30. Olivia
Olivia
The drive home was quiet.
City lights blurred past the window of the black SUV as Olivia sat in the back, feeling a strange comfort in being surrounded by people whose job was to keep her safe.
She kept seeing Little Frankie's face. His hand on her arm.
The way he had delivered his threat with such casual certainty, as if it meant nothing to him. For him, it really didn't.
She was still shaken. But Nicholas had made sure she wasn't alone, and that mattered more than she could properly articulate right now.
Dan pulled to the curb in front of her building and kept the engine running.
Jim got out of the passenger seat and opened the back door for her and said, "Someone will be outside all night.
You have my number. If you hear anything or need anything—call.
You will not be alone." He held her eyes for a moment.
"Please don't worry, Olivia. We are very good at what we do. You are safe."
"Thank you," she whispered.
She rode the elevator up in a numb quiet, the building's silence wrapping around her as the floors ticked by. When she closed her apartment door behind her and leaned against it, the full weight of the day hit her all at once: exhaustion, leftover fear, and something even shakier beneath them.
Her phone vibrated.
Nicholas.
She answered on the first ring.
"I hear you're home and safe." His voice was low and steady, an anchor in the dark room. "I'm so sorry, Olivia. I'm sorry I allowed this to happen to you. I wish I had been there."
She pressed her forehead against the cool wood of the door. "Oh, Nicholas, you didn't let this happen." A pause. "I wish you were here with me now, though."
He was quiet for a moment. "I know. Me too." Another beat. "I'm going to be there next Friday if you're free for dinner."
A small, genuine laugh escaped her. It was the first real one in hours. "I can't wait."
"Olivia—I appreciate you giving me the time I needed. I miss you."
"I miss you too, Nicholas."
"Have you heard from Alexandra?"
"Not since the Zoom call. She said probably next week."
"I won't push her," he said. "She's on it. You're in good hands."
"I believe that. I really thank you for her."
His tone shifted then, subtle but perceptible, the warmth pulling back slightly into something more measured. "I need to get a few things done tonight. I'll talk to you this week and see you on Friday. Please don't go anywhere without Jim or Dan. I'm here if you need to talk."
"Nicholas, I—" She bit her lip. The words were right there, pressing forward, and she swallowed them deliberately. "I'll see you on Friday."
"Okay. Goodnight."
The line went dead.
She stood in the quiet of her apartment with the phone in her hand and let the silence settle around her.
The words she hadn't said sat in her chest, not with regret exactly, but with the careful awareness of a woman who was learning, slowly and sometimes painfully, the difference between what she felt and what the moment could actually hold.
She'd already said it a few times. She wasn't going to make it a habit that he had to manage. He would come back on Friday, and she would be here, and whatever needed to be said between them would find its moment.
She was stronger than she'd been a month ago.
She could wait.
The rest of the week was spent studying a controlled routine.
Jim and Dan became the quiet structure of her days, outside in the morning, outside at night, a black SUV at the curb that she'd stopped noticing the way you stop noticing something that simply becomes part of your landscape.
She felt both protected and contained, and she understood that those two things weren't mutually exclusive.
By Wednesday, the paranoia had softened into something closer to vigilance. She pulled on her blazer, checked her reflection—tired, but holding—and texted Jim.
I'll be ready to leave for work at 8:30.
The reply was immediate.
We will be waiting outside.
The morning moved in its usual rhythm. Phones. Rundowns. The particular controlled chaos of a live newsroom that didn't pause for personal crises.
At 2:00 PM, the receptionist called.
"Olivia? There are two detectives in the lobby asking to speak with you."
Her stomach dropped.
She assumed it was about the 911 call. The night Mark had broken through the guest room door. Standard follow-up. She steadied herself.
"Show them to the conference room."
She walked in with her head up. The two men stood in tired suits, with eyes that had seen too much and no longer seemed surprised by anything. She recognized the type immediately. She'd put enough of them on camera over the years.
"What's this about?" she asked as they sat.
The lead detective leaned forward. "You mean you don't know."
She kept her voice level. "I assume this has something to do with the 911 call I made weeks ago."
The two men exchanged a look. It wasn't a reassuring one.
"Maybe she doesn't know," the second one muttered. He looked at her directly. "Do you follow New York City news?"
"Not unless it makes national. Why?"
"Do you know a man called Little Frankie?"
Hearing the name felt like a physical blow.
Her arm throbbed where his hand had been. She kept her face as still as she could manage and said nothing for exactly one second too long.
"It seems from your expression that you know who he is," the lead detective said.
"I know who he is. And yes—he scares me."
"You don't need to be afraid of him any longer." The detective's voice was flat, matter-of-fact. "He's dead. Mob-style hit in New York City late Sunday night. The first one in seven years."
