Chapter 10
Cory's knuckles popped as his fists clenched. The process server was still in reach—two strides and he could introduce the weasel's face to the café floor.
But he didn’t move.
Not appropriate for a police chief.
Or anyone, really. Besides, he'd seen Izzy training with her Knight Tactical team lots of times over the almost two years the new team had been in residence.
She could drop this guy in one second flat, probably take out half the café if she wanted.
The fact that she stood there, stone-still and silent, showed more restraint than most people possessed.
And far more class.
Still, Cory shifted his weight, moving subtly to position himself between Izzy and any potential threat.
He'd learned to read stillness in his years wearing a badge—there was the stillness of shock, the stillness of grief, and the stillness that came right before violence. Izzy was balanced on that knife's edge.
Her sharp intake of breath cut through the café noise. Her whole body went rigid, and the color drained from her face like someone had pulled a plug.
A man muscled through the crowd from behind the fleeing server, shoving past tables with zero regard for the coffee cups he jostled. His eyes locked on Izzy with predatory focus, and his mouth stretched into an ugly grin.
"Hey there, Iz." He stopped too close, invading her space with practiced intimidation. "Looking good. Still working out, I guess."
The casual intimacy of it, the presumption, made Cory's jaw clench. Izzy stood frozen, trapped between the counter and this man who reeked of too much cologne—the kind that probably had a name like Swagger or Victory.
Only then did the man turn to Cory, like he'd just noticed the police chief standing there. "Andrew Duarte." His volume pitched to carry across the café. "Chantal's father."
He wore an expensive suit that didn't quite fit his frame, like he'd bought it off a rack without tailoring. Everything about his appearance screamed recent windfall, but he emphasized the word "father" like it was a weapon, with zero acknowledgment that he'd abandoned the child he now claimed.
“What do you want?” Izzy asked softly.
"I want my kid." Andrew announced it to the room at large, playing to his audience.
The entire café had given up any pretense of not watching. Forks paused halfway to mouths. Coffee cups hung suspended. This was better than anything on the Hallmark Channel.
"I'm in Florida now. Got a real good job and a nice place." Andrew's volume stayed theatrical. "Time my daughter had a real home."
"Andrew, we don't need to discuss—"
"What?" He cut her off, spreading his hands in mock innocence. "You don't want folks knowing you been keeping a father from his little girl?"
Cory watched Izzy's jaw tighten. This was exactly what the creep wanted—maximum public damage. Witnesses to paint her as the vindictive ex who kept a loving father from his child. The manipulation was crude and seriously cruel.
Andrew pressed closer, using his height advantage to loom over her. "Got me a good situation down there. Steady work, benefits, the whole deal. Better than her growing up around... whatever it is you do now." He made a dismissive gesture that encompassed Izzy, her work, her entire life.
The grammar, the awkward constructions—Cory recognized someone reading from a script they didn't quite understand. This fool was somebody's puppet, and not a particularly bright one.
"My lawyer says I got a real good shot." Andrew glanced around, making sure his audience was still engaged. "Florida judges, they like fathers who step up."
"Since when can you afford a lawyer?" Izzy asked.
Andrew's chest puffed out. "Told you, I’ve got a great gig now. Company takes care of its people. They know I'm trying to do right by my kid."
"What company?" Cory found himself asking, voice mild but eyes sharp.
Andrew's gaze flicked to him, dismissive. "That's between me and them." Then, with calculated cruelty: "'Course, judge might wonder about the company you keep, Iz. Strange men around my little girl..."
The implication hung in the air like smoke. Andrew looked between them, a nasty smile spreading across his face. "You shacking up with this cop? That why you won't give me a chance to be a daddy?"
Cory saw Izzy's hands tremble—not with fear, but with the effort of keeping them still. This idiot had no idea he was poking a trained operator who could dismantle him before his next breath. The fact that she didn't move, didn't speak, showed a level of strategic thinking that impressed him.
