Chapter 35
Thirteen Days Earlier
Sam; aka Leo; aka Saint
“What the hell do you mean, she’s dead?”
It’s a good thing Jack Sullivan is thousands of miles away, speaking on video, because if he was in the room with me, I might kill him with my bare hands.
“They called off the rescue. You’re both presumed dead.”
“Why the fuck would they call off the search?”
“You don’t keep up with the weather, do you?”
It’s nighttime, and we’re in international waters. A trawler pulled us from the river and took us out into the ocean, where we transferred to a yacht.
Willow’s washing the Thames off her in an onboard suite.
“What weather?” We’re tossing about. Waves are high. It’s raining.
“A cyclone’s about to hit. It’s one reason we moved up the timeline. They won’t risk rescuers. They’ll assume your bodies washed out to sea, and a search for the wreck—and, well, your bodies—will resume after the storm passes.”
“Well, they’re gonna find her alive. Let’s come up with a story. Plant someone to say he found her and she’s okay. Amnesia. Doesn’t know what happened. You can find her in a day or two.”
“I thought you were on board with this plan.” Jack’s warning me. I hear it, and he is my superior, but he’s also the guy who got me into this mess.
“With my extraction? Yes. Willow wasn’t supposed to be a part of it. She’s supposed to be a widow.”
“The extraction plans were for both of you.”
Nomad is the walking dead.
“If that wasn’t your plan, why was she with you?”
Dammit. Why was she with me? “Ashraf Cohen parked outside. He tailed us.”
There’s no way I’d leave Willow with an ex-Mossad assassin hunting her. Not to mention, the fucking Italian mafia, but we lost them. But Cohen…he found us. We’d lost him, and he found us.
I stretch my jaw, as it’s tight from the pull of the regulator, and pinch my nose, reliving the shit storm from this half-baked, rushed-as-fuck plan.
“Saint. Do you read? Saint? Respond. Over.”
Fuck the CIA.
Fuck this whole goddamn operation.
“Awaiting instructions. Over.”
If this shit goes FUBAR, these bags will provide some air. Not much.
“Copy. Three minutes out. Stay with the vehicle,” the operator said.
“Have you ever dived?”
She blinked, shocked and terror-stricken.
“Scuba?”
She unbuckled and glanced to the back where she wanted to exit. That level head of hers kept her calmer than I would have expected. A good thing. I needed her to stick with me.
“A few times,” she finally answered. Thank god. That made the plan easier. Of all the extraction plans, we had to fucking go with this one. And thanks to the bullets, we don’t have as much air as expected.
“Divers are going to approach us. I’ll tell you when to breathe deep. A diver will offer you a regulator. Put the mouthpiece in first. Understand? Just like the airplane flight attendant says. Get the oxygen first. Then put your mask on. Oxygen on, then we swim. I’ll be right at your side. You got me?”
“You won’t leave me?” Her lower lip trembled.
“I won’t leave this vehicle without you.”
“That’s not what I’m asking.”
I shoved the airbag out of the way for a better view through the glass. The frigid water was up to our chins.
“Leo?”
“Let’s get out of here alive. Then we’ll talk.”
I dipped below the water level, eyes open, scanning our surroundings.
A dark figure neared.
Details emerged on the diver wearing a full body wetsuit.
I pushed up until my nose was out of the water and my head hit the roof of the SUV.
“Leo?”
Fear rang in her voice. My fingers wrapped around her delicate wrist, and I squeezed.
“Willow.” I waited for those blue eyes to lock on mine. “You’re going to be okay.” She needed to calm down, so I did what I had to do. “I love you. I’ve got you. Trust me. Let’s suck in as much air as we can. When we’re completely submerged, we’ll hold our breath, then we’re swimming out. I won’t let go of you. Don’t let go of me.”
This plan could have backfired in so many ways. What a fucking shit show. If something had happened to Willow, I’d have a terminal list and wouldn’t rest until I crossed every name.
“Sam?”
His use of my Christian name clears the cobwebs. I need to focus.
“You hired Cohen?”
“You’re officially off this mission,” Jack says. “You want updates?”
Yes, I fucking want updates. What the fuck? I grind my teeth, breathe, and answer like an angry midshipman speaking to a superior without regard for rank. “I want answers.”
“The Lupi Grigi weren’t there for Willow. They were there for you, at least that we know of, and Nick Ivanov.”
“What?”
“We’re hearing they suspect the syndicate had a hand in Gagliano’s gray fleet being detained. The ships getting detained backs Leandro’s claim that the syndicate was behind last year’s heroin bust.”
“Are they after Nick?”
“Possibly. Nick’s aware.”
“What’s your source?”
“Intercepted conversations.”
“How?”
