Chapter 28
VIOLET
Patrick wants the one with the chocolate mouse on top.
“That’s not actually a mouse, bug. That’s frosting in kind of the shape of a mouse.”
Patrick leans forward, pressing on the bakery glass with his little fingers. I almost scold him about smudging before the clerk reassures me with a good-natured smile.
The spread underneath the glass looks amazing. My gaze lingers on a chocolate croissant, only leaving for long enough to sweep over the macaroons.
Then I tense.
Lance constantly judged me for my choices and portion sizes. I remember the comments about my weight, my shape, the little pokes about how much sexier I’d be if put a little more time into my appearance, how I’d “let myself go” since having Patrick.
I turn away from the treats. As good as they look, I don’t need to deal with the baggage that comes with them. Not right now.
“It looks like a mouse,” Patrick says, pulling me back to the moment. “I want to name him George.”
I laugh. "Alright, George it is," I say. "But we're eating him, not adopting him."
"Mama. You don't eat George. You eat the cake under him. He just lives on top of it.”
I order the George cake and two hot chocolates, and we take a table by the window of this tiny bakery on Columbus Avenue I found last week while walking with Nina.
Through the passing crowds outside I spot the bodyguard. He’s tall and built and dressed in a bland suit that’s meant to be forgettable. He’s seated on a bench right across the street, and, as seems to be custom with these guys, pretending to read a newspaper.
I notice the guards all the time now. But instead of feeling trapped and monitored, I try to let myself feel grateful. As much as I don’t like being watched, these guys are keeping my son and me safe.
Patrick starts telling me about Marco's new shoes. Apparently, they light up, which seems to be about the most impressive thing he can imagine.
“The lights are red and they’re so cool. The flash when he runs.”
The bell above the door chimes before I can respond, and I immediately sense a shift in the atmosphere. I look up.
Lance is standing inside the door. He’s dressed casually, his hands in his jeans pockets. And he’s wearing that smile, the easy, warm, camera-ready smile that fooled me for a year and is still in the process of fooling the FBI.
"Jessica," he says softly. "What a coincidence."
My blood turns to ice.
He walks to our table with unhurried and deliberate steps. He pulls out the empty chair across from us and sits down like he was invited, like this is a family catching up over pastries, like the last time we were in the same room he wasn’t fresh off knocking me out cold.
Patrick stills. He presses against my side, his small hand gripping my sleeve, and George the mouse sits untouched on the plate in front of him.
"Hey, bud," Lance says. "You’re getting big.”
Patrick doesn’t answer. Instead, he stays close to me and looks at his father with the sort of deer-in-headlights expression kids wear when they’re scared but don’t know what to do.
It breaks my heart.
"He barely remembers you," I say, my tone flat and controlled.
I’m not entirely correct—Patrick does remember him, but only the bad parts.
"Sure he does. Don't you, Pat?" Lance leans forward, elbows on the table, and reaches toward Patrick's plate. He picks up the chocolate cake with the mouse-like little dab of frosting on top and holds it up, turning it back and forth. "Cool little guy. Does he have a name?"
Patrick says nothing. He presses harder into my side.
"He's shy," Lance says, setting the cake back down on the plate. “Always has been. You know, sometimes I wondered if you coddled him too much. That’s how you make a kid soft, you know.”
He glances down at the table again, at the empty space where my own pastry would be, had I ordered one.
“Nothing for you,” he says, nodding approvingly. “Smart. Always thought you had too much of a sweet tooth for your own good. Good to see you making better choices.”
Asshole can’t resist slipping the knife in whenever he can, that goddamn smile still on his face.
"What do you want, Lance?"
"Can't a father check in on his son?"
"You're not his father. You lost that right."
"That’s not quite accurate legally or biologically.
" He leans back and crosses his legs like everything happening is going just how he’d planned it.
"I've filed for custody, by the way. Did I mention that?
My lawyer submitted the paperwork on Friday.
Given that Patrick's mother is currently living with a suspected crime boss under federal investigation, I'd say I have a strong case. "
The floor drops out from under me. "You can't—"
"I can. And I will. Unless we come to some kind of arrangement." He smiles. "But we don't have to talk about that now. Not in front of the kid."
The bodyguard. Where is the bodyguard? I glance toward the window—he's on his feet, moving toward the door, but Lance sees him too. Relief takes hold, but it’s measured. Lance could still do anything in these moments.
"I wouldn't," Lance says, not looking away from me.
He reaches into his jacket and lets the edge of his badge catch the light.
Just a flash—enough to register, enough to show everyone around us that he carries federal authority.
"Your friend out there isn't going to want to interfere with an FBI agent having a conversation with his ex-wife. Things like that can get complicated, fast. And you don’t want complicated right now.”
