23. Cat
— ? —
Cat
Several weeks have passed since we arrived at the farm, and the days have settled into something almost peaceful. I’m twenty-six weeks now, the baby growing bigger every day, and Max has been present. Actually present, in a way he never was during those cold months at the house.
Taking Dante out with the farm cart is his idea.
“You need fresh air,” he says at breakfast, watching me push scrambled eggs around my plate. “You’ve been inside for three days straight.”
“I’ve been writing.”
“You’ve been hiding from the world and calling it productivity.” He stands, clearing dishes. “Dante needs exercise. You need a change of view. There’s a bench seat and suspension involved. Everyone wins.”
“I’m twenty-six weeks pregnant. I’m not exactly in riding shape.”
“No saddle. We take the cart along the level path, and if you feel uncomfortable, we stop. Or we can walk. Your choice.” He holds out his hand. “Come on. Trust me.”
The thing is, I’m starting to.
By late afternoon, I have reluctantly saved my work and let Max tempt me outside.
Dante walks ahead of the little cart, broad and unhurried between the shafts.
The padded bench has room for us side by side, and Max has tucked a folded blanket behind my back.
His arm rests along the seat behind me. I have the reins for now, with his hand close enough to help.
“You’re a natural,” Max says beside my ear.
“I rode as a kid. Nonna had a mare named Biscotti who was basically a very large dog with hooves.”
“Of course she was called Biscotti.”
“She named every animal after food. The goat was Cannellini. The chickens were pasta shapes. She said it kept her appetite honest.”
“Which explains the goose.”
“Cannoli’s the last of the food-name dynasty. She was here when Nonna died and she’s held the line ever since.” I lean against his shoulder. “I’m glad you kept the tradition.”
“I didn’t name the horse. The rescue did.”
“And Dante just happened to come pre-named after an Italian poet.”
“Pure coincidence.”
“You’re a terrible liar.”
“I’m an excellent liar. I just stopped bothering with you.”
The path narrows and the trees close green overhead, and for a little while there’s no war past the tree line and no faction waiting, just the quiet turn of the wheels and the warmth of him beside me. His hand drifts on my thigh. Idle, at first. Then not.
“You’ve been tense for days,” he murmurs.
“I’ve been writing.”
“You’ve been grinding your teeth in your sleep.” His mouth drifts to the side of my neck, unhurried. “Let me do something about that.”
“We’re in a cart, Max.”
“He’s very discreet.” Max takes the reins and guides Dante into the clearing.
He stops the cart, sets the brake, and climbs down to secure the horse beside the grass.
When he returns to the bench, I turn toward him.
His hand slides inward along my thigh, slow, giving me room to stop him. I don’t take it.
He palms me through the tights first, slow and firm, the heel of his hand pressing right where I need it while his mouth works a lazy line up the side of my throat. My hips chase him before I’ve decided to.
“So much for discreet,” I breathe.
“He hasn’t said a word.” His teeth graze my ear. “No one comes down this path without passing the gate. Let me handle the rest.”
His fingers slip under the waistband of my riding tights and find me already wet, and the sound he makes is low and wrecked against my hair. He strokes through me, unhurried, while Dante grazes beside the stationary cart, utterly uninterested in us.
The leather seat creaks as I turn closer. I catch his forearm, not to move it, just to hold onto something solid while the world softens around the edges. He brushes his mouth against my hair.
“Come here,” he says. “Rest against me.”
I rest against his shoulder, safely supported by the broad bench, and close my eyes. His fingers find their rhythm. His other arm settles around my shoulders, drawing me closer when I lean into him.
He keeps the rhythm maddeningly patient. Every time I try to hurry him, he kisses the side of my throat and slows again. My free hand fists in his sleeve. Sweat prickles at my hairline despite the cool air.
“That’s it,” he breathes. “We have time. You just feel that.”
It coils tight and low and fast. My thighs press against his hand, and the helplessness of that, the slow inevitability of it, drags a sound out of me that scatters a bird off a branch.
“Is this good for the book?” His voice is filthy and amused against my ear. “For research.”
“Yes-” I gasp it. “God, yes. Don’t stop.”
“Wasn’t going to.”
He works me to the edge and holds me there, and then two fingers curl and his thumb presses just right and I come apart with my hand tight in his sleeve and the woods blurring green around me.
I shake against his chest and he strokes me through all of it, murmuring into my hair, holding me close on the bench until I can breathe again.
