Chapter 17
DILLON
When Roxie and Chance get back from town, I know something’s up. Chance has that stormy look he wears whenever he’s planning something. His jaw is locked tight, his eyes shadowed.
After we help haul the supplies inside, he barely waits for the door to close before saying, “We need to talk.”
Boone and I follow him to the living room, where Roxie stands by the fireplace, her fingers twisting together, her expression a mix of guilt and terror. My chest tightens. Whatever this is, it isn’t something small.
“Hey,” I say gently, keeping my tone light. “You look like you’re about to confess to a murder. Nobody here bites, promise. Unless you’re into that, of course. If you are, I can totally bite.”
She lets out a shaky laugh, and I pat the couch beside me. “Come on, sit. You’ll feel better.”
She hesitates, then finally moves toward me and takes the seat I offer. The second she sits, I reach for her, tugging her gently against me.
I feel the tension thrumming through her body, tight and high-strung, like a wire pulled taught. She sags against me, not fighting my grip, leaning into me like she needs something to steady her.
In response, I tighten my hold and brace myself. It’s useless. Nothing I’ve done prepares me for the truth. I think maybe she’s hiding from an ex-boyfriend or, at worst, a loan shark.
Not the fucking mob.
“I should’ve told you sooner,” she whispers once Boone and Chance are seated on the couch across from us. Chance nods at her, and I feel her draw a deep breath before she continues. “It’s just… I didn’t know you, and I was scared, and I—”
When she trails off, I brush a strand of hair from her face. “Those are valid reasons, sweetheart. Don’t worry about it, okay? Just take it from the top.”
She nods slowly, then starts telling her story. Every word comes out raw as she explains what she overheard and how they hunted her afterward. She tells us about her friend who showed up with a bag and a plan, the hair dye, the last-minute bus ticket.
Boone doesn’t move a muscle. Chance leans forward, elbows on his knees, eyes locked on her like he’s memorizing every word. Some of what she says surprises him, so I figure she gave him the highlights before, but not the full story.
By the time she’s done, I can feel her shaking. I press my cheek to her temple and pull her closer. “You’re safe. You get that, right? Nobody’s going to hurt you while we’re breathing.”
Her eyes dart up to mine. “You’re not mad?”
“Mad?” I snort softly. “Rox, none of this is your fault.”
Boone’s voice rumbles from near the fire. “He’s right. We’re not mad. You did what you had to do. None of this is your fault, Roxie.”
Chance nods, serious as ever. “It makes sense that you didn’t want to tell us before. We did sort of show up on your doorstep unannounced from the woods.”
Roxie buries her face against my shoulder. “That was over a month ago, though.”
“Yeah.” I hold her tighter. “A pretty crazy month where you also had to get to know us, learn to trust us, and make sure we weren’t going to hurt you.”
Boone moves first, calm and efficient, though tension hums beneath the surface. “She needs to rest.”
He heads for the bathroom. A minute later, water runs.
Chance disappears and comes back with a portable speaker, the soft hum of music following him. I recognize the playlist, the mellow stuff he only plays when his walls are down.
I let her go so I can handle the important business, which is dessert.
Once the cupcakes are in the oven, I finally make it to the bedroom. Boone is adjusting a towel on the side of the tub, steam curling through the half-open door. Roxie sits on the edge of the bed, eyes a little red, shoulders looser.
“Your favorite chocolate cupcakes will be ready soon,” I say. “Chocolate therapy reduces stress by at least thirty-seven percent.”
Boone reappears, wiping his hands on a towel. “Bath’s ready. Bubbles.”
She stands slowly, looking between us like she doesn’t know what to do with all the care aimed her way. Then she smiles softly. “Thank you. I don’t… I don’t know what I did to deserve all this but thank you.”
Chance crosses the room and touches her arm. “We’ll be right upstairs if you need anything.”
I nod in agreement before the bathroom door closes. The second it clicks shut, something in me changes.
The joking part steps back. What replaces it is sharp. Focused.
Without a word, the three of us head upstairs to the conference room. The warmth from downstairs burns off fast. The air here feels colder, tighter.
Boone stands at the whiteboard, arms crossed. Chance paces by the window, forest light spilling across his shoulders.
“We need to find out everything we can about Vincent Caruso,” Boone says. “If he’s what she says he is, we can’t risk him tracing her here.”
Chance nods. “I’ll dig into his financials. Legitimate fronts leave trails.”
I take my seat and open my laptop. “I’ll handle the darker corners. Forums. Encrypted channels. If he breathes in the wrong chat room, I’ll hear it.”
“She said his men showed up at her apartment the day after she left,” Boone adds. “That means he’s organized.”
“Organized, not invisible,” I reply, fingers flying. “I’ll find him.”
For a while, the room fills with the hum of processors and the clack of keys. My mind keeps replaying the look on Roxie’s face, the fear, the shame.
She apologized for bringing this to our door.
She doesn’t understand yet. It’s her door now too.
Boone scans his screen, already thinking three moves ahead. Chance leans over my shoulder, eyes tracking data streams.
This is what we do.
Protect. Plan. Eliminate threats.
“No one talks to her about this yet,” Boone says after a few minutes. “Not until we know what we’re dealing with.”
“And if Caruso knows where she is?” Chance asks quietly.
I don’t hesitate. “Then he’s going to wish he didn’t.”