26. Chapter Twenty Six
Chapter Twenty Six
Donna
By the time I turn onto the street leading toward my office, I have confirmed three things.
First, Lorenzo left his house much earlier than usual this morning. Second, he was absolutely not going into Conti Enterprises early to catch up on paperwork. And third, the black SUV two cars behind me has been following me for the last twelve minutes.
Mocha sits upright in the passenger seat, watching the world through the windshield while I check the rearview mirror again.
The SUV remains exactly where it has been since shortly after I left Lorenzo’s house, far enough back that someone less suspicious might dismiss it and close enough that I have no trouble keeping track of it.
I tap my thumb against the steering wheel.
“Your friend has people following us.”
Mocha glances at me.
“Yes, I know. You like him now. You’re practically best buds.”
His ears twitch before he looks forward again.
“That doesn't mean I have to like this.”
The light ahead turns red, and I slow with traffic. The SUV stops behind the same two cars it has been using as cover.
Dark windows. Ordinary plates. Nothing memorable about the vehicle itself.
I have no idea who is behind the wheel, but I have a very good idea who they work for.
Lorenzo has security everywhere. I figured that out almost immediately after meeting him. Some of it is obvious because it is meant to be, but most of his people know how to disappear into the background.
Until today, none of them have followed me.
At least, none that I noticed.
Considering my former profession, I would like to think I would notice.
Maybe Lorenzo has had someone keeping an eye on me before, and they were simply less obvious about it. He has the resources, and I would hardly be shocked to learn that he occasionally takes liberties with what he considers reasonable precautions.
If that is the case, though, whoever got assigned to me this morning needs more practice.
I spotted them before I made it two blocks.
I pick up the to-go cup from the holder and take a drink.
My coffee, which was already waiting for me on Lorenzo’s kitchen counter when I came downstairs this morning, is exactly the way I like it.
That bothers me a little too, although I am beginning to suspect I have simply entered a phase of my life where everything Lorenzo does irritates me for reasons I would rather not examine too closely.
He was already dressed when I came into the room.
Suit, tie, phone in his hand.
He kissed me while I was still half asleep, told me he had somewhere to be, and left without saying where.
Ordinarily, that would not mean anything. Lorenzo has a business to run, a family with more moving parts than most corporations, and responsibilities I neither expect nor particularly want him to explain every time he walks out the door.
This morning was different.
He was focused in that particular way he gets when something serious is occupying his attention. He barely touched his coffee and checked his phone three times before leaving.
Whatever he had planned this morning involved his family.
I would put money on it.
I check the mirror again as the light changes.
The SUV follows.
“Definitely a family meeting,” I guess.
Mocha pants quietly.
I turn at the next intersection.
The SUV turns too.
There is no longer any point in pretending this might be a coincidence.
Being involved with Lorenzo comes with certain realities, and I have never been stupid enough to ignore them. I know who he is, I know who his family is, and I know the polished offices and legitimate businesses are only one part of the Contis’ world.
I knew that before I slept with him.
Before he bought Mocha a dog bed and treats.
Before his staff started stocking drinks and snacks because I happened to like them.
Before I started leaving clothes at his house because hauling the same overnight bag back and forth had become inconvenient.
The risk has always existed.
What is different is that Lorenzo has never treated me as though I needed protecting from the realities of his family.
He knows what I used to do for a living. He knows I carry a weapon. He knows I pay attention to my surroundings, and he knows I am capable of taking care of myself.
Until today, he either trusted that or made certain his people stayed discreet enough that I never saw them.
Something changed between last night and this morning.
I know exactly what.
Lakeview Logistics.
I can still see Lorenzo sitting across from me in front of the fire while I laid the documents out between us. I knew that he would know Lakeview before I presented it to him.
I didn't know he would refuse to tell me.
I tighten my grip on the steering wheel as his answer comes back to me.
Right now, there is no difference.
Bullshit.
There is always a difference between can’t and won’t, no matter how elegantly Lorenzo tries to phrase it.
He knew something last night. This morning, he left early for a meeting he did not mention, and now one of his security vehicles is following me to work for the first time since I met him.
Well, following me more obviously anyway.