The air left the room.
Olivia leaned back in her chair and felt her mind race, jumping quickly and involuntarily to Sunday night. She remembered Nicholas's voice on the phone after Little Frankie had grabbed her arm. I need to get a few things done.
She breathed carefully. "Oh, my God." She paused. "I can't say I'm sorry. He was a very frightening man."
"I'm sure he was. How did you know him?"
Here it was. The moment required her to be smarter than her fear.
She couldn't mention Nicholas. Not now. Not with two detectives sitting across from her and the weight of what had happened pressing down on the conversation like something that still didn't have a name.
"I saw him once or twice," she said. "He was associated with my soon-to-be ex-husband's brother. Devon."
"That's another reason we're here," the detective said. "How do you get along with Devon?"
"Not particularly. I'm going through a divorce, and neither my soon-to-be ex nor his brother is very fond of me right now."
"We're aware of the pending divorce." He paused, letting the silence do some work. "Are you aware that last night, your brother-in-law was badly beaten after leaving a club here in Tampa? He's in a hospital bed right now. Almost didn't make it."
The room tilted.
Olivia gripped the edge of the chair and steadied herself. "Oh, my God. No, I didn't know." And that part was entirely true. "I'm actually surprised my ex hasn't called to tell me."
"So you see our concern," the detective said, his eyes narrowing with the particular precision of a man who asks questions he already knows half the answer to.
"Little Frankie, who worked with Devon, was attacked within hours of each other.
One dead, one critical." He paused. "Do you have a boyfriend, Ms. Daniels? "
The heat moved up her neck.
Not fear. Something harder than fear.
Defiance.
She stood up. She smoothed her skirt with hands that trembled only slightly, and she looked at both men with the steady gaze of someone who had spent the last several months learning, through difficulty and growth, exactly how much she was capable of.
"I don't like the implication of that question," she said. "And my private life is not your business."
She held the moment long enough to make it count.
"I hope I've answered your questions. But this interview is over. If you have anything further to discuss regarding your case, please feel free to contact my attorney. I'm sure you already have her number."
The detectives rose slowly. Neither of them looked satisfied. That was fine. Satisfaction wasn't what she was offering.
"You understand we'll be back if anything you've told us doesn't check out," the lead one said.
"Have a wonderful day, detectives."
She waited until they'd left the building. Then she eased back into her chair, sat with her hands flat on the desk, and let herself shake in a way that was controlled, private, and hers alone.
She thought about Nicholas. About what he'd said on Sunday night. Why wasn’t he coming up until Friday? She considered the exact sequence of events, their timing, and what it all might mean when examined closely.
She didn't know for certain. She wasn't going to let herself know for certain.
What she knew was this: he had promised her he wouldn't let anything happen to her. He had meant it in a way that went beyond words. And whatever the cost of that promise had been, she would protect him from the consequences just as he had protected her.
Without hesitation. Without conditions.
That was new. It was a kind of growth she could feel deep inside.
She picked up her phone and dialed Alexandra's cell.
Alexandra answered on the second ring.
"The police were just here," Olivia said, keeping her voice measured and her details deliberately vague. "They asked questions about my personal life. I refused to answer them. I told them to contact you if they had further questions."
"That was exactly the right call," Alexandra said. The satisfaction in her voice was brief and professional. "I'll contact Tampa PD and make clear that I represent you. Any further questions come through me first."
"Thank you." Olivia paused. "I'd appreciate your informing anyone you think should be aware of the visit."
A beat. "I certainly will."
"One more thing," Alexandra said.
"All paperwork should be completed by tomorrow. I'll have Mark served on Friday. Either at home or at the office."
Olivia closed her eyes.
Friday. The day Mark would get his papers. The day Nicholas would come back.
"That's fine," she said. "Please keep me posted."
When she hung up, she sat in the quiet of her office and let the full shape of the week settle around her. Alexandra would reach Nicholas. He would know about the detectives before Friday. She wouldn't have to carry it alone until then.
She had protected him the way he had protected her.
Without being asked. Without needing to be told how.
She looked out the window at the Tampa skyline, the same view she'd stared at a hundred times from this desk, usually counting the hours until she could go home to a house that never felt like one.
Now she was going home to a place that was truly hers.
Now there was a man coming back on Friday who made her feel more alive than she had ever been.
She still didn't know exactly what they were to each other. She still didn't know what Friday would bring or what would come after it.
But she was not the woman who had sat across from Mark at a kitchen table pretending everything was fine.
She was not the woman who had locked herself in a guest room and prayed for morning.
She was someone else now. Someone who stood up in a conference room and told two detectives that her private life was none of their business, and meant every syllable.
She was someone Nicholas Moretti had helped her remember she could be.
And on Friday, she intended to tell him so.