“Lina. He’s upped security.”
Right. She had her watch and jewelry cleaned in London, and the CIA has been monitoring her conversations ever since.
I shake my head. Nick and the syndicate are no longer my priority. It’s time to focus on transition.
“Who hired Cohen?”
Jack’s smugness pisses me off until I realize he’s looking at me like that because he thinks I should know the answer. It all clicks into place.
Motherfucker .
“No. She’s got to go back. She will not lose her family because of me.”
“Have you asked her what she wants? Because it’s going to take some time for the judicial system to work its magic, but her family will crumble.”
“Nick’s going after them for revenge.” It’s a statement that I say more to myself. He won’t forgive them for going after Lina.
“Nick’s not the only one. The crumbling has begun. Infighting. Her father will be targeted. You sure you want her living through that?”
Once the other Italian mafia families smell blood in the water, it could become quite dangerous to be a Lupi Grigi living in southern Italy. Not to mention, if Nick’s plan works, the Russian mob will go after them too.
“Talk to her,” Jack says. “But I’m telling you, if we concoct a plan to send her back, no matter what we do, it’ll raise suspicions. It’s risky.”
Jack’s right. I know he’s right. But fuck, this is not what I wanted for her. How did our plan get so fucked? Because Nomad, that’s how. He fucked me over.
Thanks to him, the option she’s being forced into is essentially witness protection for the rest of her life. She loves her family. She doesn’t have any idea what it’s like to walk away from her family, and it’s a pain she shouldn’t experience.
When I push open the door to the primary suite, a location doled out as if it’s a reward, she’s sitting on the bed, legs tucked beneath the comforter in a pale pink silk nightgown. She looks up, cheeks slightly flushed from her shower, her hair wet and dark. There’s faint bruising below her eyes from where the airbag hit her. The bruise across her collarbone is darkening. The skin from the black eye Leandro gave her has yellowed. She’s a patchwork of bruises, yet she’s still beautiful. The sight of her slows my heart and squeezes my chest.
“How are you feeling?” What a stupid question. We crashed into the Thames.
“Sore. Is everything okay?”
She’s worried. Can’t blame her.
On the trawler, we said little. The men with us had been engaged for a specific piece of this op, and I wasn’t aware of their clearance. Given the speed at which the operation unfolded, I doubt they had much more information than there were two people they needed to covertly rescue and transfer to a waiting yacht.
Once we boarded the yacht, I encouraged Willow to take a hot shower to quell her shivers, and I was escorted to an office onboard the yacht for Jack’s debriefing. The plan is to sail across the ocean and dock in a harbor where there will be no record of our entrance into the US.
“Leo?” She lifts an arm, reaching for me, and grimaces.
“Did you take any Advil? Anything for the muscular pain?”
“I did.” She inches forward until her fingers warm my forearm.
“You need a shower, too. Are you sore?”
I’m a little sore, but it’s nothing compared to what it will feel like tomorrow. I’m old enough my body hates me for my choices. But that’s not what Willow and I need to talk about.
I kick off my shoes and slide back on the bed, careful to remain above the comforter since my clothes reek of dead fish, thanks to the dip in the Thames and hours on a fishing trawler.
“Leo?”
God. Those bright blue eyes. How do I tell her?
“You’re scaring me.”
My gaze roams the ceiling. This is not how it was supposed to happen. “I’m so sorry, Willow.”
“For what? Because I’m with you? Don’t be.”
She crawls next to me.
“Don’t think you want to do that. I smell.”
“You think I care about that?”
“You’ve showered. You’re ready for bed.” You’re young and innocent, and unless I figure something out, your family is lost to you.
She palms my jaw, forcing me to look at her. Apparently, that’s not enough because she pushes aside the comforter, tugs on her nightgown, lifting it over her knees. I don’t know what she’s doing. Hell, I don’t know what I’m doing. With the silk higher, she slings a leg over mine, so she’s straddling my legs.
“What’s wrong? You look like someone died.”
“Someone did die. You. Willow Gagliano died today.”
“And Leo Sullivan died too?”
“It wasn’t supposed to go like this. This was not the plan.”
“You don’t want me with you? Is that what you’re upset about?”
“Willow…your family—” She doesn’t get it. How can she? I didn’t either.
She pinches my chin, forcing me to meet her gaze. I don’t want to look at her, though. Not when I failed.
“Listen to me. I love you. I’m where I want to be. If my choice is to live in a world without you or live in a world with you, I choose you. Every time. I choose you.”
“You don’t understand.”
“ Perché ? Why do you say that? Because I’m young? Get that out of your head. I’ve got an old soul, and you rescued me from a cruel world. I fell in love with the man who cares when there’s nothing in it for him. I fell in love with the man who might not always do right, but who always tries.” She flattens her palm over my sternum. “I fell in love with the man who gave me wings.”
