His cover was simple: another man escaping the noise of the big city for the solitude, hunting, and so-called peace of a small mountain town. He even looked the part—flannel shirt, beat-up jeans, scuffed boots. With an open-carry license, a gun on his hip drew no stares.
He caught his reflection in a shop window and snorted. If anyone from the city saw him now, they’d think he’d lost his mind. “Look at you,” he muttered. “Tonio the Lumberjack.”
Even in blue flannel, what he was never left him—the way he scanned a room, the way he moved. Rural didn’t mean safe. Tonio never stopped watching and calculating the dangers in a room or on the street.
Intel on the girl was sparse but reliable enough to sketch a rough picture. Luc’s briefing: twenty-three, college graduate, part-time graphic designer and part-time freelance journalist, small-town human-interest pieces, recently lost her mother, no known father. That last fact mattered most. His job: make sure it stayed that way.
She’d been poking around for a couple of weeks, asking the wrong questions in a town where strangers stuck out. She used her real name to check into the Pine Crest Lodge, racked up late-night diner tabs, and appeared in grainy surveillance photoshesitating at doors—curious, inexperienced, and unaware of what she might uncover.
There were three motels in town: one rented by the hour and one crowded with families and chaos. That left the Pine Crest, tucked away near pines and junipers, perfect for those looking for a quiet retreat. Quiet enough to disappear into.
The room was clean and smelled of lemon and beeswax. The springs groaned as he dropped his duffel, the carpet clinging to his boots. Small towns like this were easy to read but dangerous in their complacency. He mentally reviewed what might work best for his mark. Casual encounters were the cleanest, quietest. He’d staged enough to know the script by heart: a glance held a beat too long in a restaurant, a pool hall game, a shared laugh over a spilled drink, a cigarette behind a dive bar at 2:00 a.m. None of it had happened yet—but it would. Small moments dressed up as coincidence. Sooner or later, he’d understand enough about her to know what made her crack. Not everyone cracked the same way, and not many in his line of business understood that. He had once watched Maretti’s men beat a rival enforcer half to death, pull his nails, and even rip out teeth, yet nothing made the man talk. Tonio did his own digging and found the lover the enforcer had hidden away. He showed him a picture he had taken of her on his phone, and the man broke, sobbing as he spilled everything.
Tonio had to get close enough to understand his mark, to know exactly where the break in her armor was. Only then would he act.
He plucked the file up again and scanned it. She’d been asking too many questions for too long; that much was clear. There was no indication in the file that she had help. What did she want, exactly? To learn who her father was? And for what purpose? Some imagined reunion? He scoffed and tossed the file aside. The woman should be on edge, wired, especially if she hadbeen denied answers. After whatever she might have uncovered about her mother, she would be strung tight. One wrong move and she would bolt.
If she knew no one here, perhaps she would be receptive to a friendly face. Even if it came from a stranger.
He booked the room next to hers. A quiet tip to the overworked front desk clerk got him her room number. Through the paper-thin wall, water ran—her shower. He smirked, rolled his neck, and sat on the bed. Time to set things in motion.
By the timethe sun began to dip, Tonio had already walked the town twice. Blackwater Falls wasn’t big: a handful of stores, a gas station with a convenience store, a diner stuck in the eighties. Strangers were noticed but not questioned as long as they kept to themselves. The opposite of his target’s behavior.
He was on his way back to the motel when a flash of dark hair caught his eye. Tonio slowed, then stepped into a pocket of shadow so he could watch her. She stood in the soft glow of the afternoon sun, a worn leather bag slung over her shoulder. Five-five, maybe, but her posture made her seem taller. Head high, shoulders squared. Quiet confidence mingled with exhaustion. She was beautiful enough to make him take notice—warm olive skin, tousled brunette hair that fell past her shoulders, full lips curving around a coffee cup. She didn’t try to be striking. She just was. It was damn odd, but something in her expression tripped his heart to beat faster.
He walked in the shadows, moving closer to her. Distracted by her phone, she stepped off the curb. Tonio timed it perfectly, brushing just hard enough to slosh the coffee.
“Shit,” she muttered, jerking her hand back as drops hit her sleeve.
“Ah, hell,” he said, his tone apologetic. “Didn’t see you there.” He lifted his phone to suggest he was, too, distracted. “Got to stop texting and walking at the same time.”
She looked up, green eyes sharp, catching the light just enough for him to see their brilliance. The sight hit him like a fucking arrow to the chest. Beautiful, yes, but guarded too, layered with suspicion he knew all too well. He lived his entire life trusting only his family, and he recognized that wary look instantly.
She was assessing him; he could see it in the slight delay before she spoke.
“It’s fine,” she said, dabbing at the spill. Her gaze flicked from the empty curb behind her to the angle of his approach, then back to his face. “Accidents happen.”
“Still, let me get you another one,” he offered smoothly. “Least I can do after my clumsiness.”
She stared, her gaze seeming to strip away the pleasantries. “You’re a terrible actor.”
Tonio’s smile twitched. “Excuse me?”
“You walked into me on purpose. What is
this—pickpocket, scam, or weird pick-up flirting?”
Impressed, he chuckled. “Always suspicious of strangers offering coffee?”
“Only when they suck at pretending to bump into me.” Her tone softened, but her eyes remained sharp. “So… what’s your angle?”
He lifted a brow. “No scam, no flirting. Just trying to start a conversation.”
She eyed him, wariness mixing with curiosity. “That so?”
“Swear on the coffee gods.”
“I am tempted, since I have never met anyone else who gives homage to the coffee gods, too.”