Something happened last night.
Something important enough that Lorenzo decided my usual level of security was no longer enough.
Which means I am on the right track.
That realization should probably make me nervous.
Instead, I feel a sharp little burst of satisfaction.
I knew it.
Lakeview matters.
And I can build off of that.
I have Harbor Peak. I have three shell corporations feeding money to Rachel, and I have Lorenzo’s reaction when I connected them to a company that collapsed shortly after the Contis arrived in Chicago.
Now I have a security detail.
That is plenty to work with.
I turn onto the block where my office is located.
The SUV does not follow me all the way down. It continues through the intersection behind me and disappears from view.
A little too late for that.
“So subtle.”
Mocha yawns.
“You're a terrible partner.”
I pull into a space in front of the building and shut off the engine.
For a moment, I sit behind the wheel and look through the windshield.
The morning is completely ordinary. Cars move along the street. A few people pass on the sidewalk. Someone walks out of the coffee shop down the block carrying a paper bag in one hand.
Nothing looks different.
I know better.
I reach for my coffee and take another drink before setting it back in the cup holder. Then I grab my laptop bag from behind the seat.
Mocha is already standing.
I get out, sling the bag over my shoulder, retrieve my coffee, and open the passenger door.
“Okay.”
Mocha hops down.
I shut the door and lock the car, then automatically scan both directions along the street.
No SUV.
That tells me almost nothing.
If Lorenzo’s security is competent, someone can still see me from somewhere nearby.
I consider giving them a wave.
I decide against it, mostly because I have no idea which direction would be most insulting.
Mocha walks beside me toward the building.
I balance my coffee in one hand and open the exterior door with the other.
The hallway is quiet. My shoulders drop in relief.
Then I notice the light through the glass door across from mine.
Harold is already here.
I stop.
Mocha looks up at me.
“No.”
His tail gives one lazy sweep.
“If he sees me, we're trapped.”
Harold works in the office across the hall and possesses the extraordinary ability to turn a thirty-second greeting into a conversation long enough to make me reconsider every decision that led me into the hallway.
I know he's an accountant, but I have no idea what else he does.
He has explained it to me at least four times, and each explanation has been extensive enough that I should probably have earned some kind of certification by now.
I have retained absolutely none of it.
The last time he caught me outside my office, he spent fourteen minutes explaining a tax law that nearly made me cross my eyes in boredom.
Fourteen.
I know because I checked.
I lower my voice.
“Move.”
Mocha obeys.
We cross the hall quickly while I glance toward Harold’s door.
No movement.
Excellent.
I reach my office, shift the coffee against my body, and dig out my keys.
The lock turns normally.
I push the door inward several inches.
Then I stop.
Nothing obvious is visible through the opening, but something is wrong.
I cannot explain the feeling beyond experience. Too many years of walking into rooms while paying attention to details most people ignore have taught me to trust the moment when something does not fit, even before I know what that something is.
I do not think about it.
I react.
I set the coffee on the floor and place my laptop bag beside it.
My hand goes beneath my jacket and closes around my gun.
Mocha is already watching me.
“Alert,” I say quietly.
His attention snaps toward the narrow opening of the door, every part of him focused.
I draw my weapon and listen.
The hallway behind me remains still.
Nothing comes from inside the office either.
No footsteps. No shifting furniture. No breath I can hear through the gap.
I ease the door open another few inches.
Part of my desk comes into view.
One drawer hangs open.
I never leave it that way.
Instead of speeding up, my pulse slows, and my focus narrows.
Training kicks in.
I put one hand against the door and ease it wider.
The rest of the office reveals itself gradually: papers scattered across the floor, multiple desk drawers pulled open, my chair shoved away from where I left it, one of the cabinets near the wall standing ajar.
Someone has been inside.
I signal for Mocha to stay with me and step through the doorway with my weapon raised.
My office is small enough to clear quickly.
Behind the door first.
Then the desk.
The kitchen area.
Bathroom.
Empty.
I check everything again because assumptions are how people get surprised.
Still empty.
Only then do I lower the weapon.
“Clear.”
Mocha immediately begins working the room with his nose.
I remain in the center of the office and take in the damage.