you... or you’ll be too stubborn and wear nothing. Either way, I win.”
I hate him so much.
Too bad my “little pussy” hasn’t gotten the message, apparently.
Thirty minutes later, I’m stepping out of the shower, feeling slightly more human—just enough to remind myself that I don’t have to completely lose my mind just yet. I can always do that tomorrow.
As I reach for the towel, I catch a whiff of something... delicious? My stomach rumbles at the unexpected scent of food, and I find an empty motel room and a hot plate sitting on the bed when I open the bathroom door.
I dress quickly. Shockingly, not every pair of panties in the bag is crotchless, but I note the complete lack of pajamas, so I grab one of Jax’s t-shirts. It swallows me whole and covers my ass. And I will not be admitting how wonderfully it smells like him. And I absolutely did not pull the collar up to my nose and inhale his scent like it was air.
Muffled voices sound on the other side of the door—probably the guys, talking shop or whatever it is they do when they aren’t yelling at me. Not that I care. Cause I totally don’t… care, that is.
I look at the food. It’s cheesy pasta and a salad with an ice-cold Diet Coke. They even left me a glass with ice because I don’t like drinking from the can. They still remember what I like, even the little things. I scowl at the plate, knowing exactly who this came from, and I refuse to be impressed by it.
Enzo—methodical, meticulous—he doesn’t miss a detail. If something is needed, he’ll make it happen, no questions asked.
He probably knew I’d be too stubborn to eat with them. Maybe he just didn’t want me throwing a tantrum about it later. Either way, I’m not going to give them the satisfaction of knowing I’m eating. Even though they’ll figure it out the second they see the plate empty, I’ll still try to keep some illusion of control over this situation.
I shove the fork into the pasta, then my mouth, and it’s so fucking good I moan.
Immediately, Luca quiets as if he heard me.
As I take another bite, he resumes talking on the other side of the door. His tone is low and purposeful, like he’s discussing something critical.
"So, anyway, there's a trail of electronic info that’s not adding up," he’s saying. "I’m going to explore it more later. If I can connect the dots, we might have more answers."
I pause, my fork halfway to my mouth, narrowing my eyes. What the hell is Luca talking about? He’s been deep in his little tech world for years, so he could be talking about anything. It’s probably nothing related to my father’s death.
Then Enzo speaks up, his voice sharp with suspicion. "Something's off with Caputo’s death. It’s not making sense."
Okay, well, there goes that theory.
He sighs, and I hear the frustration in his voice. "Old allies are turning on each other. It doesn’t feel like just a power play. There’s something deeper happening here. I lost another fucking land deal that had been all but rock solid before. Now they suddenly have another buyer? No. It smells fishy, so we need to find the barrel full of bullshit and take care of it."
I eat while they talk. I’m sitting on the floor behind the door so I can hear better. If any of them opens the door, I’ll be squished like a bug.
When I’m done, I clean up my mess and put the tray on the dresser. The weight of the day presses down upon my chest as I lay on the motel bed, begging for sleep before Jax comes back.
It’s times like this I wonder if a mother would come in handy. Someone to run to who can say, “ Oh, sweetheart, I know those guys are just cunt-wagons .”
Okay, maybe moms don’t say that specifically, but some sympathy would be nice. Someone to run to with open arms for some advice and no judgment. But I don’t even remember my mom.
I know her from photographs and old video recordings of family gatherings, but I have no memories of her on my own.
She went out on her sailboat—something she’d done a thousand times—when a squall rushed in on her. It took two weeks for them to find her capsized boat, but there was no sign of her.
What a terrible way to die. Drowning in an endless ocean. I close my eyes, feeling a little bit like that now myself.
I should suck it up and stop being a baby, but dammit, I want just a few minutes to feel pitiful for myself. I turn over, away from the door, hugging the pillow.
But I can’t let this pull me under the waves. It will grab hold of me and never let me go until it yanks all the air from my lungs. At the end of the week, if this threat is over, I will move on and get back to something normal. Make a life for myself again. I’ve already done that once, so I can do it again.
I’ll have to buy a new house since, apparently, mine is in splinters, but I can start over. I just need to make sure these men don’t drive me to the brink of my sanity in the meantime. Which will be an accomplishment if we’re being honest with each other.
As I drift off to sleep, I think of my mother again, her face soft and kind in the photos. And for the first time in a long time, I wish she were here to tell me how to keep my head above water.