I nod in agreement before the bathroom door closes. The second it clicks shut, something in me changes.
The joking part steps back. What replaces it is sharp. Focused.
Without a word, the three of us head upstairs to the conference room. The warmth from downstairs burns off fast. The air here feels colder, tighter.
Boone stands at the whiteboard, arms crossed. Chance paces by the window, forest light spilling across his shoulders.
“We need to find out everything we can about Vincent Caruso,” Boone says. “If he’s what she says he is, we can’t risk him tracing her here.”
Chance nods. “I’ll dig into his financials. Legitimate fronts leave trails.”
I take my seat and open my laptop. “I’ll handle the darker corners. Forums. Encrypted channels. If he breathes in the wrong chat room, I’ll hear it.”
“She said his men showed up at her apartment the day after she left,” Boone adds. “That means he’s organized.”
“Organized, not invisible,” I reply, fingers flying. “I’ll find him.”
For a while, the room fills with the hum of processors and the clack of keys. My mind keeps replaying the look on Roxie’s face, the fear, the shame.
She apologized for bringing this to our door.
She doesn’t understand yet. It’s her door now too.
Boone scans his screen, already thinking three moves ahead. Chance leans over my shoulder, eyes tracking data streams.
This is what we do.
Protect. Plan. Eliminate threats.
“No one talks to her about this yet,” Boone says after a few minutes. “Not until we know what we’re dealing with.”
“And if Caruso knows where she is?” Chance asks quietly.
I don’t hesitate. “Then he’s going to wish he didn’t.”
18
ROXIE
Idon’t sleep much. Every time I close my eyes, I see their faces when I tell them everything, and despite my overwhelming exhaustion, I spend most of the night tossing and turning.
Boone’s expression went stone-cold serious. Chance’s jaw ticked like a freaking clock. Dillon’s hand tightened around mine like he could anchor me to something solid.
It took everything I had to say those words out loud. I spent weeks trying to pretend the nightmare back in New York hasn’t followed me here. That I’m not the stupid girl who interrupted the private conversation of a mob boss, overheard a death sentence being passed down.
But now that it’s out there, it feels like something inside me cracks wide open. The weirdest part is that they don’t look at me like I’ve ruined their peace. They look at me like I’m theirs to protect.
The bath Boone drew for me smelled faintly of cedar soap, steam rising gently from the surface and wrapping me in a hug inhis absence. Chance queued up a playlist he claimed he made especially for me, with quiet guitars and low, raspy voices that soothed my nerves in a way I didn’t know I needed. Dillon showed up with a cupcake like it was the cure for trauma.
It kind of worked.
Lying in that tub last night, I realized something I was ready to face. I’ve never been cared for like that. Not by a boyfriend. Not by my parents.
My aunt raised me, and she and Madison are the only people who ever looked out for me. But my aunt worked long hours, and Madison’s version of care is sending me packing halfway across the country.
Until now, I mostly took care of myself, but I can’t afford to think about that. I have bigger problems.
While in town yesterday, I had snuck a purchase into the basket, scanning and bagging it before Chance saw.