Time to intervene before Andrew's stupidity got him hurt and Izzy in trouble.
Cory stepped forward, letting his full height and the weight of his uniform work for him. "Sir, you've completed service. Time to go."
His voice carried the particular tone he'd perfected over years of defusing bar fights and domestic disputes—calm, professional, with steel underneath. He positioned himself partially between them, not quite blocking Andrew's view but making his presence felt.
"Who's this? Your boyfriend?" Andrew's sneer widened. "Yeah, judge is gonna love this. My kid around strange men while her daddy's trying to make things right."
Complete idiot, Cory thought. But an idiot with some kind of backing, which made him dangerous in a different way.
"You need to leave. Now." Cory dropped the temperature in his voice to arctic.
"It's a free country, right?" Andrew tried to puff up again, but something in Cory's expression made him take a half-step back.
Cory made eye contact with José, who was clutching a hefty-looking serving spoon, face grim. José nodded.
"It's also private property,” Cory said. “The owner wants you gone. I can make this official if you prefer."
Andrew's bravado cracked slightly. He must have realized he'd pushed as far as he could without crossing legal lines. "See you in court, Iz. Better get used to sharing."
He made a point of bumping Cory's shoulder on his way past—or trying to. Cory shifted slightly, and Andrew stumbled, catching himself gracelessly.
"My little girl's gonna love Florida," Andrew tossed over his shoulder. "Beaches and everything."
The door slammed behind him with enough force to rattle the bell. Through the window, Cory spotted Andrew climbing into a current-year Lexus rental.
The café remained frozen for a heartbeat, then erupted in whispers. Cory turned back to Izzy, who hadn't moved. Her control was magnificent and terrible—the kind that came from too much practice holding herself together.
"He always does this." Her words were quiet, meant just for him. "Makes scenes."
She finally looked up, and the pain in her dark eyes hit him unexpectedly. "He left when Chantal was a couple months old. He’s barely seen her since." A bitter smile. "He doesn't want her. He wants to hurt me."
Exactly the way Cory had figured things. This wasn't custody. This was warfare.
"Let's get you out of here." He kept his voice gentle but moved with purpose, creating a path through the packed tables.
The whispers followed them—he caught fragments about "poor little girl" and "fathers have rights too" that made his jaw clench. They didn't know. They saw Andrew's performance, not the truth underneath.
He snagged Izzy's forgotten coffee from the counter as they passed. She noticed, and something flickered in her expression—surprise that anyone was looking out for her.
They'd almost reached the door when his radio crackled to life.
"Chief, they need you back at the hangar." Graceline's voice carried an edge of urgency. "They found something. They're asking for you specifically. Said it's important."
Duty called, but Izzy stood there with that envelope in her hand and shock still written across her features. He couldn't leave her vulnerable, not with Andrew potentially waiting around the corner for round two.
"Walk you back to Knight Tactical?" The offer surprised him as much as her.
Her spine straightened, steel showing through. "I'm fine. I don't need—"
"I know you don't need help." He held the door open. "Offer stands anyway."
She studied him for a long moment. Finally, she nodded once, sharp and decisive.
They stepped out into the brilliant morning, away from the gossiping crowd and her exe’s toxic performance.
The Lexus was gone, but Cory knew this wasn't over.
Someone with deep pockets had aimed Andrew like a weapon at Izzy, and the timing—right when aircraft were falling from the sky—was no coincidence.
He glanced at her profile as they walked toward the line of hangars. She moved like a soldier even after the hit she'd just taken, protecting her daughter by not giving Andrew the reaction he wanted.
Most people would have crumbled under that kind of public ambush. Or exploded. Izzy had done neither—she'd endured it with a grace that stirred something unexpected in his chest.
Whatever was happening with the helicopters, whatever had brought Andrew crawling out from under his rock, Cory was beginning to understand one thing: Izzy Reyes was tougher than anyone in that café could possibly imagine.