Chapter Fourteen
The door closed behind Ben Blackwater and his security detail with the finality of prison bars, leaving Gia trapped in the silence that followed.
She’d felt the change—a subtle shift in the air, the kind of stillness that came before a storm.
Had been expecting it, ever since Caleb had asked if her lasagna was a Winters family recipe.
Winters.
Only sheer force of will had kept her rooted in her chair through the rest of the meal. That, and the fact that the conversation between Caleb and his grandfather had grown deeply personal and tense, shifting the spotlight away from her.
“We need to talk.” His voice came from behind her, low and tight.
And beneath it…betrayal.
She steeled herself and turned. The eyes that had stared at her earlier—dark, hungry—were now flat and cold.
His stare cut through her. “Or should I say, Abigail?”
Her breath caught. The lightness in her chest turned jagged, pressing against her ribs like glass.
Abigail? I don’t know who you’re talking about. The lie hovered, instinctive.
But it was too late for that .
“You’ve been researching me.” She barely heard her own words over the rush in her ears.
“Yes.”
Of course he had. She’d given away too much—Vincente’s name. Miami. All it would take was one image search on the Internet.
A weary sigh hissed from her lungs. Defeat. “What do you want to know?”
Caleb stood rigid, arms crossed, his jaw flexing with restrained fury. “Everything.”
She needed something for her hands to do while she considered what to say.
Giving him her back, she walked past the dining table—past the brightly colored flowers he’d brought. False hope that her evening would be a memory to cherish instead of the nightmare it was becoming. In the kitchen, she pulled the coffee can from the fridge and held it up in silent question.
He gave a curt nod.
She filled the glass carafe with unsteady hands, spooned in the grounds, and started the brew cycle. The machine hissed, dark brown liquid entering the carafe in a slow, steady stream.
How much could she tell him? How much did he already know?
When the coffee was ready, she poured two mugs, passed him one, and curled up on the couch, her grip on the mug a lifeline.
Caleb set a dining room chair across from her—not too close. His mug sat untouched.
She couldn’t tell him everything, but she could be truthful about herself.
“Gianna Barone is my real name,” she said.
“I grew up in Brooklyn. My father was a hitman. When I was fifteen, he went to prison for murder.” A sour film coated the inside of her mouth.
“ Murders. Plural. My mother divorced him and quickly picked up a new husband. One with a wandering eye.”
Gia paused. Took a sip of coffee to calm her nerves. “Unfortunately, it wandered in my direction.”
Caleb’s low growl cut through the quiet.
She gave him a grateful smile. He might be angry, but his protective instincts ran deep. That mattered.
“When I turned eighteen, I leaned on some of my father’s old connections to create a new identity.”
“To escape your family.” Caleb nodded as if he understood.
Given what she now knew of his family history, maybe he did.
“Escape my family. My lower-class, criminal existence.” She took another sip.
“I worked, went to college, studied everything about my classmates who came from money—how they spoke, behaved, their hobbies, where they ate—everything. When I graduated from medical school, I was Abigail Winters from the Upper East Side of Manhattan.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You put yourself through school and became a doctor. That’s something.”
She laughed, the sound brittle. “And then I fell for someone worse than the people I left behind. Only he disguised it with pretty words and expensive gifts.”
Shame burned a hole in her stomach. She set down her mug, her gaze fixed on her hands rather than see the disgust on Caleb’s face. “He made me feel chosen. For a while at least. Until I realized what living in Vincente’s world meant.”
Caleb’s voice gentled. “What did it mean?”
It had meant blood on a pristine white boat deck. A lifeless gaze frozen in fear. Her lover’s cold, dark eyes when he told her, calmly, that he’d had no choice .
She gathered her mug and took it to the sink. Motion to ground her and shatter the waking nightmare.
A shiver ran up her spine—her only sign Caleb had followed.
“You can’t keep running.” His voice was still soft, but a cold, deadly note had crept in. “Your ex is the son of Espina Negra’s leader. That changes everything.”
The mug slipped from her nerveless fingers. Porcelain shattered in the sink.
Caleb muttered a curse. His hand landed on her hip, spinning her to face him. This close, sandalwood and spice wrapped around her. His broad chest and shoulders blotted out everything else.
She licked parched lips. Stared at the tanned column of his throat instead of his eyes. “I guess I shouldn’t be surprised.”
“You should have told me the truth from the beginning.”
No. Not when it was the only thing keeping her alive. The only leverage she had.
“I didn’t want you involved. Vincente is dangerous.”
