16
Cade
My custom-made Ducati’s engine dies, and with it, the chaos of the last hour.
The sudden silence makes me acutely aware of every small sound around us—the rustle of leaves, the distant hum of a lawnmower, the faint chatter of kids playing somewhere down the street—normal, everyday sounds that will never be part of my life. It’s comforting and painful all at once.
Luna’s hands linger on my abs, her fingers tensing like she’s fighting the urge to let go. My lips quirk up before I can stop them. Again. It’s been a long time since anyone’s amused me this much.
“Where are we?” She finally loosens her grip and slides off the bike, all toned thighs and sun-kissed skin. Her eyes dart across the unfamiliar surroundings as she braces against the Ducati, finding her legs.
“ One of my pit stops,” I reply. “A place where I keep supplies. Among other things.”
I glance back at my sister’s house—a squat, tidy bungalow nestled in a row of four nearly identical homes. It’s got that classic suburban charm: a freshly painted white porch, hanging flower baskets swaying in the breeze, and shutters that match the deep green of the lawn.
It used to be my crash pad between hits before Sophie moved in with that prick she’s so obsessed with. Now it’s mine, with all the perks of a hideaway and none of the strings.
I case the street. Three weeks gone, and everything’s exactly as I left it—a picture-perfect suburban dream. Neat rows of houses, gleaming windows, and family cars dotting driveways. The kind of place where people wave at each other while watering hydrangeas or talk about kids’ soccer practice over backyard fences.
But underneath the charm, Pond Street is a crime black hole. My brother-in-law’s paranoia about Sophie’s safety, combined with my need for secure supply lines has turned this block into a no-go zone for troublemakers. One wrong move here, and perps have a habit of vanishing without a trace.
The CCTV camera above Gertrude Willoughby’s porch blinks blue—memory full again. Gertrude is phenomenal with animals, but technology? Not so much. Too bad my guard dog can’t handle that for her.
“Hello? Earth to Cade.” Luna’s voice drips with sarcasm. “I hate to interrupt your glowering contest with the neighbors, but some of us are still waiting on the grand tour.”
I glance at Luna, taking in her torn, soiled clothes and the defiant tilt of her chin. On the surface, she’s the type who should blend seamlessly into this suburban facade, yet it’s almost comical imagining her playing house here.
“ Come on, let’s go in.”
I turn and stalk toward the house, staunching the sudden insane urge to grab her hand.
Leave her the fuck alone Cade. Let her decide to follow you. Or not.
As soon as we step inside, the scent of Sophie’s lavender candles hits—a reminder of normalcy in my decidedly abnormal life.
The living room is a study in coziness—throw pillows, neatly arranged magazines, mood lamps. I’ve kept Sophie’s decor untouched for two years, a small indulgence in nostalgia for the only home I allow myself.
I glance at Luna as she takes in the room with a raised brow, and I mentally start counting down the seconds until she says something snarky.
“Interesting place, Cade.” Her dimples peek temptingly as she smirks. “I know you’re not the scented candles and potpourri type, so I’ll assume it’s your girlfriend’s place. Though I didn’t peg you’d go for the Martha Stewart type.”
“Not my girlfriend’s.”
“Ah. Wife then? Ex-wife?” Her eyes dance with mischief. “Let me guess—one who thinks you work in finance?”
“Nope.”
“Oh, wait—”
Her smile widens. “Your friend’s wife? No . . . your enemy’s wife. One whose neck you’d love to wrap that rosary around.”
A warmth blooms in my chest at her guess. “You’re in the ballpark.”
The smile drops off her face as she asks, “About which part?”
I point to my rosary, and she visibly shivers, an involuntary reaction that looks suspiciously like excitement .
You fucking wish . Just because she hasn’t run screaming doesn’t mean she can handle your brand of dark.
I huff out an amused breath, then abruptly turn and head for the kitchen, where I keep the burner phone for Sophie.
“You’re excused!” Luna calls after me.
“Ah, quelle politesse!” The French rolls off her tongue, and damn if my lips don’t quirk up again.
