CHAPTER 20 #2
Dominic kept talking—something about a wine program expansion, a critic flying in from Chicago, and a new truffle supplier he was convinced would change our lives.
I was only half listening because over Dominic’s shoulder, near the bar, an employee I didn’t recognize was standing there, slowly rolling silverware.
He looked to be in his mid-twenties, and he had black hair that appeared to be holding an entire vat of gel.
Besides the unfortunate hair, there was nothing in particular that was notable about him .
. . except for the fact that I’d never seen him before.
That alone set my blood humming with warning.
Since this was a restaurant that we owned and used frequently for business meetings . . . we closely monitored who worked here. We didn’t hire just anyone. Every person who moved through these doors was someone who’d been carefully vetted. No exceptions.
“Dom,” I said casually, nodding behind him. “Who’s that employee?”
Dominic frowned. “Who?”
He turned to follow my line of sight.
Behind him, the man’s hand slipped from the silverware to his pocket. A second later, he was raising a phone and aiming it at our table. A flash sliced across the room, and for a second, no one moved.
The man shoved the phone back down and took off toward the front door, somehow unlocking it in the blink of an eye and pushing outside into the raging heat.
“What the fuck?” I growled, already shoving out of the booth. “I’ve got him,” I threw to Gage as I ran.
He nodded and headed straight for the kitchen doors without a word or a backward glance.
We were careful.
Always.
The Syndicate’s business was layered, buried under shell companies and polite corporate fronts. On paper, nothing connected the dots in a way that would hold.
But Gage wore a badge. And even if he wasn’t assigned anywhere near us, even if no one officially suspected anything, we did not get photographed casually having lunch together.
Not where someone could spin it.
That was why we used Velluto for this kind of meeting. We closed it to the public for “a private event,” sat at a back table with no sightlines from the street, and used staff who were vetted within an inch of their lives.
There was nothing technically illegal about me sitting across from a federal agent in a restaurant we owned. I didn’t have any warrants, and none of us were under any surveillance that we were aware of.
But optics mattered.
And some random asshole snapping a picture of us together was not my favorite development of the day.
I burst onto the sidewalk, the noise of the Strip crashing down around me in a rush of engines, laughter, and music bleeding from an open casino entrance across the street.
I caught a glimpse of the guy’s greasy black hair to my left.
He was running like someone who knew exactly what would happen if he didn’t.
And I was furious.
I hit the pavement, trying to track him as he cut right, then left, weaving through pedestrians who shouted as he clipped shoulders and elbows, his phone clenched in his hand now like a lifeline. Tourists scattered, confused, dragging luggage and drinks and sunburned limbs straight into his path.
The motherfucker was fast, though.
He vaulted a short concrete divider and sprinted into a parking lot, his shoes skidding on oil-slick asphalt as he aimed for the far row where cars sat baking in the sun.
My phone started vibrating in my pocket as I cleared the curb and cut left, dodging a couple dragging rolling suitcases as though they were obstacles in a poorly designed course.
I ignored the call, following the guy as he jumped another concrete divider and bolted across the next block, his panic turning his movements sloppy but fast. I lengthened my stride, the heat burning against my skin.
This was going to ruin my new suit.
The phone buzzed again, and I cursed under my breath and yanked it out mid-stride, my thumb swiping the screen without breaking pace.
“Are you dying?” I asked.
“What?” Jace said. “Why would that be your immediate assumption?”
“Because you keep calling me,” I said, cutting between two pedestrians who shouted as I clipped past them. “That’s usually how people announce emergencies.”
There was a brief pause. Then he said, “Why do you sound out of breath?”
“I’m jogging,” I said.
“You hate jogging,” Jace replied immediately. “You once told me cardio was a scam invented by people with too much time and not enough enemies. Who’s your enemy, Jagger-meister?”
“Maybe I decided that was shortsighted and it would actually be a good hobby,” I gasped as I had to get over another fucking divider. Whoever had decided to put one on every block needed to be shot.
“By chance,” Jace said carefully, “are you running in dress shoes?”
I barked out a breathless laugh. “Why would you ask me that?”
“Because it feels like something someone sketchy would do,” he said. “And you sound sketchy.”
“That makes no sense.”
“It makes perfect sense,” Jace countered. “Normal people jog in athletic wear. I bet you only run when something’s on fire or you’re fleeing.”
The guy cut toward a narrow gap between two buildings, and I pushed harder, finally closing the distance.
“I’m not chasing anyone,” I said, “but I do need to go.”
I reached out as the waiter stumbled, my fingers brushing the fabric of his shirt before he tore free with a strained, frantic sound.
“Jagger,” Jace said slowly, “you’re doing that thing again.”
“What thing?” I asked, hurdling a low barrier as the man cut toward the service road.
“The thing where you sound like you’re five seconds away from becoming a headline,” he replied. “And I think I just heard a whimper. Why would I hear a whimper? Did you answer my call during sex again, and what I’m hearing is not actually jogging?”
“It’s called interval training,” I said. “It’s all the rage.”
The waiter sprinted across the next block, nearly clipping a couple tourists who shrieked as he blew past them. He glanced back, his panic growing when he saw how close I was getting again.
“You’re chasing someone,” Jace said with growing confidence. “I can hear it in your breathing.”
“Did you need something, little brother?” I replied. “Because . . . this is kind of an inconvenient time.”
I made a mental note to actually pick up jogging. While I was mostly into weights and boxing . . . it was clear after this experience that I actually needed to up my cardio.
Sex is cardio, though. I could have Eden help me with that.
“Yep, definitely chasing someone,” Jace said. “I can hear asphalt and fear now.”
“That’s dramatic,” I replied, vaulting a low chain barrier as the guy nearly ate pavement trying to clear it.
“You just grunted.”
“I did not grunt.”
“You definitely grunted.”
The guy veered hard left, trying to lose me between a row of dumpsters and a stack of crates. Cute. I adjusted my angle and closed the gap another three feet.
“You’re gaining on him,” Jace said confidently.
“I’m not gaining on anyone.”