22. Kate
Kate
I saw the tail before I even hit the main road. His man, Vito, was smart enough to hang back, but Brett? Subtlety was not that man's gift.
I wasn't supposed to notice. That was the point. But I did.
My stomach twisted. I didn’t want to piss Michael off… not really. But if they found the office, I was screwed. Busted. Game over.
So, I pulled a fast one.
I knew the drawbridge timing like I knew the inside of my own condo. Every half hour on the dot, that thing lifted for the harbor tour boats and fishing charters to pass through. It was my shot.
I darted down a side street, cut off a soccer mom in a minivan, and swerved onto the sidewalk, bumping a curb. Amber would’ve barked in protest if she’d been in the backseat. I gripped the wheel tight and punched the gas.
The crossing arms started to drop just as I slid through—last car across before the bells sounded and the bridge began to rise.
I glanced in my rearview mirror.
Brett’s SUV skidded to a stop at the barricade. His face was furious.
I couldn’t help myself.
I pulled over just past the bridge, rolled down my window, and yelled, “Sorry!” with a grin before peeling away again.
The second I hit the next light, I texted Michael:
Kate: Fine. I’m yours. OK, big guy? I said it. Don’t be too mad I gave Brett and Vito the slip… I grew up in this town. You just made it pretty and put it on the world map. It’s still my stage though. I know every back road, every nook and cranny.
See you tonight? My place?
Three dots appeared. Then his reply lit up my screen.
Michael: Can you come work for me?
I stared at the message, heart thudding like I'd driven off the cliff instead of just the bridge.
I pulled into the narrow alley behind the medical building cutting the engine and letting the silence wrap around me like a shield.
I’d won this round.
My pulse was still racing from the bridge stunt, but I smiled as I grabbed my phone and keys, slipping through the unmarked side door and into the quiet hum of my real world.
The air inside was cooler, the scent of fresh paper, lemon oil, and the softest hint of cinnamon hanging in the air—thanks to the reed diffuser Mrs. Gertrude “Gertie” Lang insisted on keeping full.
Her desk lamp was already on. She sat ramrod straight in her gray cardigan and navy slacks, her silver bun pinned tight, bifocals perched on the tip of her nose like she was ready to clock a Supreme Court justice or a nosy neighbor with equal ferocity.
“You’re late,” she said without looking up from her screen.
“I had to lose two of my new ‘almost boyfreind’s’ Navy SEAL wannabes. Good morning to you too.”
Gertie sniffed but allowed herself the smallest smile. “You could’ve just told them.”
“And just who is this almost boyfriend?”
“Michael Waters…?” I cringed. Knowing how that sounded.
“You know better.” She clicked her mouse, eyes still on her inbox. “Men like that don’t let go of things they want. You sure you want to play this game?”
I dropped my bag on the chair, grabbed my coffee, and powered up my workstation. “It’s not a game. It’s strategy.”
She arched one silver brow. “So says every woman who fell face-first into love with a man who doesn’t follow rules.”
“I’m not in love.”
Her brow rose higher.
“I’m not.”
She let out a soft "mhmm" and handed me the morning briefing—a folder thick with contracts, zoning appeals, development proposals, and a note in her crisp cursive: Pier 22 interested in selling. Quietly.
I flipped through the stack. “Let’s circle back with legal. Quiet means leverage.”
She nodded once and went back to her calls, her voice crisp and efficient as she scheduled fundraisers and sent polite, terrifying reminders to city council staffers.
This was my sanctuary. My machine.
While Michael ran casinos and backdoor deals, I was reshaping this town from the inside out.
I didn’t need guns or bodyguards.
I had Gertie.
And secrets thicker than blood.
I bit into a slice of tart apple from my salad, the tang cutting through creamy feta and candied pecans. Gertie moaned over her own bowl like it was the second coming. “Farm to table’s finally in,” she said between bites.
We were in the newer side of town—Michael’s side.
Everything gleamed: Chanel, Prada, glass-front bakeries that smelled like Paris had dropped a croissant on the Connecticut coast. Michael had developed this stretch.
You could feel his presence in the architecture, the energy, the polished veneer that didn’t quite hide the danger underneath.
And for once, I didn’t feel like pretending I didn’t belong.
After lunch, Gertie headed back to the office. I lingered, needing air, needing time. I wandered past the boutiques toward a vine-draped arbor bursting with clematis.
That’s when the air shifted.
“Kate,” a voice behind me purred—smooth, accented, dangerous.
Romanov.
I turned fast, already stepping back. My pulse climbed into my throat.
“No guards today?” he asked, eyes sweeping over me like I was an auction piece. “That’s bold.”
I forced a cool smile. “Didn’t think I needed a security detail just to eat lunch.”
“Your Michael should be more careful with what he treasures.” He stepped closer, his cologne choking the breeze. “Things get lost. Stolen. Broken.”
He brushed my hip.
Casual.
Calculated.
My blood iced.
“Back off,” I said.
He crowded me, backing me into the arbor until the wood pressed into my spine. “Let’s not make a scene, hm?”
Then his hand slid lower.
Touched my ass.
I snapped.
My knee shot up, hard and fast. I caught him square in the balls.
He groaned and dropped like a rock, slumped against the clematis like a fallen angel with no grace left.
“Oops,” I said, stepping over him.
A slow clap would’ve been less annoying than Brett’s drawl behind me. “You done?”
I whirled. Brett leaned against a column like he was watching a tennis match, arms crossed, sunglasses on, not even pretending to be surprised.
“Cared to help much?”
He shrugged. “You had it covered.”
I narrowed my eyes. “Boss is gonna lose his mind, isn’t he?”
Brett straightened, pushing off the post. “Burn it down, more like.”
I groaned. “Let me tell him.”
“Too late.” He nodded toward the sky. “The eye-in-the-sky footage already landed in his inbox.”
“Shit,” I muttered.