She’s got a mouth on her. Sophie used to hold the crown for the snarkiest tongue, but this woman? Different league entirely.
The back door opens to a sun-drenched lawn. I punch in Sophie’s number, scanning the area on autopilot. Each ring ratchets up the tension.
“Hey, Sparrow,” I greet her by her childhood nickname.
“Well, well. Look who decided to come up for air.” Sophie’s voice crackles with familiar sass. “Was starting to think you’d gone native wherever you’ve been hiding these past two months.”
She has no idea I’ve been in Chicago, right under her nose. But ignorance keeps her safe in our world.
“Let me guess,” she continues, “you’re craving a home-cooked meal and a glaring contest with Nico?”
I swallow the retort. Her husband and I will see eye-to-eye when hell freezes over. But the kids are a different story. “How are the twins?”
“Oh, amazing! They’re more like their father every day. Just yesterday, Nico—”
Fucking hell.
I press my index and middle fingers to my temple in a mock gun. My razor-sharp sister, turned into this simpering housewife. What wouldn’t I give to put a bullet in that bastard’s skull.
“Soph,” I cut her short. “I need clothes.”
“For you? Cade, if this is a cry for help—”
“ Not for me.” I pinch the bridge of my nose, bracing for impact. “Listen. Clothes in size six, shoes—seven and half, and . . . C cup. Got it?”
Dead silence. Then Sophie’s laugh explodes through the speaker, a sound that usually brings me joy. Now, it grates like steel on concrete.
“Did you just say C cup? Are we talking about a real woman here or a mannequin?”
The headache building behind my eyes intensifies.
“Oh my God! This needs documenting. It’s fucking historic!”
I count to ten. Slowly. “Cool it, Sparrow. It’s not a date. She’s on the run and needs something to wear.” Given Luna’s usual taste, off-the-rack isn’t likely going to cut it. “Make them expensive. Comfortable, too.”
“Ooh, fugitive chic.” Sophie’s voice drips honey. “I like her already.”
“Soph, it’s not what you’re thinking,” I warn.
“I know, Cade, but a girl can wish for a sister. Or a brother. Hell, I’ll take any human at this point, Cade. Although I like the sound of this one. Tell me more.”
I chuckle, even as irritation flares. “How about this? She sells sex. And she’d sacrifice a limb to pitch her business to your husband.”
Sophie’s squeal pierces my eardrum. “Sex! As in . . . toys?”
I glance skyward. “The Bliss Xpress or something equally demented. And an escort app.” Despite myself, a grudging admiration sneaks into my voice. “A red zone bottled up complete with bells and whistles.”
“Oh my God. I fucking love her! Nico will be all over that like a rash.” Her laugh rings out. “Wait till I tell—”
“Hey,” I cut her off. “No parroting.”
“Fine,” she snaps back. “Whatever.”
“The clothes. I need them yesterday. Send one of your golden retrievers, will you?”
Sophie huffs, but I hear her smile. “Will do. How long are you in town for?”
Guilt twists my gut. “I’ll be airborne in a few hours.”
The line goes dead silent. When Sophie speaks, her voice has lost its playful edge. “Wait . . . you’re taking this woman on a mission?”
I knead the tension at my neck. “I’m not.”
I can’t.
How can I take that wildcard anywhere? Loose cannon doesn’t even begin to describe her. Guzzling down spiked drinks. Boldly confronting her enemies. Having an orgasm in the middle of a deadly chase. The image of Luna moaning for me, Christ, fucking shuddering just from my bike’s vibration, hits me like a punch. I push it away. Hard.
“I’m not taking her,” I repeat.
“Uh-huh.” Sarcasm drips from Sophie’s words. “Whatever happened to dropping distressed damsels on my doorstep?”
My mind flashes to the sixteen broken women from three years ago and all the others I’ve left with Sophie over the years. Her therapist’s heart, her inherent goodness, and her husband’s almost limitless resources—make her the perfect place for the women I save.
But Luna? She’s not in trouble. She is trouble. The kind a man could die getting into. And death is not a luxury I can afford right now.
