Chapter 4
MIA
Idon’t sleep well after Nash leaves. This is not a surprise.
I’ve spent the last two years cataloging Nash Cross in the past tense, filed neatly under never gonna happen again.
What we had was amazing, but it was one night.
Nothing more. And even though I might have daydreamed about an encore someday, I never actually thought I’d see the man again.
Yet, here he is, sleeping a few miles away at the Giovanni estate, and I can still feel the exact pressure of his mouth against mine and the specific warmth of his hand along my jaw and the way my fingers curled into his shirt before I remembered to stop them.
I plan to make you beg for me.
I stare at my ceiling for what feels like a century.
The problem with Nash—one of approximately a hundred problems with Nash—is that he doesn’t behave the way men who want something from you are supposed to behave.
He’s not performing. He’s not angling. He walked into my apartment in pants that looked like a circus tent—right down to the erection he was using as a support beam, complimented my apartment in a way that suggested he actually understood it, made me laugh against my will, kissed me with a skill that made my toes curl, and left.
Which means the ball is now in my court, and he knows it, and I know it, and the only winning move is to not think about it—which I’ve already utterly failed at, but Nash doesn’t have to know that, dammit.
I toss and turn all night, and by the gray pre-dawn hours, I’m more pissed at myself than I’ve been in a long time.
I’m also sexually frustrated in a way that makes me want to throw something.
I get up at five, run seven miles, shower, and take my Null with my coffee like I do every morning.
By the time I’m in the car, I have successfully not thought about the kiss for almost six minutes straight.
Progress.
I leave early enough that I beat the traffic, and in girl math, that earns me enough time to stop for one of Claire’s fancy lattes, so I make a pit stop at the restaurant.
Once, I would have avoided this place like the plague, considering it was Franco’s chosen “office” space.
But ever since Lexi inherited it and then gave it to Crow, the place is quickly becoming a second home.
We’ve all been waiting with bated breath for Crow to decide what to name the place. So, I’m not really expecting any news yet, but the sight of the new sign catches me on the sidewalk before I make it to the door.
Solano’s.
Simple, elegant letters in matte black against warm cream, clean and simple and completely on brand for a man who once threw a breadstick at Dutch for suggesting La Famiglia sounded more like a pasta sauce than a restaurant name. More importantly, it’s a name that means something.
I stand on the sidewalk and look at it for a moment, my heart softening as I think of Crow’s mother, Sofia Solano. The fact that he used the name of this place to honor a woman this city destroyed makes me love him that much more.
Crow is the quiet, contemplative one in our group. But I’ve learned not to be fooled by his reserve. I’ve never met anyone more thoughtful—and more prone to spiral from those thoughts—than Crow Martinez.
Inside, the place smells like bacon and fresh bread and coffee, which is the trifecta I came for.
The early morning crowd is thin—a few locals reading newspapers at window tables, Bobby wiping down the bar with the same energy he’s applied to that task for the last twenty years.
I was a bit surprised Crow kept him on, but he’s always been polite and respectful.
Crow clearly saw past the goon who worked for Franco for two decades, and I’m glad he did.
The new windows let in the early light and throw it across the tile floor in long, warm rectangles.
The effect is inviting and cozy. Franco’s restaurant used to smell like cigars and the specific cologne of men who thought intimidation was a personality trait.
Crow’s version smells like family and good people.
I nod at Bobby, who nods back.
Since Claire is nowhere in sight, I head for the kitchen. I hear Crow before I see him; a low, unhurried stream of instructions about prep work that somehow manages to sound both patient and like a veiled threat. I lean against the pass-through window.
“So, you do make your own food here,” I say.
Crow grunts as he flips an egg. “This is a restaurant,” he says without looking up.
“Rumor has it you have a hex witch spelling the breakfast sandwiches.”
Crow glances at me, eyes narrowing. “No hex witch gets to take credit for my food.”
“I'll pass that along to Razor when I see him.” Crow growls as he realizes his brother is the one spreading said rumors. “I’ll also take a dozen of those sandwiches to go.”
He finally looks up at that. Just briefly. Something flickers in his expression—pleased, though he’d never say so—before he goes back to cracking and flipping eggs. “For the team, or are you stress-eating?”
“Very funny. One for me, eleven for Razor.”
Crow snorts.
A beat of silence passes as I watch my friend cook.