His fingers tightened, eyes blazing. “He’s the one bringing in the fentanyl that killed my mother.”
Gia’s knees buckled. The force of his pain—raw and unfiltered—hit her like a blow.
“I’m sorry,” she whispered. “I’m so sorry.”
His body thrummed, rage held barely in check. He caged her against the counter. “Why does he want you back so badly.”
“I told you, he’s possessive.”
“There’s more to it.”
He didn’t know what he asked of her.
She shook her head .
Caleb released her and stepped back, hands lifted as if only now realizing he’d touched her. “I need your help to bring him down. It’s the only way you’ll ever be free.”
“You’ll never be able to touch him in Miami. Don’t you think the police have tried?”
It’s why she’d abandoned her life and run. There would be no justice. Espina Negra’s pockets were too deep, their tentacles everywhere.
“I’m not going after him in Miami. I want him to come here.”
Her pulse skipped. “How would you get him here?”
As soon as the words left her mouth, she knew.
“Me. You want him to come for me.” Her flat tone matched the pain knifing her heart.
Which was silly. She hadn’t known this man long enough to let him breach her defenses.
To assume he was different from the other men she’d known.
Her protector was gone. In his place stood the Green Beret—the steely-eyed soldier with a mission of revenge—and she was a means to an end.
A casualty of his personal war.
Numbness crept in. She welcomed it. “You don’t know what you’re asking of me.” Her flat tone matched her insides.
If Vincente found out she’d told anyone what she’d witnessed—what he’d done—she wouldn’t survive. And neither would they. She refused to be responsible for another death.
He dragged his fingers through his hair, a plea in his eyes. “Then tell me.”
“I’m sorry about your mother.” Sadness, the weight of it rife with a thousand regrets, crushed her chest.
Maybe she couldn’t stay after all. Not even to fulfill her contract.
Her work on the reservation was the first time she’d put the welfare of others ahead of herself, and she liked the feeling.
It was as if she’d been breathing pollution her entire life and the clean, desert air stripped away layers of the persona she’d created in Abigail Winters so her true identity could emerge from hiding.
Caleb exhaled a rough breath. He paced the room, then stopped in front of her. “I’ll set you up somewhere safe until Lopez is no longer a threat.”
Confusion furrowed her brows as she looked up. “Even if I can’t help you?”
His gaze turned unreadable. “I won’t hold your safety over your head to get you to cooperate.”
Don’t cry was all she could think, even as her vision blurred.
“Thank you.” She reached out, her palm flat on his chest, feeling his heartbeat—strong and steady. His warmth seeped into her chilled skin. “You’re a good man, Caleb Varella.”
His expression shuttered. “Am I?”
He stepped back, and the air between them turned cold. “You work tomorrow?”
She gave a mute nod.
“I’ll pick you up in the morning.”
The door closed behind him, the silence left behind pressing against Gia’s ribs like a phantom hand, squeezing the breath from her lungs.
The next morning, dawn spilled across the hills to the east, chasing away the darkness and setting the rocks ablaze in a fiery orange glow that contrasted with the icy wind in the air.
Caleb checked his GPS, then turned off the main road north of Fort Defiance onto a narrow dirt track that led to his cousin’s home.
A hogan came into view, Zach’s police cruiser and a sleek black Dodge Charger with red rims and red upholstery parked beside it.
Caleb got out of the Jeep, surveying the octagonal structure—stained log siding, asphalt shingles, a stovepipe curling smoke into the frigid air from the center of the conical roof.
The hogan’s door faced east to welcome the day. The traditional way.
He snapped a photo of the Charger and sent it to his colleague, Danny Mayhew. Danny had been a Navy SEAL—DEVGRU—under Nathan Long. Nicknamed Chaos for his role as the team breacher. Caleb had known his background when Danny hired onto Dìleas. The nickname he’d learned over beers one night.
Danny was also a motor head. He babied his blue Ford Mustang GT when he wasn’t breaking the speed limit on the DC Beltway. He’d even given the damn car a name, after some woman he once met in a San Diego bar who, in Danny’s words, was “built like a high-performance machine.”
Caleb texted:
How does this compare to Consuela?
Before he could knock on the hogan’s door, it opened. Heat spilled into the cold as the scent of wood smoke wrapped around him, stirring memories of tribal gatherings from his childhood.
Zach stood barefoot and shirtless, sweatpants low on his hips, a flicker of surprise in his eyes. “ Yá’át’ééh, Cousin. Come in.”