19. Isaac
Chapter 19
Isaac
The bitter coffee scalds my tongue, but I welcome the burn. It's better than dwelling on the fact that it's been over twenty-four hours since we "kidnapped" Senator Cope's wife, and the bastard hasn't even mentioned she's gone. My phone sits silent on the kitchen counter, mocking me.
"You'd think a man would check on his wife, right?" Tatum's voice startles me. She's standing in the doorway, wearing another one of my oversized shirts that somehow make her look even more appealing.
"Most would." I take another sip. "Dom and Connor are setting things in motion with the press. Should hit the morning news cycle."
She slides onto the barstool across from me. "Want to place bets on how long it takes him to fake cry?"
"That's dark." But I can't help the smile tugging at my lips.
"So is being married to him." She reaches over and steals my coffee mug, taking a long drink. "God, how much sugar did you put in this?"
"Irish blood. We like things sweet."
Her eyebrows shoot up. "Could've fooled me with that permanent scowl you're sporting."
"It's my charm." I grab my phone, checking for updates. Nothing. "You doing okay though? I mean do you need anything?"
She drums her fingers on the counter. "I do miss my closet. You guys could've let me pack more than one garbage bag."
"Kidnapping victims don't usually get to pack Louis Vuitton."
"True. But kidnapping victims usually have someone looking for them." She stands, stretching. "I'm going to make actual coffee. Maybe you'll want some that doesn't taste like liquid candy."
She pads barefoot across the tile floor. The fridge door opens with a soft whoosh.
"Chef will be here in thirty." I set my phone down, watching as she bends to rummage through the bottom drawer.
"I'm starving." She emerges with an armful of ingredients. "And I can cook."
"That's not necessary-"
"Give your chef some time off." Eggs crack against the bowl's edge with practiced precision. "I'll handle the meals while I'm here."
"You're supposed to be a hostage."
"A hostage who can make a mean eggs benedict." She whisks the eggs with one hand while reaching for a pan with the other. "Besides, cooking keeps me sane.
I watch her move around the kitchen like she owns the place. The whole situation is surreal - a captive cooking breakfast for her kidnappers.
"You're bloody crazy, you know that?" I lean against the counter. "Most people would be trying to escape, not making hollandaise sauce."
"What's the point of escaping when you'd have something far worse than this to go home too?"
The truthfulness in her voice catches me off guard. I'd love to kill that prick, just for making her feel like this.
"And this?" She gestures to the kitchen with her whisk. "This is all I've known for 1o years."
"Still." I cross my arms. "It's not exactly normal to be this comfortable with your captors."
"Normal flew out the window when my father sold me to the highest bidder like a herd of cattle." She plates the first serving with surgical precision. "Besides, what's normal about any of this? I'm helping three mob guys take down my husband while making eggs benedict."
"Point taken." The smell of fresh coffee and toasted English muffins fills the kitchen. "I'll call Marco off today, but it depends on how your food tastes before I make it permanent."
Her laugh echoes through the kitchen, genuine and unreserved. "Challenge accepted, Mr. McClellan." She slides a plate in front of me, the poached egg perfectly centered. "Better than anything your chef can make, I guarantee it."
The hollandaise sauce melts over the perfectly poached egg, and I take my first bite. Fuck me. It's better than any five-star restaurant I've been to.
"Well?" Tatum leans against the counter, arms crossed.
"It's decent." I shovel another forkful into my mouth.
"Decent? Your plate's almost clean." She starts cleaning up, moving around the kitchen like she's done this her whole life. "You Irish are terrible liars."
The front door slams, followed by heavy footsteps. Dom and Connor stride in, both looking like they haven't slept.
"Something smells fucking amazing," Connor says, making a beeline for the stove.
"Our hostage is quite the chef." I push my empty plate away. "How'd it go?"
Dom drops into a chair, loosening his tie. "Story's running on all major networks. 'Senator's Wife Missing - Foul Play Suspected.'"
"And?" Tatum sets fresh plates in front of them.
"Your husband's secretary called the police this morning when you didn't show up for some charity breakfast." Dom takes a bite and his eyes widen. "Holy shit, this is good."
"Told you." I smirk at Tatum, who rolls her eyes.
"Thomas gave a statement," Connor says between bites. "Real tearjerker about his beloved wife. Oscar-worthy performance."
Tatum snorts.
"Speaking of Oscar performances." He pulls out his phone, tapping the screen. "You should see this."
He slides the device across the counter. The video shows Thomas, his perfect hair slightly disheveled for effect, standing at a podium outside our state capitol building.
"My beloved wife..." Thomas's voice cracks perfectly. "Tatum means everything to me. To whoever has taken her, please..."
"Jesus." Tatum's laugh holds no humor. "He had to have practiced that in the mirror."
"The tears are a nice touch." I lean closer to the screen. "Though he might've overdone it with the trembling lip."
"So what's next?" Tatum starts loading dishes into the dishwasher, her movements sharp and efficient. "How long before you make your demands?"
Dom wipes his mouth with a napkin. "We wait. Let him sweat it out for a day or two. Make him think something's gone wrong with whoever took you."
"Meanwhile..." Connor's fingers fly across his keyboard. "The press continues to eat this shit up."
"Perfect." Tatum slams the dishwasher shut harder than necessary. "Right up until he finds out I helped orchestrate my own kidnapping."
"About that." I cross my arms, studying her. "You sure you're still okay? You're taking this whole… thing like a champ."
She turns, leaning against the counter. "What can I say? Stockholm syndrome works fast."
"That's not funny." But I'm fighting back a smile.
"Neither is being married to a man who checks his hair more times than he checks on his wife." She grabs my empty coffee mug. "Now, who wants seconds?"