He’s in his element here in a way he never was when we were always pulling jobs and undermining the corrupt leadership like it was our life’s work to save this city from itself.
Despite everything he’s gone through in recent months, he looks steady here.
Almost peaceful. I’m glad to see it. If any one of us deserves peace, it’s Crow.
“I saw the new sign,” I say quietly.
He goes still for just a moment. Spatula hovering. Then he resumes. “Yeah?”
“It’s perfect.”
Crow’s shoulders sag a little. A second later, he says, “You think Dutch will talk any shit?”
“Of course. It’s Dutch. But when he does, I’ll de-claw him myself.”
“From what I hear, Andy’s already doing the job for us.”
I snort at that. “Better her than us.”
He shakes his head, mouth curving.
When he finally glances up, the smirk is gone. Something passes between us that doesn’t need words.
I drop onto a stool at the pass-through counter. “How are you?”
The question lands differently than the banter.
He lets it, which means he’s in a decent place this morning.
There are days when how are you from me earns nothing but a grunt and a subject change, and I’ve learned to read which kind of day it is by whether he meets my eyes and whether those eyes are haunted.
Today, he meets my eyes. They’re clear.
“Okay,” he says. And then, quieter, “Better than last week.”
I nod once, not pushing. With Crow, you take the inches he gives you, and you don’t push for more than that, or he closes up entirely.
What he’s carrying—his father’s abuse, his mother’s death, the childhood that left marks nobody can see—that’s not something that gets better in a straight line.
But he’s here. Building something out of the wreckage of a place that used to represent everything that hurt him, and that’s not nothing.
That’s actually everything.
“Is Claire in yet?” I ask.
“Yeah, she ran to the stock room, but she should be back any minute.” He tips his head toward the back. “She’s going to pretend she’s not excited to see you, but some days you’re all she talks about. Just be warned.”
Sure enough, Claire appears from the back hall with a tray of salt and pepper shakers, sees me, and immediately rearranges her expression into something studiedly casual.
“Oh, hey, Mia,” she says.
“Hey yourself.”
She sets the tray down with the practiced efficiency of someone who has done this work before. Or maybe it’s more than that. There’s a steadiness to her that wasn’t there a few weeks ago. And her eyes aren’t as haunted either.
Apparently, this place is healing more than just Crow.
“You want coffee?” she asks.
“I was kind of hoping for one of your fancy lattes,” I tell her.
She lights up. “Of course. Coming right up.”
She pulls out a pad of paper to write up a tab, but Crow cuts her off. “It’s on the house,” he tells her.
“No, it’s not,” I argue.
Claire looks between us uncertainly.
“Mia, don’t fucking argue,” Crow starts.
“I won’t if you just let me pay you,” I tell him.
“You’re not paying me for pack food. Especially when I’m missing whatever meeting you’re headed to next.”
“You can pull an extra shift tonight if that makes you feel better,” I tell him, reaching around his elbow to snag a piece of bacon.
“Hey!” He swats me. Misses.
I shove the entire thing into my mouth before he can snatch it away. “Put it on my tab.”
Claire bites her lip to keep from laughing. “All right. Come on. I’ll make you that latte.”
I smirk at Crow, then plant a quick bacon-flavored kiss on his cheek before following Claire out to the bar. She moves behind it to the fancy coffee machine Crow added to the place recently and goes to work on my latte. I follow her around and perch on an empty stool in front of the counter.
“You look tired,” Claire says, reappearing to lean against the counter across from me with her particular brand of bluntness that I simultaneously dread and appreciate.
“I'm fine.”
“That’s not what I said.”
“I know what you said.”
She tilts her head, studying me with those sharp eyes that don’t miss much. “Is it the Ramsey thing?”
“It’s a lot of things. None of them are anything for you to worry about.”
“Crow says you never stop, even when things are quiet. That you just find the next thing to worry about.”
I glare at Crow through the pass-through. He keeps his back to me with great dedication. Traitor.
“Crow should focus on not burning the eggs,” I say.
“The eggs will only be burnt on your sandwich,” Crow calls, reminding me how sharp wolf hearing is.
Claire grins and then schools it back into something more serious. “I just meant you look like someone who needs to let someone else carry something for once.”
The words hit me in a place I don’t want to examine more closely. Especially not today. “I’m fine, Claire.”
“Sure.” She straightens. “I just think you’d be a lot happier if you let yourself be a human sometimes instead of just a—” she gestures vaguely at all of me “— superhero.”
