17. Calling for Help #2
The drive is filled with Leo’s chatter about school and his friends. I listen, really listen, letting his innocent enthusiasm wash over me. When did I last do this? Just spent time with him, no distractions, no case files calling my name?
The ice cream shop is busy with the Saturday afternoon crowd, but Leo doesn’t mind the wait. He presses his face against the glass display, eyes wide as he surveys all the flavors. “Can I try the Brambleberry Crisp?”
“You can try as many as you want.” I ruffle his sandy blond hair. His parents would have loved this—these simple moments with their son.
We end up at a small table by the window where Eli can see us, Leo with his double scoop of Brambleberry Crisp and Wildberry Lavender, me with my Dark Chocolate. The sun streams through the glass, warming my skin as Leo attacks his ice cream with gleeful abandon.
“Aunt Evie?” He looks up, purple ice cream smeared across his chin. “Can we do this more? Just us?”
The question hits me right in the chest. “Yeah, buddy. We can definitely do this more often.” I reach across the table with a napkin to wipe his face. “I’m sorry I’ve been so busy lately.”
He shrugs, but there’s a flicker of something in his eyes—understanding beyond his years. “It’s okay. You catch bad guys. That’s important.”
“You’re important too,” I tell him firmly. “The most important.”
Leo takes another big bite of his ice cream, the smeared purple now drips down his chin. “Can we go to Aunt Lydia’s tonight?”
The question catches me mid-bite. I lower my spoon, carefully considering how to explain. “Not tonight, buddy. I’m actually going to Zeke’s club with the girls.”
His face falls immediately, and my heart clenches. “But we haven’t gone to Aunt Lydia’s in a long time. I miss playing games with Harper and Nora and Elise while you have dinner.”
“I know.” I reach across the table to wipe a spot of ice cream from his cheek. “But tonight’s different. The club isn’t really a place for kids.”
“Is it because of the bad people?” His blue eyes fix on mine with that uncanny perceptiveness that sometimes takes my breath away. “I heard Uncle Zeke and Uncle Seb talking about them.”
My stomach twists. What exactly has he overheard? “What do you mean, sweetie?”
He shrugs, poking at his ice cream with his spoon. “Just stuff about keeping us safe. That’s why we live with him now, right? Why you got married?”
“That’s part of it.” I try to keep my voice even, though my hands want to shake. “But you don’t need to worry about any of that. That’s grown-up stuff.”
“I’m not a baby,” he mutters, shoulders slumping. “I know things are different now.”
He’s lost so much already—his parents, his home, his sense of normalcy. And here I am, taking away one more familiar comfort.
“You’re right, you’re not a baby.” I reach for his hand. “And I promise we’ll get back to our dinner tradition soon. I miss them too.”
He nods, but I can still see the disappointment in the downturn of his mouth, the way his spoon just pushes the melting ice cream around instead of eating it.
I hate this—hate that I can’t give him the simple, stable life he deserves.
That my choices, my job, my complicated relationship with Zeke all ripple out to affect him too.
“Hey.” I lean forward, tapping his spoon with mine to get his attention. “What if we did something special when we get home, just you and me, before I go out?”
He glances up, a flicker of interest crossing his face. “Like what?”
“Well …” I pretend to think hard about it, though the idea has already formed. “We could watch that new superhero movie you’ve been talking about. The one with the space dragons?”
His eyes widen, ice cream forgotten. “Really?”
“Yep.” I wink at him. “You can get comfy in your PJs, make some popcorn … what do you think?”
“Can we build a blanket fort too?” He’s bouncing in his seat now, all traces of sadness gone from his face.
“Absolutely. The biggest, coziest fort ever.” I reach across to ruffle his hair. “And maybe, if you’re really good, we can even have hot chocolate with extra marshmallows.”
“With the tiny ones?” His face glows with excitement. “And can we use the Christmas lights to make the fort sparkly?”
“Whatever you want, buddy.” His pure joy makes my chest feel lighter. “It’ll be our special movie time.”
While Leo finishes his ice cream, his face sticky and happy, something settles over me.
A certainty I haven’t felt in weeks. Maybe months.
All the chaos swirling around us—the case, the threats, my complicated feelings for Zeke—fades away when I focus on the present.
Like this moment: Just me and my nephew, sharing ice cream and making plans for movie night.