“Hate to tell you, but I don’t see any wings.” In fact, I see a prison sentence she doesn’t yet perceive but will one day.
“You believed in my painting. In my art. You believed I could make it on my own.”
“And you would have if?—”
“I still can. You strengthen me. And wherever we’re going, you’ll still do that. The man I fell in love with didn’t die. He’s still right here, no?”
The room blurs, and I have to look away from her innocence. Jesus. My throat clenches and emotion wells up. I don’t handle it well when things do not go according to plan.
“What’s your name?” Her eyes narrow. “Can you tell me? Or will we be using aliases? The ones in the duffels?”
I lift her palm from my heart and press it against my cheek, then press my lips into her palm.
“You really want to stay with me? Even if it means never seeing your family again? Your friends? You might not be able to paint. We’ll meet with relocation experts, but they may say painting is too identifiable.” It probably is.
“Do you not listen? I want to be with you. With my husband.” The curves of her lips curl into a teasing smile. “Yes, this began as an arrangement. But things change.” In a softer, tentative voice, she adds, “It is real to me. We’re real to me.”
I press my forehead to hers. My eyes burn with love for this woman. Once again, something that was not my intention. Another plan gone sideways.
“We can make it legal when we’re Stateside.” What am I saying? She has choices. “If you want. You’re young. If you want to date…we can do that too. You have options. There’s no rush. You can build the life you want. It’s all up to you.”
What I don’t repeat is that she shouldn’t have to build a new life. She should have the life I planned for her. The safe one. In London. Pursuing her career with her family by her side.
She pulls back. “Why is our marriage not legal now?” Her eyes widen with realization. “Oh, your name. But then, will my name change?”
I shift, repositioning us slightly on the bed.
“Are you ready to hear it all? Once I tell you, there’s no going back.” Based on what Jack said, there’s no going back anyway, but I’ll find a way, if that’s what she wants.
“The only way I go back is if you go back with me. I want this. I want us.”
“Are you sure?”
Her blue eyes blur, but she’s not the one with tears filling her eyes. It’s me. And I do not cry.
“I won’t leave you. Tell me everything.”
“You’re making a commitment here.” I exhale, as much to clear my thoughts as to dry up the emotion blurring my vision. “From here on out, it’s a commitment to be with me. If I piss you off one day, or I bore you, or you wonder how the hell you wound up with such an old guy…you’ll be stuck with me.”
“You’re not that old. What are you? Forty-two?”
“Actually…I’m thirty-nine.” She grins so wide it’s like those three years made her day. “I lied about my age in my alias, partly just to command a little extra respect for the work I was doing, and then, well, years passed.”
“I get to help you celebrate your fortieth birthday.”
“I don’t celebrate?—”
“When is your birthday? Really?”
I let out a breath, and with it, I accept that she can’t go back. If she changes her mind about us, she’ll still need to build a new life.
“My name is Sam Watson. Samuel Lee Watson. Born on January twenty-seventh.” I hold out my hand as if I’m offering to shake hers. “Nice to meet you.”
“Sam.” She says the name like she’s tasting it. I like hearing her say my real name. I like my name wrapped with her European accent. “You go by Sam?”
“Yes.”
“And do you have family?”
“Two younger sisters. One day, you’ll get to meet them. They’re both married. One is expecting her first child, so you’ll be an aunt soon.” As I say those words, it feels like my heart is going to burst out of my chest. I’ve missed my family so much. It’s why I hate Willow has to miss hers, but talking about reuniting with mine brings home a wave of warmth.
“Do you have photos?”
“Not with me.” I tap her nose. “But you’ll see them soon. Once we determine it’s safe.” I wrap my arms around her, and she shifts until her chin rests on my shoulder. I know I smell, but I need this. To hold her like this while it sinks in that this is forever. The emotions have been real, but now we’re forever. She’s mine. I never have to let her go. I understand I’ll need to earn her love, work for our love, and take care of her, but I’m capable. My parents showed me what it is to work for a loving relationship. My shoulders lighten, like a weight I hadn’t known I was carrying has lifted.
“I want to meet them,” she says, her voice light, as if she too is lighter.
“You will.”
“How will you introduce me to them? I mean, what will my name be?”
“I suppose you can choose your alias, with Watson as your last name.”
She digs a digit into my ribs, and I squirm, and she laughs into my ear. “Who says this American woman took her husband’s last name?”
“I think we’re going to have to say that you’re from Europe. Maybe from Croatia.”
“Why? My English is good. I dream in English.”
“Your English is phenomenal. But you’ve got an accent.”
“So do you, Mr. Cowboy Boots.”
