9
Cade
What the fuck just happened?
I stare at the door Luna disappeared through, my body humming like a live wire. My heart pounds against my ribs like it’s trying to break free, each beat echoing in my ears.
The longer I wait for my pulse to slow, the faster it races. It’s as if her touch triggered something primitive inside me.
For a moment, I wonder if I’m having a goddamn arrhythmia. I rub the spot where Luna’s touch still burns, as if to erase the memory of her skin against mine.
My real father—Thomas Quinn—used to get these heart flutters after he’d snorted too many lines of coke. He’d died of an overdose, right on the morning he was supposed to ride out to save his wife. Ex-wife, I correct myself.
I push the thought away, not in the mood for drug-related heart conditions or fucked-up family trees.
Ano ther minute passes, and my pulse is still thundering in my ears. Un-fucking-believable.
Annoyed at my reaction, I stalk to the bathroom to splash water on my face. A stranger stares back at me in the mirror—face flushed, chest heaving like I’ve run ten miles. I look like a man riding on a high.
What the fuck did you snort, Cade Quinn?
The woman is unpredictable as hell. Brazen one minute, shy the next. An unholy poison that sets my teeth on edge.
I hate it.
Because she won’t let you pay for it , a voice in my head mocks.
“Shut the fuck up,” I mutter to my reflection, but the truth stings. I don’t do emotional entanglements. I don’t do romance. And I don’t do Mafia princesses whose touch hit harder than crack.
Certainly not one whose father I intend to kill.
Returning to my uneaten breakfast, I’m about to reach for a piece of now-cold toast when my phone vibrates. The name on the screen makes my jaw clench.
Hawkins. Again.
Three times in less than twelve hours. My momentary calm evaporates like morning dew.
What the fuck does he want now?
The phone continues buzzing, a harbinger of the shitstorm I know is coming. Part of me wants to let it go to voicemail, to delay the inevitable. But that’s not how this works. Not when you’re Uncle Sam’s favorite attack dog.
With a resigned sigh, I snatch up the phone. “What?”
“Where are you?”
“Where the fuck do you think? Packing up for Moscow.”
“ Good.” Hawkins’ voice drips with satisfaction. “I presume you’ve had your fill of the Romano girl because playtime’s over. It’s time to hand her over.”
My fingers tighten around the phone as something dark and violent curls in my gut.
“I don’t have her anymore.”
“Where is she?” Hawkins’ tone sharpens to a razor’s edge.
“My best guess? On her way home. Hector knows her routine; he can pick her up wherever.”
A beat of silence. “Did you at least chip her?”
“No time. No supplies.” The lie curdles on my tongue, even as my gaze drifts to the safe where the micro-tracker still sits, untouched in its sterile packaging. One quick jab, and she’d have been a living, breathing GPS signal for these sharks.
“Fuck, Quinn.” Hawkins’ sigh of frustration bleeds through the line. “She’s a Mafia princess. You think Alfred Romano will ever let her set foot outside after last night’s mishap? Without Clemenza’s help, Hector will never get his hands on the girl again.”
“Clemenza might be too busy to play fetch.” I let a smirk slip into my tone. “He’s likely counting the money I wired him.”
Along with a graphic description of what would happen to his balls if Luna gets so much as a scratch.
A beat of silence. Then Hawkins’ voice drops to a whisper. “You mean to tell me you paid out thirty million dollars, and then you just let the girl walk?”
“I didn’t stutter, did I?”
“Quinn.” Hawkins’ voice tightens with barely contained fury. “You forget there’s still no merchandise to deliver to the Middle East.”
“That sounds like a Hector problem.”
“ No, actually, it’s yours. Because you’ve not only stolen his merchandise, you’ve edged Hector out of a multimillion-dollar deal. He’ll want your head.”
“He won’t be alive long enough to take it.” The words slip out before I can control them. Shit.
“You are not authorized to lay a finger on Hector Lobo!” Hawkins barks. “He’s the only lead I have to Al-Dawahi!”
“Is he? Well, that sounds like a you problem.” I pause, then add, “Mine is to face Moscow while you fuck off and let me do my job.”