When I can breathe again I turn my head and kiss his jaw. “Filthy. In a farm cart.”
“I promised fresh air.” He eases his hand free and tugs my tights back into place with the same care he uses for the belly, then kisses the spot below my ear. “Consider it inspiration. I expect a dedication.”
“You’ll get a footnote.”
He’s laughing, low, about to make some smug remark, when Dante raises his head from the grass and turns toward the drive.
Then I hear it too. Tires on the gravel drive, down through the trees.
“Someone’s coming.” Max goes still beside me, the ease gone between one breath and the next. He climbs down to free Dante, then returns to the bench and takes the reins. “Ready?” I nod, one hand braced on the side of the cart.
He turns Dante toward the drive and keeps him to a steady walk. We emerge from the trees just as a black sedan rolls to a stop by the farmhouse.
Nico gets out.
He looks like hell, gray-faced, eyes shadowed, moving with the urgency of someone who’s been running on adrenaline for too long.
“We need to go,” he says before we’re even out of the cart. “Right now. Don’t pack, don’t stop, just go.”
“What happened?” Max is already helping me down, positioning himself between me and the car.
“The location’s compromised. Two men were stopped at the lower road. One had the turnoff marked and your names on the page. Enzo’s guards are holding them there. Sergio knows where you are.”
“How?”
“We don’t know who gave it to him yet. But we need to move before he sends more.”
“Where?”
“The house in the hills, with the infirmary. Bruno checked it himself this morning. I spoke to him again before I left. He says it’s clear, and the men on duty are the ones we approved.”
Max hesitates, and I can see him running calculations. “That was supposed to be a last resort.”
Max calls Bruno himself. I can hear the familiar voice answering, steady and impatient with the questions until Max asks about the lower gate. There is a pause. “Still sticks on the left,” Bruno says. “Same as always. Get her here.” Max ends the call, frowning. It is the answer he expected.
“This is the last resort.” Nico’s voice is raw. “Max, please. I can’t, I can’t lose you both because we waited too long.”
I’ve never seen Nico scared before. He’s always been the steady one, the second-in-command who keeps his head when everyone else is losing theirs. Seeing him like this, gray and desperate and barely holding together, makes the danger feel real in a way it hasn’t until now.
“Let’s go,” I say.
Max looks at me. “Cat-”
“He’s right. We can’t stay here.”
“If this is a trap-”
“We checked the names together. You just spoke to Bruno.” I squeeze his arm. “Tell Enzo where we’re going. We don’t disappear from his people, whatever happens.”
He nods once, decision made. “Nico, drive. We’re right behind you.”
He sends Enzo the address while I watch, and one of the Romano cars follows us out. I keep my phone in my hand. We are leaving a place someone has found, not giving up every line back to help.
The secondary safehouse is nothing like the farm.
It’s modern, low-slung, all glass and concrete nestled into a hillside. As we pull up the long drive at dusk, I can see the property spreading out below us, a pool glowing blue in the fading light, an outdoor bar beneath a wooden pergola, tiki torches flickering along the water’s edge.
It looks like a luxury retreat. The kind of place where rich people come to escape their problems.
“You own this?” I ask as Max helps me out of the car.
“It belongs to the family. We use it for… sensitive situations.”
A guard at the gate waves the Romano car toward the service drive. I watch it turn behind the house; it should bring our men out beside the kitchen.
“That’s reassuring.”
“It has a medical suite. Reinforced walls. Multiple exits.” He’s scanning the property as he talks, that tactical awareness I’ve come to recognize. “You’ll be safe here.”
“Where’s the staff? I don’t see anyone.”
“Skeleton crew. The fewer people who know we’re here, the better.”
Nico has already disappeared inside. Max takes my arm and guides me toward the main entrance, past the pool with its underwater lights, past the bar with its rows of bottles gleaming in the torch-lit dark.
The glass doors slide open.
And there, standing in the living room like she owns the place, is a woman I recognize all too well from our year of marriage.
Lucia Moretti. Max’s mother.
“Massimo.” Her voice is cold, cultured, dripping with disappointment. “You certainly took your time.”
Max’s hand tightens on my arm. “Mother. What are you doing here?”
“I could ask you the same thing, dragging your pregnant mistress across the countryside like some kind of fugitive.”
“My wife. Not my mistress.”
“The Romano girl.” Lucia’s eyes slide to me, taking in my disheveled appearance, my visible pregnancy, every detail that falls short of her standards. “The embarrassment that keeps on giving.”
“Watch your mouth.”