“That was part of my alias’s persona. I have what’s called a southern accent, but I played it up for the part of Leo.”
“I noticed the strength of your accent fluctuated.”
“It’s typical for Southerners,” I say, although I’ve noticed it’s true for most accents. Alcohol, emotion, the situation—they can all diminish or strengthen an accent.
“The part of Leo, huh? So, what’s Sam like? And that’s who you truly are? No more aliases? Are you done with this?”
“I’m done.”
“You have a boss?”
I nod slowly, as the answer isn’t clean cut.
“I have to figure out my next steps. Our next steps.”
“Maybe we can take some time together?”
“Oh, yes. I think after five years undercover, I’m due for some PTO.”
“What’s that?”
“Paid time off.” I don’t know if I’ll stay with the CIA. It’s something I’ll have to think through. Technically, I’m still part of the Navy. Arrow took charge of the op so it would remain off radar. No one from the Intelligence Committee could have access to the op, as the syndicate has connections to the group.
Her chin rests on my shoulder. I could fall asleep like this, holding her.
“You can choose a name. Who do you want to be?”
“I’ve always liked Ella. Or Isla.”
I dated a girl named Ella years ago, and that did not work out. That’s a no-go. Isla isn’t doing it for me. If Willow weren’t such a unique name…“Willow means freedom.” I looked it up one day when I was on a train returning to London. “Oddly enough, you freed me.”
She buries her face into my throat and I just squeeze her harder. Now that I’ve got her, for better or worse, I’ll be holding on to this one with everything I’ve got. A name comes to me out of nowhere.
“What about Lily?”
“Lily.” She says it like she’s trying it out on her lips. “I like it. Lily Watson.”
“Sleep on it. We have some time, but not too much. We’ll need to have all the requisite documents made for you.”
“Sam and Lily Watson. It has a nice ring. You know what else I like?”
And then her lips press to mine as she shifts, grinding her heat and weight over me.
My hands clutch her hips, stopping her. Not that I want to stop her, but I can smell myself, and every single muscle throbs.
“Hold that thought.” She skims past my cheek, and her teeth nibble at my ear. I slap a palm against her ass. “I need a shower. And painkillers.”
She pushes back, eyes wide. “You didn’t take anything? Get in the shower. There’s a medicine cabinet in the galley. I’ll get you some tea and see what I can find.”
In the shower, a memory of our first encounter surfaces through the steam. This shower isn’t tiny, like many boat showers are, but it’s not designed for two. I lean my head back in the stream, and as the water pours over me, it feels as if the past is circling the drain, and we’re sailing to the future. Leaving the past behind and navigating life to come.
When I exit the bathroom, a towel wrapped around my waist, Willow awaits, perched on the edge of the bed, holding white pills in her palm and a glass of water. I knock back the pills and chase them with a gulp of water.
“Thank you.”
My gaze grazes over her, taking in her hopeful, bright eyes, her full, upturned lips, and the fall of the silk over her pert breasts. She tilts her head up, and I bend, taking her lips in a slow lazy kiss.
She grapples with the towel, and cool air envelops my bare ass.
I rub my nose over hers and grin. “Is there something you want, Mrs. Watson?”
Her cheeks flush. “If you’re not too tired.”
My body isn’t too tired, and her hand strokes the evidence.
“The shower performed miracles,” I say as I lift the hem of her nightgown, tugging it around her bottom, and over her head, only to drop it on the floor.
“You smell delicious.”
“Do I? We’ll need to find out what brand they stock so we can use it at home. I like the idea of smelling delicious to my wife.”
Her grip tightens, and I breathe through the pleasure. The boat rolls, and I stumble. My shins bump against the bed.
“Is someone driving the yacht?” she asks, sounding only slightly concerned.
I reach around her, pulling back the comforter and sheet. “The yacht’s fully staffed. They’ve got a night crew. We should reach calmer waters by morning.”
I climb into the bed beside her, aligning our bodies and pulling a sheet over us. “You don’t get seasick?”
“Never have. You?”
I bite back the answer and then chuckle. I can tell her everything. “Nah, I was in the Navy.”
“The Navy? Battleships?”
I nip at her lips. “Something like that.”
“How did you?—”
I stop her question with my mouth, and her tongue complies. “I’ll answer all your questions. But right now, I need my wife.” Oh, how I need her.
With a smile, she lies back. Her fingers comb through my hair, and she guides me down to her.
I’ve made love to women before. I’ve loved women too. But I’ve never had what felt like forever before. As I cover her body in kisses, taste her, and bring her to the edge with my fingers and mouth, as she opens for me, giving me all of her with no barrier, only truth, I release into her with the force of a tidal wave. This is what forever feels like.