Chapter 12
LEVI
Iwas cautiously enjoying dinner.
Cautiously, because I'd learned a long time ago not to trust moments that felt too good. But Amelia was sitting across from me, candlelight catching in her eyes, talking about bad TV and grocery store arguments like they were real possibilities instead of fantasies I'd buried years ago.
And for just a second, I let myself pretend.
I'd dreamed of this. More times than I could count.
Not the fancy restaurant or the Charleston humidity or the black credit card that wasn't mine. Just … this. Sitting across from her. Talking. Laughing. Being two people who'd figured out how to make it work instead of two people who'd crashed and burned before they'd even had a chance.
It was the soldier's dilemma, wasn't it?
Protect your country, or fight for a happy ending.
I'd always chosen the first. Always. Because that's what soldiers did. We sacrificed the personal for the mission, the individual for the greater good. We buried our wants under duty and pretended it didn't cost us anything.
But it did. It cost me her.
And sitting here now, watching her take another sip of wine, watching the way her mouth curved when she smiled—I'd missed that smile—I couldn't help but wonder if I'd made the wrong choice.
Not because the mission hadn't mattered. It had. It always would. But because maybe there was a version of the world where I could've had both. Where I could've protected what needed protecting and still kept her.
Maybe. Or maybe that was just the fantasy talking.
"You're doing it again," Amelia said.
I blinked. "Doing what?"
"Going somewhere I can't follow," she said. "Your face gets this look. Like you're running calculations in your head."
I huffed out a breath. "Old habit."
"Yeah, well, stop it," she said. "You're here. With me. For once, just … be here."
I met her eyes. "I am."
She held my gaze for a beat, then nodded. "Okay."
We finished our food in comfortable silence. The waiter cleared our plates, offered dessert. We declined. The wine was enough.
Eventually, the conversation drifted back to the inevitable.
"So," Amelia said, swirling the last of her wine. "What do you think happens next? With Dominion Hall?"
I leaned back in my chair, considering. "Charlie said he'd set up meetings. I'm guessing he'll walk you through their operations. Show you what they want you to see."
"Sanitized version," she said.
"Probably," I agreed. "But maybe not completely. You rattled him today. He knows you're not going to accept smoke and mirrors."
She tilted her head. "You think he's scared of me?"
"I think he's smart enough to know you're dangerous," I said. "In a good way."
Her mouth twitched. "Dangerous. I'll take it."
"What about you?" I asked. "What do you think you're going to find?"
She set her glass down, fingers tracing the stem. "Honestly? I don't know. Part of me thinks Dominion Hall is exactly what my sources say it is—shadow ops, money laundering, the works. But another part …"
She trailed off.
"What?" I pressed.
She sighed. "Another part thinks maybe they're not completely the bad guys. Maybe they're doing something that looks shady from the outside but makes sense when you're inside. I've seen that before. Operations that look dirty until you understand the context."
I nodded. "Yeah. Me, too."
"But there's still a story there," she said firmly. "Even if they're the good guys, there's a story. People deserve to know who's pulling strings behind the scenes."
I took a sip of bourbon, letting it burn down my throat. "What if there isn't?"
Her eyes narrowed. "What?"
"What if there's no story?" I said. "What if you dig, and you find … nothing. Just a family with money doing legal things in complicated ways. What then?"
She stared at me, and I could see the heat rising in her eyes.
"You think I'm chasing ghosts?" she asked, voice tight.
"I think you're chasing something," I said carefully. "I just don't know if it's what you think it is."
Her jaw tightened. "I don't fabricate stories, Levi. I follow the evidence. If the evidence says they're clean, I'll say they're clean. But I'm not walking away just because they throw money and charm at me."
"I'm not asking you to," I said.
She took a breath, visibly forcing herself to calm down. "Then what are you asking?"
"I'm just saying … maybe keep an open mind," I said. "That's all."
She was quiet for a moment, fingers tapping against the table. Then she nodded. "If there's no story—if I dig and find nothing that the public needs to know—I'll leave it be. I promise."
Something in my chest eased.
"I appreciate that," I said. "Truly."
She leaned forward, eyes sharp again. "But I'm not going easy on them. I'm going to ask every hard question I can think of. I'm going to push until something breaks or holds."
I laughed. "I wouldn't expect anything less. Go in full guns blazing. Just … maybe with a dusting of Canadian tact."
Her mouth curved into a real smile. "Canadian tact. That's a new one."
"You know what I mean," I said. "Polite, but relentless."
"I can do that," she said.
We raised our glasses.
"To the truth," she said.
"To the truth," I echoed.
We drank, and for the first time all night, it felt like we were on the same side.
Like maybe—just maybe—we could figure this out.
The hostess appeared at our table, young, blonde, nervous energy radiating off her in waves.
"Excuse me," she said, looking directly at Amelia. "Are you Ms. Emerson?"
Amelia looked up, surprised. "Yes?"
My instincts prickled, but I stayed relaxed. We hadn't given our names when we'd been seated. Maybe someone had recognized her—she was a public figure, after all. Journalists got recognized.
The hostess held out a small envelope. "This is for you."
Amelia took it, frowning. "Who—"
"A woman came in a few minutes ago," the hostess said quickly.
"She asked me to deliver this to you. She pointed to your table and then left.
I hope that's okay? I just started here—my cousin got me the job—and last night I messed up two reservations, so I didn't want to mess this up, too, and she seemed really insistent—"
"It's fine," Amelia said, cutting off the ramble with a smile. "Thank you."
The hostess looked relieved. "Oh, good. Okay. Let me know if you need anything else."
She hurried back to her station.
Amelia and I stared at the envelope on the table.
It was small. Like a calling card. Cream-colored, expensive-looking paper. No name. No return address.
I reached for it.
Amelia snatched it before I could touch it.
"Hey," I protested.
"Sometimes my sources are clever," she said, turning it over in her hands. "They think they're spies working against the old Soviet state. Very cloak-and-dagger."
But I could see it in her eyes—she didn't believe her own words.
Neither did I.
A woman who hurried in, pointed at our table, and left. That wasn't a source. That was surveillance.
Amelia ripped open the envelope and pulled out a card. Thick stock, the kind you'd use for wedding invitations or expensive business cards.
She read it, and her brow scrunched in confusion.
"What does it say?" I asked.
She flipped it around so I could see.
The words were typed in a clean, professional font:
Ask him about his father. Ask them all.
My hand gripped the edge of the table so hard I felt the wood creak under my fingers.
Fuck.
My father.
Byron Dane. The man who'd been gone more than he'd been present. The man who'd disappeared when I was a kid. The man I'd spent years trying not to think about because thinking about him hurt too much. The man I always wanted to be …
What the hell did he have to do with Dominion Hall? What the hell did he have to do with any of this?
Amelia was watching me, eyes sharp, cataloging every micro-expression I couldn't quite hide.
"Levi," she said quietly. "What does this mean?"
I couldn't answer.
Because I didn't know.
But the sinking feeling in my gut told me I was about to find out.