“I’m starting to question your judgment, Agent Quinn. You not only disobeyed a direct order, you’re sabotaging the bureau’s mission.”
I clench my fist so tight the tendons strain against my skin, then force my voice into a deadly calm. “As I said, if anyone wants that woman, they’re welcome to go get her themselves.”
I end the call abruptly, cutting off Hawkins mid-sentence. The phone lands on the couch as I pace the room, frustration coiling in my gut like a venomous snake.
Luna’s defiance and warmth still linger on my skin. Her voice echoes in my head, demanding to know why I took her.
Because I couldn’t turn my back while another woman got treated like livestock.
At the window, I watch Chicago wake up, the city oblivious to the dangerous undercurrents flowing beneath its surface. My fingers flex at my sides, itching for action, for violence, for something to make this stop.
But it’s inevitable. Luna Romano is a marked woman.
I may have prevented her sale yesterday. What about today? Tomorrow? The thought races through my mind like poison, making my heart pound against my ribs.
Bet ween Hector Lobo and the government hunting her, no one can keep her safe.
I lean against the cool glass, memories crashing over me like a tsunami: my mother’s agonizing screams drowned out by the sadistic glee of the dozen guards who broke the cartel’s rule of not sampling the merchandise before sale. The rule she made them break.
I vowed to return for her. And I broke that vow.
If only Jackson Pype, her husband at the time, hadn’t gotten himself killed in some pointless biker war. If only her ex, Thomas Quinn, hadn’t chosen that final line of coke over saving her.
If only her son had been quicker on his feet and wiser with the hitchhikes, he might have made it across the border early enough to save her.
But we all failed her.
Luna’s situation twists the knife deeper. The men in her life aren’t just failing her; they’re actively feeding her to the wolves.
The parallels make my chest constrict, guilt and rage burning in my gut like acid.
You can still go and get her, Cade. It’s Thursday.
The thought is dangerous and tempting.
I know every inch of the Romano mansion by heart. Narcotics are delivered with the groceries every Thursday at four. The loaded van leaves FreshFruits warehouse at three thirty. Simple. Clean. A perfect window of opportunity.
I could intercept the driver, slip through the kitchens up into Luna’s rooms, and bundle her into the back of the van. It could work—if she doesn’t crush my vital organs first, or scream down the house. She’s likely to get me all bruised. If not killed.
Yet she’d become docile at the mere feel of my cock against her.
The way she melted into me despite her rage all comes rushing back, making my blood run hot. Seduction. That might be the only way to get her to listen.
Christ. I can’t believe I’m considering this. Actually plotting to kidnap her. Again.
A distinctive six-rap knock yanks me from my thoughts. There’s only one person on earth who knocks like that.
Scar. His knock is less a request and more a warning: I’m coming in, whether you like it or not.
Time to face another complication.
The second I crack the door, he storms past me, bristling with fury. The air in the room shifts, charged with the energy of two predators sharing the same space.
“The fuck happened last night?” Scar snaps. No pleasantries. No easing into it—something we have in common.
I don’t answer immediately, choosing to draw out the moment. I return to my watch of the Chicago skyline, arms folded across my chest. Behind me, Scar paces like a caged animal, his movements a mirror of my own training. Only, his steps are soundless.
How on earth the fucker manages to glide across the floor without making a sound is still a mystery.
“I called off the operation,” I say, finally keeping my tone measured.
“Oh, you think I came all the way here so you can state the obvious? Don’t play with me, Pretty.”
“Something came up.”
“No shit.” Scar’s green eyes flash with anger and confusion. “Something like what? Like interfering with Hector’s merchandise and getting the cops crawling all over the club, kind of something?”
I s chool my features to hide my surprise. Scar shouldn’t know this level of detail. For this to work, he’s supposed to live in the dark and be content with the information I or the media dish out—which isn’t much.
“Kat told you.” It’s not a question.
Scar’s jaw tightens in response.
Since he’s overstepped his boundaries, I might as well let him have all the gory details. “Well. Kat is right. I might even be getting arrested when I return from Moscow.”