I make a face. “I am no superhero, believe me.”
“Name one thing you did last week that wasn’t for the pack.”
I open my mouth.
Close it.
She raises an eyebrow with the precision of someone who has learned from the best, and heads off to finish my latte. Ugh, stupid protégé.
A minute later, Crow drops a bag full of breakfast sandwiches onto the bar without comment. When I look up, he’s wearing an expression that looks a lot like I Agree With Claire But Value My Life.
I point at him menacingly. “Shut up.”
He winks and returns to the kitchen.
Claire delivers a hot latte in a to-go cup. “Don’t work too hard,” she says and retreats to the kitchen before I can defend myself.
I’m gathering my things to leave when something shiny lands in my lap.
I look down.
A diamond tennis bracelet in delicate, yellow gold glitters up at me from my lap like it belongs there.
I look around for the source.
A raccoon sits on the stool beside me.
He’s watching me with small, dark, completely unapologetic eyes. His tiny hands are folded in his lap like he’s just completed a business transaction and is waiting to see if the terms are acceptable.
My shock spools in my chest for a second before I find my voice again.
“Echo?”
He blinks twice.
Yep, that’s him.
Cazzo di merda.
I haven’t seen this little terror in…
A lump forms before I can finish that calculation.
Almost two years.
Same as Nash.
“Where have you been?”
He blinks again.
“That’s not — you can’t just disappear for two years and then show up with stolen jewelry like this is a normal day—” I stop. Look at the bracelet. Look at him. “Wait a second. Where did you get this?”
He tilts his head.
“This is someone’s bracelet,” I tell him.
He makes a small sound that I interpret as finders keepers.
I glare at him. “That is not how property law works.”
He hops off the stool and onto my shoulder like he lives there. Which, after two years of being ghosted by this asshole, is weirdly endearing.
When I look up again, Claire is standing by the kitchen door, watching us with her mouth open. Crow has materialized at the pass-through, spatula still in hand, expression caught somewhere between what the hell and I missed that little bastard.
“Is that—” Crow starts.
“Echo? Apparently.”
“Where did he—”
“Unknown.”
“Is that a real diamond bracelet?” Claire asks.
“Um. Probably not,” I lie, but she doesn’t look convinced.
Claire has never met Echo. But Crow has. And he already knows what the little klepto trash panda is capable of, as evidenced by the glare he’s aiming at my little furry friend.
Unbothered, Echo reaches into the bag on the counter and steals a breakfast sandwich. I let him because I don’t have the energy and also because I missed him more than I intend to admit.
“Come on,” I say, shooing Echo toward the door before Crow can make nuggets out of him.
When he doesn’t move, I pick him up and put him in my bag along with the diamond bracelet. He doesn’t fight me, and, in fact, looks perfectly content to catch a ride while stuffing his face.
“Thanks for breakfast,” I call out.
“Good luck getting that thing past Elena,” Crow warns.
I ignore him, mostly because he has a point.
Halfway to the door, my phone buzzes.
Dutch: Okay, so who is the tall drink of expensive suit who just stopped me in the hall and asked what you do for fun during your spare time?? And also, what counts as spare time in your world? He seemed genuinely curious, which is almost sadder than the question. EXPLAIN YOURSELF!
I stare at the message, my stomach in knots. Worse, the three dots that indicate he’s typing another message continue to warble on the screen.
Dutch: Nash Cross? Alpha of the Crossvale pack. Dean of the war college?? Is this someone I should know about??
Dutch: Mia.
Dutch: MIA!
Dutch: The man used the phrase “in her downtime” like that’s a concept that applies to you.
Dutch: I told him you have no downtime, and he smiled like that was actually useful information. What does that mean??
I drop my phone into my bag where I’m pretty sure Echo drips bacon grease onto it. Fine by me. Maybe the thing will stop working, and I won’t have to answer Dutch’s interrogation.
Outside, the morning air is crisp, and the sun is tucked behind the skyscrapers at my back. Shadows make it even chillier, but I don’t mind it. My wolf loves the cold. Echo, apparently, feels the same as he continues munching happily on his breakfast from his little koala pouch.
My phone buzzes again as I climb into my car. I check it, knowing I am going to regret it but unable to help myself.
Dutch: the suit guy just asked me for your number. What is HAPPENING!
I silence my notifications and start the engine.