19. Michael
Michael
My phone hasn’t stopped buzzing. She’s not answering.
She’s not at the bar. She's not home. She lied about both. And I’m two seconds from tearing this fucking town apart to find her.
I hadn’t placed enough cameras around her condo after Brett had talked me out of going into super stalker mode… a decision I regret right about now.
I storm through the high-limit lounge of the casino, eyes scanning the live feeds as I bark at one of my men to sweep the streets near her condo. Then I stab my thumb against a secure line on my phone.
“Gallo,” I snap, voice low.
"Sir—"
"Is it done? The file I asked for on Kate."
There’s a pause. “Almost, boss. I was gonna?—”
“Send what you have.”
“But it's not?—”
“I said now.”
Another pause. Then the ding of an encrypted message landing in my inbox.
I shut my office door, kill the feed, and open the file. It’s not long. It doesn’t have to be.
She was ten when her parents were killed in a pile-up on I-95.
She was in school when it happened. Her grandparents on her mom’s side took her in, raised her in coastal Connecticut.
The trust they set up for her? It’s how she bought that condo, the car.
Everything is in the Peters Family Trust. That’s why she was so hard to trace.
No trail in her name. No paper. No flags.
Photos and old newspaper clippings accompany the summary. Her grandpa’s obituary. Her grandmother’s, years later.
She’s alone. Completely.
I sit back in my chair, stunned.
My girl—my golden girl—grew up with a life built on loss. All that fire in her? It comes from surviving what would've broken most people. And she was going to spend another holiday alone.
Not on my watch.
My fist clenches on the desk.
She's never going to spend another Thanksgiving or Christmas by herself again. I’ll make sure of it. Sweaters. Lights. Champagne. Family. Mine. Everything.
But first? She has to tell me the truth. Why she really ran last summer. What she’s still hiding.
Because the moment I find her—she’s not walking away again.
I scroll back to that damn selfie. Her and Claire, all grins and wine-flushed cheeks. She’s safe. Not running. Not in trouble. But still out of reach. The nondescript beige wall does nothing to help me find their location.
I didn’t bother tagging her friends. Not yet. Didn't need to. Until tonight, I barely gave them a second thought. My mistake. Now I’m memorizing names and faces, pulling records as insurance. Next time she pulls this, I’ll know.
By the time I lock in on Claire’s exact apartment, it’s pushing 2 a.m. I could storm over, make a scene. Drag Kate home by the wrist and remind her who she belongs to.
But I don’t.
Instead, I stalk the casino floor like a damn panther, every instinct on edge. I deal with three pit boss issues, fire a dealer who was tipping off a high roller, and shut down a dice table mid-play for suspected skimming. Every move’s surgical. Brutal. Clean.
But under it all, I’m still thinking of her.
The feel of her in my bed.
The lies she told.
The truth I know now.
I finally head back to my private suite, loosen my tie, and tap out a message I should’ve sent hours ago.
Tomorrow. No more games.
Pause.
Then I add, Baby.
Because no matter how much she runs, no matter what she thinks she’s hiding, I’ve already made the call in my mind:
We’re not dating. We’re not figuring things out.
She’s mine.
And I don’t lose what’s mine.