“Are you fucking serious?” His voice rises.
“It’s just for appearances.”
“And you’re just a bastard! What do you think that does for me?” The raw emotion in his voice hits harder than any physical blow. Everything I do affects him—every choice, every mistake, every deviation from the plan.
He’s right to be pissed that I blew the plan apart. Part of me is kicking myself too. The other demented half was on the verge of following Luna home and dragging her out of that house.
“Calm the fuck down, Scar. Cade Quinn isn’t getting a criminal record. Rocky Savage is. And even that, I’m sure Hawkins can get wiped clean.”
I see him visibly relax, and a smirk tugs at my mouth. I can’t stand when Scar is upset. It’s like seeing my own son sulking—if sons were created through violence and necessity rather than blood.
“Now, can we go back to you trusting me and staying in the dark?”
“Why did you do it?” he asks, and there’s something vulnerable in the question.
And this is the part where I don’t answer. “It’s personal.”
“What the fuck does that mean?”
I c huckle. A fair question, really. It’s hard not to see personal boundaries as arbitrary when you bear a man’s name, live in his house, and have unlimited use of his assets.
“It means it’s none of your business, Scar.”
He steps closer, his presence vibrating with intensity. “You took the Romano chick right?”
Fuck. Kat has fallen harder than I thought if she’s wilfully parroting information to Scar. “Possibly.”
“Wow.” His brow flies to his hairline, and he muses almost to himself. “I had no idea she rolled like that.”
Another thing Scar and I have in common is our preference for paid sex.
“She doesn’t roll like that,“ I grit out.
“Doesn’t she? Anyway, where is she now?”
“Obviously not here.” My tone warns him to drop it, but Scar’s never been good at backing down.
His eyes narrow. “What the hell kind of game are you playing here, Pretty? If you’re not fucking her, then what are you doing? Reading her an apology letter in advance?”
Still, I say nothing.
What can I say? That was considering throwing away months of careful planning for another dose of that sweet poison?
“Fine!” He huffs hold on to your secrets. Can you at least explain why you weren’t at the hangar at dawn?”
Good question. I was supposed to head to the hangar at dawn and leave Luna here to find her own way out when she woke up.
I meet his gaze, jaw tight, knowing he’s going to hate this. There’s nothing he hates more than being lied to. “I got some impromptu orders about a new lead, and I had to provide intel.”
Scar searches my gaze and apparently finding what he needs, relents.
“ How’s Kat?” I ask, hoping to distract him.
He shrugs, trying to play it off, but he knows I’m reading him like a book.
“How the fuck should I know?”
“Scar, even I could see she wasn’t acting yesterday. She likes you.”
Scar’s eyes grow hard. “Because I look like you.”
“Bullshit. Kat loves you for you, Scar. And she gets you. Oozing warts and all.”
He looks away, jaw clenching. “You get me, too,” he whispers, and I hear the unspoken addition: Because you made me.
I’ve known Scar long enough to see the cracks start to form. He’s been getting restless, more focused on the work he does for me. But there’s also a desperation, a hunger that makes me question if he wants more—needs more than just being my shadow.
“Pretty,” he mutters, “you better not lose your edge, man.”
“Why? Do I look like I’ve got a few screws loose already?”
“Something is off with you. Everything went to shit as soon as I left you alone last night. Look, I can’t lose—” he cuts himself off, biting down on whatever words were about to spill out, but I already know what he’s thinking.
I can’t lose you.
For a moment, I feel the weight of the responsibility I carry, not just for myself, but for Scar too.
“You won’t lose me. Cade Quinn,” I say softly, calling him by the name that grounds him—my name. He stares at me, searching my face for reassurance that I’m still in control. Finally, he nods, and the tension eases in his shoulders.
And just like that, Scar’s focus shifts again. And so does mine. Priorities fall into place like bullet s in a chamber. There’s too much at stake to entertain saving another distressed damsel. Especially one the bureau has marked as a sacrificial lamb.
“We’re going to Moscow today,” I announce, more to myself than him.
As I watch Scar leave, I can’t shake the premonition that the ground beneath us is starting to shift.