She doubled over, arms wrapped around her middle. Her laughter bordering on hysterical, her stomach muscles started to spasm. “You think—” Shit. She couldn’t catch her breath. “You think I went out and got shot on purpose? I love you, and I love Mom, but it was an accident, Adam. I didn’t try to off myself in grief.”
“Maybe not.” He waited for her to gain some control. “But you never should have been in Ruwaished. It wasn’t safe.”
“Truth in pictures, Adam. It’s my calling, as much as saving the world is yours. You, of all people, should understand what that means. Jesus, you’re the one who gave me my first camera. You set me on this path, and now you’re mad at me?”
He shook his head. “I’m not mad. I’m terrified I’ll lose you.”
“Well, how do you think I felt all those times you left? You think I wasn’t terrified?” She poked herself in the chest. “You think I didn’t fall apart when you didn’t come home from Iraq? You put me through hell.”
“I know, and I’m sorry I hurt you. Your photographs are amazing. Honestly, I’m so proud of you. The Syrian refugee series totally blew me away, but…”
“But?”
“I want you to be safe. That’s all.”
“So what now?”
“That depends.”
“On?”
“On whether or not you can forgive me.”
“Do you promise not to fake die on me again?”
“Promise.”
“Okay. I’ll consider letting you off the hook.” She nodded and grinned, feeling lighter than she had in years despite the tears still blurring her vision. “I’ll let you know when I decide.”
CHAPTERTWENTY-EIGHT
Adam’s headpounded like he’d put it through the wall—repeatedly. As far as family reunions went, he considered himself lucky his had taken place over a video call. In fact, the only place better for Gray to be reunited with her dead brother would have been in the vodka aisle at a liquor mart.
When it was all said and done, though, it hadn’t been as bad as he thought it would be. She hadn’t forgiven him. Not entirely. But they were talking. It was a start. Now all he had to do was keep her safe and out of Bodak’s hands.
The bastard wanted to sink his teeth into her—bad—and earlier, he’d hinted he had something that would make her come to him if Kincaid didn’t catch up to her soon.
Adam hadn’t been able to get any more out of him. Not normal behavior for Bodak. He had a high opinion of himself, and under normal circumstances, he’d be trying to engage Adam in a my-cock’s-bigger-than-your-cock contest.
He threw a handful of capellini into the boiling water as his doorbell rang. He didn’t need to answer to know he had no interest in whoever stood behind it. He’d chosen this building for its top-notch security. If someone knocked on an apartment door unannounced, they were already inside as an invited guest. Just not his.
One floor up in his apartment, Victor Bodak had ten grams of coke and multiple well-paid women keeping him off the streets. Adam had no doubt his boss had sent him a two-thousand-dollar an hour distraction.
Tea towel over his shoulder, he opened up. Yep. The call girl looked like she could milk him dry inside of an hour. Nope. He wasn’t interested. He sent her back upstairs with the muscle that had brought her down.
She left with a pout, suggesting she would have preferred his company to Bodak’s. She had no idea, or maybe she did, and that explained the sexed-up, red-lipsticked,I’d rather fuck and suck youpuss. The woman had a body for banging, and Bodak would take notice at some point.
By morning, she’d be twenty grand richer and covered in blacks and blues. A sick prick, Bodak liked to beat on the ladies before he fucked them. Not typically a problem. More than enough women with masochistic preferences were willing to take on the sadistic asshole for the right price.
Under carefully controlled circumstances, the sessions didn’t get out of hand, and Adam’s team had been trained to intervene before any bones got busted. The ones who weren’t arranged for were the ones who were really screwed.
Adam had seen the results of Bodak unleashed only once. The crack addict had become a file with the NYPD’s missing persons unit. For national security reasons, hers was one body that would never be found.
Davis poked a hesitant head around the doorway leading from Adam’s office, and he twitched his head in a come-eat gesture that had the kid bellying up to the counter like it was the last supper.
He tossed the pasta and put a large plate of pesto carbonara under Davis’s chin. Adam didn’t even try to give him a glass of wine. The kid had no taste for it, although the one-eyed grimaces he made when he did give it a whirl were entertaining as hell. Instead, he poured Davis his usual glass of milk on ice and slid it across the kitchen island.
They ate in silence, Adam leaning against the back counter as he studied the teen. A product of foster care, and here because life had knocked him down more than once, Davis couldn’t be classified as a success story or a tragedy. His personal records spotty, his schooling negligible, and his criminal record minor, the kid just seemed—lost.
