Mom pauses long enough to take a deep breath, which is the only warning I get that she’s about to launch herself into a long, epic-like speech.
“I need to finalize the menu for your dad’s birthday. I’m thinking surf and turf because you know how he loves a good steak, but Leo says we should do that Greek place instead because of the lamb, which your dad also loves—”
“Mom,” I interrupt, my head spinning from trying to keep up. “Slow down. You know he’ll love whatever you pick.”
She huffs. “But what do you think? I know it’s almost six weeks away, but time will fly by, and—”
“What?” I almost screech, immediately hating myself for not walking outside as soon as she called.
A pause, then, “Don’t tell me you forgot your dad’s birthday, Honey. Honestly, he was with me for all those sixteen hours. He suffered too.”
“Mom,” I whine around a bite of the sandwich that’s suddenly tasting like ash.
Now it’s her turn to laugh. “We talked about it when you came home to visit.”
Shit. With everything happening with Matteo, I’d completely lost track of time. My family celebrates birthdays like national holidays—especially my dad’s, which always involves a weekend of festivities. In other words, it’s perfection.
“I didn’t forget,” I defend. “I just lost track of the days.”
“Well, you’re coming home, right? Your dad would be crushed if you missed it. Leo and Ollie are coming. It’ll just be the five of us unless you bring someone too.” I have no idea how my mom manages to sound both hopeful and reproachful. Mom powers, I suppose.
I twist a strand of hair around my finger, stomach sinking. “Umm…” Do I tell her about Matteo? No, there’s nothing to tell. “I’m not sure I can make it this year,” I hedge.
“Lena Raven Carter.” Mom’s voice drops to dangerous levels. “Even while you lived in Paris, you came home for your dad’sbirthday. I don’t see why being one state away would make it impossible.”
God, I hate how good of a point that is. While Mom goes on and on about how much it would mean to Dad, I mentally go through my options.
One; disclose my arrangement with a violent Mafia enforcer who owns my perfect ass because I stole from him. I’m sure she’d then understand why I’d have to miss a family gathering.
Two; find a way to bring up to Matteo that I need time off. Do fake girlfriends who are doing weird spy stuff get time off?
“… you need to try harder, sweetheart,” Mom says firmly.
My throat tightens with unexpected emotion. Even though it’s only been a few weeks since I saw them, I miss my mom’s too-tight hugs and my dad’s terrible jokes. I even miss arguing with Leo about everything and nothing.
“I’ll be there,” I promise, already dreading the conversation with Matteo. Will he even let me leave Cleveland? The thought of asking his permission makes me want to scream.
I sit there in my office with my phone glued to my ear long after the call’s done. What the hell do I do?
Well, the only way out is through. Find the mole, finish the favor, get my life back.
I stare at my screen, words blurring as my brain starts connecting dots. PR is just control—of narrative, of people, of what they reveal without meaning to. That’s all spying is too.
Okay, this is good. Now, I just need to evaluate the time I’ve spent with Matteo and see what needs improving so we can go our separate ways.
I spend most of the afternoon analyzing every single minute I’ve spent with him, and what I’ve discovered isn’t good. So far, every night has had the same rhythm, the same timing.
Every eye turns when we walk into the Leone Room. By this point, it’s not attention anymore; it’s expectation. We’re on a schedule that makes everything seem rigid and… performative.
And since I’m not just a pretty face with a magnificent ass, I need to come up with a solution that stops Matteo from killing his own mission.
Selling optics is what I do, and that means I’m good at reading a room. And I do believe the answer is distance. Now, selling Matteo on that is a different beast. One I put off tackling as long as possible.
When the workday is almost over, I can’t postpone it anymore. So I text him.
Me: Come to my place for dinner tonight.
Psycho Bastard: Are you cooking for me, Little Thief?
