Chapter 19 – Thiago
Nineteen
Thiago
As an officer, I’m trained to run toward danger and protect lives even at the expense of my own. I could tell myself that training is what sends me charging toward Remi without hesitation, but the fear ripping through my chest has nothing to do with the badge.
My feet can’t carry me fast enough as I sprint toward the lobby, desperate to see her and confirm she’s unharmed. I have no idea who fired or whether this is a random attack, but the possibility that she was the target sends my adrenaline spiking.
Remi is already crouched there with her gun in hand, and the second I see she’s okay, relief floods through me.
“Braga, are you armed?”
“Yeah. What the fuck is happening?”
“Just me and this son of a bitch exchanging a little friendly hello.” She yanks a spare magazine from her boot, slams it into her Glock, then rises just enough to fire several rounds at the shooter.
I pat my pockets, searching for my phone to call for backup, only to realize I left it in the truck after my conversation with Elena.
“Shit.”
I shove my keys into Remi’s hand. “Go out the back door, get in my truck, and use the radio to call for help.”
She looks at me like I’ve grown another head.
“Fuck that plan. I’m not leaving.”
For one stupid moment, I wait for her to add “without you,” and the fact that I want to hear it tells me exactly how fucked I am.
I draw my Sig and return fire. Remi rises beside me, and together we keep the shooter pinned until he exposes himself long enough for us to take the opening. He drops near the front door.
“He asked my name,” she says, breathing hard. “Then he pulled his weapon.”
“Do you know him?” I ask as I reload.
Shaking her head, she starts toward him, but I step in front of her, keeping my gun trained on the body.
“Stay down!” I bark. “Keep your hands where I can see them.”
He doesn’t move, and the only sounds he makes are wet, choking gurgles.
“Remi, do you have your phone? I need to call this in.”
She doesn’t answer as she edges around me, moving closer to the bleeding man sprawled near the door.
“What are you doing?”
“I need to see something.”
“Don’t get close to him.”
She kneels anyway, ignoring me as if I’m no longer in the room.
“Remi,” I grit out.
Before she can touch him, tires screech on the pavement outside. My attention snaps to the front windows as two blacked-out cars barrel into the lot, and armed men pour out.
Fuck.
This wasn’t random.
“Incoming!”
Remi’s head snaps up, but there’s no time to explain. I sprint toward her, hook an arm around her waist, and haul her up as I run toward the back of the shop.
“Thiago!” she shouts. “Put me down. What is it? What did you see?”
I kick open the back door and set her on her feet. “More men. Armed. Move.”
That’s all it takes.
She runs beside me toward the truck, and I yank open the passenger door.
“Get in.”
For once, she doesn’t argue.
I barely wait for her door to slam before throwing the truck into gear. The tires spin as I punch through a chain-link fence and tear down the back alley, checking the rearview mirror until several turns put enough distance between us and the shop that I’m certain no one followed us.
“What the hell happened back there?” I demand.
“What makes you think I know?” she fires back. “I’ve never seen that bastard in my life.”
I believe her.
“Can you think of any reason someone might target you?”
She stares through the windshield, her lips pressed tightly together as her breathing slowly evens out.
“No.”
This time, I’m not sure I believe her. She won’t look at me, and there’s a stiffness in her posture that wasn’t there a second ago.
But I don’t push.
She was just shot at and nearly killed. No matter how composed she looks, nobody walks away from something like that unaffected.
“I have to call this in. You’re going to have to stick around for questioning.”
“Take me home.”
I exhale slowly. “Remi, I can’t do that. There’s probably surveillance footage, and we can’t sweep this under the rug.” I look over at her. “I need you to understand that.”
Her gaze finally meets mine. “Of course.”
There’s something in the way she says it that makes me wish I could give her a different answer. Reaching across the console, I take her hand, half expecting her to pull away.
She doesn’t.
“I’ll be with you every step of the way,” I tell her.
“I’m fine. It’s not my first time dealing with cops.”
Her other hand remains clenched in her lap, fingers working something inside her palm. I’ve seen her do this before when she’s tense, rubbing whatever she keeps hidden there beneath her thumb over and over.
I still have no idea what it is.
A passing streetlight catches a flash of metal before she closes her fist, concealing it from view.
The truck idles in the condominium parking garage. She didn’t ask me to take her back to the other place like last time. She asked me to bring her home.
After hours of questioning, statements, and enough paperwork to make my head split open, they finally released us.
Both our weapons were confiscated pending the investigation, but not before half the department stared at Remi like she was some kind of wild animal sitting calmly among them.
A few looked at her a little too long for my liking.
Through all of it, she stayed close to me. Maybe not physically, but whenever someone approached or another question was thrown her way, I could feel her attention shift toward me. She never asked me to stay, but she never tried to push me away either.