“She can’t stay with you.”
“Why not?” Sophie sounds more amused than concerned.
“Because she’s She’s Pascal Romano’s niece, Soph. “
I h ear Sophie’s breath catch, almost as if she can still feel Pascal Romano’s hands around her throat.
Three years ago, Pascal Romano killed Nico’s best friend and almost crushed Sophie’s windpipe. Even if Sophie can forgive, I don’t expect Nico would ever let a Romano get within shooting distance of her.
I’m surprised when Sophie says, “I’ve dealt with it, Cade. Besides, this woman isn’t responsible for her uncle’s sins. You can bring her to one of the safe houses. Nico doesn’t get involved with our women—he won’t even know she’s there.”
I huff out a breath, trying to sidestep the real issue. “Her family tree isn’t the only reason she’d be a bad fit.”
“What do you mean?”
I scramble to explain. “She’s . . . difficult. Contradictory. Acts on impulse. Probably borderline unstable.” I pause, searching for more ammunition—more reasons why she can’t stay under my sister’s wing. “Hell, she’d stir up trouble just by walking through the door.”
Sophie’s laugh comes through the line, soft but pointed. “Wow, Special Agent Quinn. You make her sound like a terrorist you’re dying to pin down. She must really be getting under your skin.”
I grit my teeth, refusing to take the bait. Arguing with Sophie when she’s on her psychoanalyst kick is like wrestling with quicksand. “Just get me the clothes.”
She chuckles again. “I’ll have them delivered in a couple of hours.”
“Thanks, Soph.”
There’s a pause, and then she adds, “And Cade?”
I sigh, already anticipating the dig. “What now?”
“Don’t mess this up. I like her.”
I kill the call, but Sophie’s words linger .
Take her to Moscow. With Scar and Kat? Not a fucking chance. Not in a million years.
Back in the living room, I find Luna pacing, her heeled boots clicking a staccato rhythm that echoes my own restlessness. I watch her for a moment, noting the droop in her shoulders and the way her fingers fidget with her pendant. She’s exhausted and scared, even if she’s doing her best to hide it.
She stops mid-step when she sees me. “So. Is anyone following us? I assume that’s what the phone call was about?”
I shake my head. “No trail, but you can’t stay. I leave for Moscow in a couple of hours.”
A flicker of something crosses her face, quickly hidden—but not before I catch it. Another crack in her careful facade.
“I see.” She turns toward the windows to watch a group of kids playing soccer in the street, their laughter and shouts breaking the stillness. “Well, could I borrow your phone, then?”
“Who do you want to call?”
“Uncle Jacques—Oh, wait. I don’t have his number memorized.”
She frowns, thinking it over. “I’ll email him, to pick me up then. You can at least drop me off in Paris on your way can’t you?”
“Sure, I can. We’ll send the email when I get back.”
She whips around to face me. “Get back from where?”
“Just across the road,” I pause, weighing how much to reveal. “I need to check on my dog.”
“You have a dog!” The excitement in her voice catches me off-guard.
“ Yeah. You okay around those?” The words are out of my mouth before I realize it.
She’s not going to see Saint because I’m not bringing him back here. I’m only going to say goodbye, that’s all.
She lets out a short laugh, tension easing from her shoulders. “Of course. I’m fine with dogs. Delilah . . .” She trails off, her smile fading as she remembers her friend’s betrayal. “Delilah has an adorable sausage dog.”
I suppress a snort. The image of Saint next to some fluffy lap dog is almost comical. “Yeah, well, this one’s bigger than that.”
She narrows her eyes, a hint of wariness creeping in. “How much bigger?”
“Considerably.”
Her mouth twists. “Well, as long as he’s . . . housebroken. You know, actually trained.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Unlike his owner, don’t you mean?”
She smirks. “If the shoe fits.”
I don’t bother to respond, determined that she’ll see for herself soon enough. Saint’s no family pet— he’s not fond of strangers, and the feeling’s usually mutual. Even Sophie keeps her distance.
Leaving her surrounded by Sophie’s pastel paradise, I head across the street.