Liam studies it.
"Have it memorized?" Sean asks.
"Yes."
Sean grabs the paper, goes to his fireplace, and lights it on fire. The edges curl and incinerate. Then he hits buttons on the safe. He directs Liam, "Put your palm on it."
Liam walks over and presses his hand on the screen.
It beeps several times, flashes red, then green, then blue. It pops open.
Before Liam can see anything, Sean shuts it. He reiterates, "Only if they take us out. Promise me?"
Liam nods. "Okay. I'll give you some leeway. You have my word." He spins, and his eyes dart between us. He finally orders, "Make sure you do whatever it is you need to do. I don't want to have to open this." He gives us a final look and then walks out.
27
Valentina
Fiona drags the back of her wrist across her forehead, smearing flour in a streak that would irritate her on any normal day. Today, she doesn't care. She stands in front of the mixer, watching the dough hook turn inside the gleaming bowl, its thick weight slapping against the metal.
She woke up wanting three different kinds of cookies, a lasagna big enough to feed an army, homemade pasta, and the lemon-ricotta cake my mother used to make for every occasion. Zara, who never misses an opportunity to brag about anyone she loves, told Fiona, "I'm a 'little Italian kitchen witch' who can cook anything without measuring." So Fiona called me this morning and asked me to come over.
The invitation was welcome. Being bored has a strange way of making my thoughts turn heavy. Every time things get quiet, an odd, crawling uneasiness settles into my bones. It's been weeks without an Underworld message. And the same routine of my exhausted husband coming home in the early morning hours, only to shut himself in his office with a determination to find out the truth behind Kirill and Fiona's attempted assassination seems to never end. So, I nearly leapt out the door when she called me.
Now we're two hours into alternating between laughing, kneading dough, scolding each other for forgetting ingredients, and making an ungodly mess of her oversized gourmet chef's kitchen.
But then Brax texted, and the atmosphere turned heavy.
My stomach keeps dipping as though it's tracking a storm I can't see. The wooden spoon in my hand drags slowly through the bowl of creamy ricotta and sugar, creating smooth, pale swirls. I glance at the clock again.
Fiona notices. "You've looked at that clock nine times in the last ten minutes."
Heat creeps up my neck. "Sorry."
"Don't apologize." She turns off the mixer and leans a hip against the counter. "Is everything okay?"
"I don't know." I stir the bowl with more force than necessary. "Brax has something going on. He told me he's coming over and I can't leave without him."
Her eyebrows lift. "That's all he said?"
I nod. "He didn't want to talk about it over the phone."
She takes a deep breath and slowly releases it.
I ramble, "He's burning the candle at both ends. He barely sleeps, and when he does, he jolts awake like his brain refuses to let him rest."
Fiona narrows her eyes slightly. "Sounds familiar. Kirill does the same thing. That man would rather swallow a bullet than admit something's wrong to me."
"Same as Brax," I murmur.
She pushes off the counter, wipes her palms on a towel, and gestures at the ricotta. "That looks yummy."
"It is," I assure, then lose myself in the quiet rhythm, continuing to stir, yet my chest tightens. Brax found something, and it's so bad that he doesn't want me outside Kirill's protection.
What did he find?
My mind races. I finish making the dessert, and there's a buzz.