Now we’re sitting beneath the building where she actually lives, and I’m beginning to understand what it means.
She’s letting me in.
“Are you hungry?” she asks suddenly.
“I can take you wherever you want to go.”
“No.” She shakes her head. “I mean, do you want to come up? Eat something?”
My grip tightens on the steering wheel before I realize I’m doing it. “I’d like that.”
The elevator to the penthouse requires biometric access, similar to the hidden garage at the warehouse. Remi stands beside me as the scanner reads her fingerprint, close enough that our arms nearly touch.
And I like having her there.
“Are you sure you’ll be safe here?” I ask. “Fingerprint scan or not, everything has a loophole, and we still don’t know who’s targeting you or why.”
“This place was purchased under an alias,” she says casually. “There’s no record of me owning any of my properties.”
“Properties?”
Her eyes find mine, and for the first time since the tattoo shop, a smirk tugs at her lips.
“Yeah. I’m a trust fund baby, Officer Braga. What can I say?”
The reminder of her family’s wealth brings everything I know about them rushing back. Money like theirs comes with a history steeped in blood.
It’s easy to forget that when I’m standing inches away from her.
Another biometric pad grants us access to a second door, this one thicker and built to withstand far more than an attempted break-in. I study the steel frame and reinforced locks, wondering how much protection is hidden behind the walls.
I can feel her watching me, probably waiting for the questions to start, but I keep them to myself. I’ve gotten this far with her, and the last thing I want is to make her feel that bringing me here was a mistake.
Besides, after what happened tonight, I’m relieved to know that getting to her here wouldn’t be easy. Then the irony of that thought sinks in. She has multiple layers of security designed to keep threats out, yet she just invited one upstairs without realizing it.
The difference now is that I hate being that.
“Leave your shoes by the door,” she says, already kicking out of hers.
I toe off one boot, then the other, my attention fixed on her as she moves through the foyer. Maybe I’m a son of a bitch, but not watching the sway of her hips or the way those leggings hug her ass would be a damn crime.
As if she can feel my eyes on her, she glances back, biting her bottom lip, making my fists clench at my sides.
This fucking woman is going to kill me.
“What are you in the mood for?”
You.
“Anything, really. Whatever you have,” I say, following her into the kitchen.
She tugs open the fridge, nearly disappearing behind the massive double doors from my angle, leaving only the top of her head visible.
While she searches, I take in the penthouse around me.
Polished stone and dark finishes stretch beneath floor-to-ceiling windows overlooking the city, but it’s the smaller details that hold my attention.
A half-finished sketchbook sits on the kitchen island beside a bowl of lollipops, and a set of expensive keys lies tossed on the nearby marble.
My gaze drifts into the living room, where her leather jacket hangs over the back of a designer chair.
Motorcycle gloves sit nearby, and what look like tattoo reference sheets cover part of the end table.
The place is undeniably expensive, yet Remi is everywhere I look.
She moves through the kitchen with restless energy, opening one cabinet before changing her mind and moving to another. Watching her here, surrounded by all the things she loves, I finally understand why she keeps this place so well protected.
This is where she comes when she wants the rest of the world shut out.
“How about pizza?” she asks, balancing on her toes to reach the top shelf of a cabinet.
I never thought I’d associate the word adorable with someone like Remi, but watching her stretch for something she can’t reach makes it impossible not to think of anything else.
My gaze travels down her body before I force it back to her face. She’s beautiful, as I’ve known since the second I met her, but this feels different.
“Pizza is good,” I manage.
She snatches her phone off the counter and starts pulling up a menu. “Pepperoni?”
“What do you want?”
“Oh, I don’t share, Braga.” She shoots me a look over her shoulder. “So what I want is irrelevant.”
I laugh. “Sounds a little selfish.”
“No,” she says, leaning against the counter. “Protective. What’s mine is mine. There’s a difference. Plus, I have to really like you before I share.”
Pulling out my phone, I open the Notes app. “Goal number one,” I say as I start typing, “get on Remi’s good side so she’ll share her favorite foods with me.”
“You’re a cop. You’ll never be on my good side.” She eyes me with a grin.
“Really?” I ask, stepping closer. “Because I distinctly remember you sharing your chilaquiles with me once.”
Her eyes narrow.
“By your own rules, that means you liked me.”
“That was a lapse in judgment.”
“Sure it was,” I say with a grin.
I stop directly in front of her, close enough to catch the faint trace of smoke and something sweet lingering on her skin. She tips her face up to mine, and my mind immediately goes to what she’d look like pinned beneath me, those pretty red lips put to better use.
“So you bring all your cop friends to this maximum-security penthouse?”
She laughs softly, shaking her head. “I don’t have cop friends.”
“Then let me be your first.”