“Shit.” Bennett’s cuss follows Dom out of the room.
The missing presence is quickly replaced by Ridge’s lumbering body. The two men give one another a head jerk in greeting before Ridge speaks.
“Heard the news. Get her out of here.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
The doors to Ridge’s security building are tall and glass, the words Pelican Bay Security etched out in the frosted glass. It’s nothing at all like what I expect his building to look like. To be honest, I hadn’t given it much thought except for the few minutes it took to drive here from the hospital. So I guess, in a way, it’s a perfect example of what a group of rough tough ex-military guys would have for an office.
Bennett uses one of his long, thick arms to push open the door, holding it so I can walk in. My steps end abruptly when I reach the middle of a large room. Everything, and I mean everything, is grey. The carpet, the chairs, even the walls are painted a light smoky grey color. This is much more of what I expected from a business run by men. In the middle of the room a large dark wooden desk sits at an angle to greet people as they enter.
Except, there’s no one sitting behind it. The desktop is neat and orderly. A flat screen monitor and keyboard use up a small portion of one side. On the other a big, thick black phone rests on an edge. A single light in the top corner flashes red.
Bennett keeps right on walking. I resume my pace, but much slower, my attention falling on the flashing light as we pass by. “Your receptionist has messages.”
It’s such a stupid thing to say at this point in time, but the fact the messages haven’t been listened to annoys me enough to break through the jumbled mess of every other emotion waging a war in my mind.
With a tilt of his head, Bennett spares less than a second of a glance at the flickering light. He laughs. “Yeah, we don’t have a receptionist. Anyone Ridge wants to work with isn’t calling that number.”
Then who is calling it? I want to ask, but I don’t because the main door opens again. This time Ridge rumbles through.
“Spencer’s all set up.” Ridge scans the desk I’m staring at as he speaks but doesn’t seem concerned enough to stop and check the messages either. He walks a straight line right through the lobby, swipes his thumb quickly over a pad by another grey metal door and then keeps on walking.
Bennett eats up the ground behind him and I’m forced to abandon the telephone and all the messages that wait. “Who’s Spencer?”
“Our tech guy,” Bennett answers without looking back.
A long hallway, carpeted in grey with more grey walls, comes to an abrupt end. Bennett steps inside the dark room. When I follow him to the right, the glow of a dozen monitors pierces my gaze, making the room not so dark after all.
“Spencer, this is Anessa. Anessa, Spencer, our tech guy.” Ridge’s introduction isn’t any better than what Bennett explained a few seconds ago.
“Hey,” a guy sitting with his back to us says but doesn’t turn around to make eye contact. “Cameras are up and running at all entry points.”
The monitor screen in front of him flashes and a new image flickers on the screen. One I recognize.
“That’s my bakery.”
The image is a little grainy but the front of my store is easy to recognize even with the pixilation. The front door is closed, but a small group of men loiter around the broken front window. I step forward, my finger outstretched, but stop before making contact with the screen. I don’t want to leave prints on someone else’s glass. “What are they doing?”
Bennett slides up next to me, resting his hand in the small of my back, the skin underneath warming immediately. “Mack is bringing over a few pieces of plywood from the hardware store. They’ll cover the broken window until you get new glass ordered.”
“Oh, that’s nice of them.” I stop before adding a comment about how they don’t need to do that.
I’ve only known Bennett a short time, but I already know arguing would do no good. If he says they are boarding up my window, then that’s what they’re doing. Nothing I say would change his mind. Plus, I do need help. The last time I had to use a power tool, Katy made Ridge’s brother steal it from Mack’s garage. And her plan only went downhill from there.
The image switches again, now to the view of my back door leading to the bakery from the parking lot.
“Wow, two cameras. You’ll see everything.” I stand still, watching a small chipmunk dart back and forth in front of the large green dumpster along the brick wall.
“Yeah, two,” Ridge says turning from the display. “Let’s let Spencer work his magic and go to my office.”
He ushers us from the room, closing the door behind him. Thankfully his office isn’t far, only two doors to the left. I plop down in the first available seat, one right in front of his massive desk. It’s an exact double to the one in the lobby. The entire office matches the rest of the place. Grey. Planned. Clean. Boring.
But it’s safe. No one would dare break one of Ridge’s windows. Both men take seats in the large office as well—Ridge behind the huge desk and Bennett in a chair beside me. He scooches his chair a few inches closer. Any other time the move would make me ecstatic, but right now, in the safety of Ridge’s office my emotions start to seep out. I bite my tongue to stop any tears from forming. Yet, it does no good for the weariness that settles into my bones.
Ridge’s desk is empty. Not a computer monitor, phone, or piece of paper lies on top. He kicks his feet up on top of the desk and leans back in his black rolly chair. “Kevin, the man who used to rent your bakery is a known associate of the Zanetti family.”
Bennett leans forward in his chair. “You’re saying the mob is in on this? For sure?”