The bodyguard stops at the door. He's seen the badge. He's calculating, trying to decide just what he can do to protect me from a Fed.
Lance turns back to Patrick. "You know, buddy, I've got a really nice apartment in the city now. Right near the park. Really big TV. Maybe you could come visit sometime. We could—"
"Don't talk to him."
"He's my son, Jessica."
"Don't. Talk. To him."
The bell above the door chimes again. Gianni doesn’t just walk in—he arrives and takes charge with nothing more than a sweeping look across the place. He fills the room in that particular way only he can. And I know him well enough to spot the barely-kept-in-check rage as he lays his eyes on Lance.
Then his eyes find me, then Patrick, pressed against my side with his face half-buried in my sleeve.
Gianni's expression freezes, and I can sense it’s the kind of stillness that, in other contexts, might precede violence.
My stomach tightens and my hands start to shake. I have no idea what’s about to happen.
He crosses to our table in four strides, but he doesn’t sit. He stands over Lance with the full weight of his height, his presence, his particular brand of silence that makes grown men forget how to speak.
"Get up," Gianni says.
Lance looks up at him. The smile is still there, but the edges have thinned. "Mr. Russo. I'm just having a conversation with—"
"Get up. Walk outside. And if you speak to her or to the boy again without a court order and a lawyer present, I will make sure every supervisor, every review board, and every internal affairs office in the Bureau receives a detailed account of your conduct.
Fed or no, Agent Dawson, there are people above you.
And they will be very interested in what I have to say. "
The bakery is silent. The woman behind the counter has stopped moving. A couple near the door is frozen mid-bite.
Lance stands slowly and buttons his jacket and adjusts his cuffs. He’s trying to look composed, trying to look like he didn’t just get put in his place by a man more powerful than he can comprehend—a better man than him.
“I could make this very bad for you,” he says. “For all three of you.”
Gianni says nothing, letting his hard gaze do the talking.
"You're making a mistake," Lance says quietly. I can sense his threats are more about looking like he’s in control. In this moment, I don’t care how he feels, I want him gone.
"I don't make mistakes. I make decisions. And I've decided you're done here."
Lance holds Gianni's gaze for a long moment.
And I see it—the thing I was afraid of, the thing that makes Lance more dangerous than a normal man with a grudge.
He's not scared, he's studying. He's cataloging Gianni's reaction the way a scientist catalogs data, measuring the intensity, the protectiveness, the raw territorial fury Gianni isn't quite hiding.
He's pleased. Because Gianni just confirmed exactly what Lance came here to prove—Violet Wolfe is his weakness. Threatening her produces a response.
Lance smiles. Not at Gianni. At me.
"See you around, Jessica. And keep skipping the sweets; it’ll pay off eventually.”
With that, he leaves. The bakery collectively exhales the moment he’s gone.
Gianni crouches beside our table. His hand finds the back of Patrick's head, gentle, steady. I watch as the tension melts from Patrick’s little body, ease returning. I reach for my hot chocolate with a hand that’s still shaking.
"Hey, buddy," he says. "Who’s that?”
Patrick lifts his face from my sleeve and looks at Gianni. He picks George up and puts him back where he belongs. “That’s George. I think he’s a mouse, but Mommy says he’s not.”
“Hm.” Gianni looks closely at George, really giving him a once-over. “Looks pretty mousey to me. But he also looks like a little bit of tasty frosting.”
Patrick smiles. “I kind of want to eat him.”
“You’d better do it before I do.”
Patrick’s really smiling now. He reaches forward and plucks George from the top of the cake and pops him into his mouth.
“How’s he taste?” Gianni asks.
“Super yummy.”
Gianni looks at me and neither of us says what we're both thinking; that Lance just told us everything we needed to know about his strategy, and the war we've been preparing for has already started.
He turns his attention to the space in front of me, the same space Lance noticed. No doubt he has Lance’s parting comment in mind.
“Nothing for you?” he asks.
“No. It’s… I’m good.”
Gianni regards me for a long moment, then turns to the woman behind the counter. “One of each kind of macaroon. Two chocolate croissants. Another cake with the little mouse on top. And a piece of tiramisu.”
I watch as the clerk fills a little pink box with Gianni’s request, then hands it over.
As Gianni takes it, he leans towards the clerk and says something quietly before smoothly dropping a hundred into the tip jar.
No doubt he’s apologizing for what just happened, even though he was the one who sorted it out.
Patrick’s eyes light up as Gianni sets the box on the table. “Wow!” he says. “Are those for us?”
“They are,” Gianni replies. “But let’s make sure your mother gets first pick.”
He lifts his eyes to me and his expression says something without words. Whatever you’re afraid of, you don’t have to fear any longer.
I smile. I can’t help it. Then I open the box and take out a pink macaroon and bite into it.