He chatters about the fort we’ll build, his hands gesturing wildly as he describes exactly how he wants to arrange the blankets and where we should put the Christmas lights. His enthusiasm is infectious, and I grin as I wipe purple ice cream from his chin for the hundredth time.
This is what matters. Not the turmoil in my heart, not the way Zeke makes me feel things I’m not ready to feel. This right here—being here for Leo, creating moments of joy. This is my true purpose.
“And can we use ALL the pillows?” Leo asks, bouncing in his seat. “Even the fancy ones from the living room?”
“Even those.” I agree, knowing Zeke won’t mind. Or if he does, well, tough luck.
Leo beams at me, his smile just like that of Rose and James. It hits me then, not with the usual sharp pain of grief, but with a warm certainty. I’m doing okay by their son. Not perfect, but okay. And sometimes, that’s enough.
“Ready to head home and start planning our fort?” I ask, gathering our napkins and empty cups.
“Yes!” He jumps up.
I reach for his sticky hand, and he grabs mine without hesitation, squeezing tight.
Laughter echoes in the private VIP room at Club Velvet Petal, a lively bubble separating us from the chaos of the world outside.
Lydia leans back in her chair, a martini in one hand and a wide grin plastered on her face. “Okay, who’s ready for another round?” She winks, her cheeks flushed from the alcohol.
I shake my head, trying to suppress my own grin. “Three rounds is enough for me tonight, thanks.”
“Come on, Eve! You’ve gotta loosen up. This is your chance to forget all about, well, everything.” She gestures dramatically with her drink, nearly spilling it as she sways.
“Yeah,” Olivia adds, rolling her eyes playfully. “We’re here to celebrate you being married. To Zeke! How many women can say they snagged a hot mafia husband?”
“Right? Because that’s exactly what I was going for,” I shoot back sarcastically, though a flicker of warmth ignites at the mention of Zeke. “And it’s “former” hot mafia husband.”
“Whatever you need to tell yourself to feel better about it,” Olivia says with a huge grin.
Lydia chuckles, leaning closer. “Just admit it—you love him.”
“Not happening.” I try to keep my voice steady while my heart races at the thought of his gaze from last night—the way he made me feel alive, like the queen of his domain.
“Fine, then let’s toast to freedom.” Lydia raises her glass high.
“To freedom,” Olivia and I say in unison.
As we clink glasses and down our drinks together, Lydia’s laughter fills me with belonging. This is what I need—a moment away from reality. We chat about our workdays and kids as if we’re three ordinary women instead of survivors bound by our shared pasts.
“What if we took over this place?” Lydia suggests with a gleam in her eye. “We could host our own party every weekend. The ‘Strong Women of Columbus’ club!”
“All drinks served free with every heartfelt trauma story!’” I say.
Olivia laughs. “At least it would be entertaining.”
The door swings open abruptly, cutting through our banter like a knife.
My heart stutters as Zeke steps inside, commanding attention without even trying.
He scans the room before locking eyes with me.
There’s something electric in that look—intensity mixed with warmth—and suddenly his presence dampens the lightheartedness.
“Everything alright?” he asks casually but with an undercurrent of concern.
My stomach flutters uncomfortably.
“Oh sure. Just planning our takeover,” Lydia replies mischievously.
Zeke raises an eyebrow as if assessing whether she’s serious or not before shifting his gaze back to me. I wonder what thoughts are swirling in that complex mind of his right now.
He steps closer to me, cups my chin, and lifts my lips to his. It’s a chaste kiss, but no less electrifying. It leaves me wanting more. But he turns and leaves the room, the door clicking shut behind him with finality.
“Wow.” Olivia fans herself off. “That was hot.”
“Eve’s not the only person who has a hot man.” Lydia leans forward, her martini glass swaying precariously. “What’s going on with you and Seb? I saw you two getting cozy at the bar last week.”
Olivia’s cheeks flush as she waves her hand dismissively. “Oh, that? It’s nothing serious. Just having some fun.”
“Fun?” I arch an eyebrow. “Is that what we’re calling it now?”
“Yes, that’s exactly what we’re calling it.” Olivia tosses back the rest of her wine. “Not everyone needs a marriage certificate to enjoy themselves, Mrs. King.”
“Ouch.” I press a hand to my chest in mock offense, though her words hit closer to home than I’d like to admit.
Lydia giggles, the sound slightly slurred. “Come on, Liv. Seb’s totally into you. He looks at you like you’re breakfast, lunch, and dinner.”
“Please.” Olivia rolls her eyes, but there’s a slight tremor in her hand as she reaches for the bottle to pour another drink. “Seb doesn’t do relationships. He’s made that perfectly clear, and that’s fine by me. I’ve had enough complications in my life.”
“Complications like your ex?” I ask softly.
“Among other things.” She shrugs, but there’s tension in her shoulders now. “Look, what Seb and I have works because it’s simple. No expectations, no promises, just fun.”
“And amazing sex,” Lydia adds with a wicked grin.
Olivia’s laugh sounds genuine this time. “That too. But seriously, I’m good with how things are. Seb’s not looking for anything more, and neither am I.”
I share a knowing look with Lydia. We’ve both seen how Seb watches Olivia when she’s not looking, the way his usual playboy facade slips just a fraction. But if Olivia wants to maintain this illusion of casual fun, who are we to push?
“Well, then.” I raise my glass. “Here’s to uncomplicated fun.”
“And mind-blowing orgasms,” Olivia adds with a wink.
Our laughter mingles with the muffled bass from the club below, and for a moment, I almost believe in the possibility of keeping things simple.
The door opens again, and this time Micah enters with a petite woman by his side. Her head is bowed, long red curly hair falling forward to hide her face. Her shoulders hunch inward, making her appear even smaller than she already is.
“Ladies,” Micah’s deep voice fills the room, “I’d like you to meet someone.”
The woman lifts her head slightly, and I glimpse her face—fair skin dotted with freckles, and eyes the color of fresh grass. A dark bruise mars her left cheekbone, poorly concealed by makeup.
“This is Naomi,” Micah continues, his large hand resting protectively on her shoulder. “She’s my daughter-in-law. Lucas’s wife.”
The temperature in the room drops several degrees. I’ve heard stories about Lucas Hunt—Micah’s only son—and none of them are good.
“Ex-wife,” Naomi whispers, her voice barely audible over the muffled club music. “Or at least, I’m trying to be.”
Micah’s expression darkens. “Lucas … he’s not the man I raised him to be. Naomi needs a safe place, people she can trust.”
I study the trembling woman before me, recognizing the fear in her eyes—the same fear I used to see in my own reflection during my marriage to Ryan. The same fear I’ve seen countless times in victims I’ve interviewed.
“She needs friends who understand,” Micah adds softly, his voice thick with emotion. “Friends who’ve been there.”
Lydia is the first to move, sliding over to make room on the plush leather bench. “Come sit with us, honey,” she says, her voice sympathetic. “You’re safe here.”
Naomi hesitates, glancing up at Micah. He gives her shoulder a reassuring squeeze before gently guiding her toward the empty seat.
“Hey,” I say softly, leaning forward to catch Naomi’s downcast eyes. “You’re among friends here.”
She fidgets with the hem of her oversized sweater, her knuckles white from gripping the fabric. The bruise on her cheek looks painful, and I fight the anger rising in my chest.
“There’s this support group,” Lydia offers. “It’s where Eve and I met. Changed my life, honestly. You should come.”
“It’s completely confidential,” I add. “No pressure to share until you’re ready. Sometimes just being in a room full of women who understand helps.”
Naomi’s eyes dart between us, a flicker of hope breaking through her fear. “Lucas. He says I’m crazy. That I imagine things. That I deserve—”
“No,” Olivia cuts in firmly, reaching across to grasp Naomi’s hand. “You don’t deserve any of it. Trust me, we’ve all heard those lies before. And at times, we’ve all believed them.”
I slide my phone across the table. “Put your number in. We have a group chat—just us girls. Sometimes knowing you’re not alone makes all the difference.”
Naomi’s fingers shake as she types, but there’s a hint of relief in her expression. When she hands the phone back, I immediately send her a message with a heart emoji.
“Welcome to the sisterhood of survivors,” Lydia declares, raising her glass. “Where we turn our scars into strength and our pain into power.”
Naomi’s lips curve into a small but genuine smile. It’s like watching a flower slowly unfurl its petals toward the sun, tentative but determined to bloom.