“Okay. What is this Kosta guy’s last name?” Rhys asks gently.
“Orlov,” I say on a swallow.
Rhys blinks, but there’s a subtle change in his expression that makes me think maybe he knows the Orlov family.
“Do… Do you know him?”
“No. Never heard of him.” Rhys stands and glances around. “How long will this guy be in jail?”
I’m coming for you.
Those terrible words ring through me. Rhys is finallystepping up to be a good boyfriend. I can’t risk losing him now.
“He was sentenced to ten years,” I say, which is the truth.
“When?”
“Seven years ago.” I twist a pillow tassel in my fingers to get through the lie.
A slow breath leaves him. “Good. He’ll rot for a while.”
My stomach flips. “Rhys…?”
“Don’t worry, love.” He drags a hand through his hair, gaze sharpening. “While Kosta is in jail, it gives me time to put things in place. I’ll make sure that if he’s still alive by the end of his sentence, he will never go near you again.”
Chapter 23
Rhys
Iknock twice on Fallon’s door and adjust the sweater that showed up on my bed last night when I got home from a surveillance shift. Never before would I be caught wearing a red sweater with a felt Santa appliqué on the left breast pocket. But the upside to this indignity is that no one will ever suspect I’m a killer for the Irish Mob.
When there’s no answer, I press my ear to the front door and hear bickering.
“I only took three leaves,” Fallon huffs. “You’re being dramatic.”
I listen for a response, but there is only a beat of silence.
“Fine. Four. And you’re lucky I don’t let you blossom, you little grump.”
“Fallon?” I call out to her.
“Shoot! Quiet, everyone.”
The door flies open, and she stands there like a fever dream wearing a long green velvet skirt, a red sequined off-the-shoulder number covered in stitched golden reindeer. But it’s the red satin ribbons woven through braids in her wild red hair that’s got my blood moving.
South.
Jaysus fucking Christ, she’s the most gorgeous thing I’ve ever seen.
“Who are you arguing with?” I ask, looking past her shoulder.
“Basil.” She waves at the plant on her counter, his leaves suspiciously sparse. “He says the people at Friendsgiving don’t deserve my cooking. That they’re not my real friends.”
I blink. “And yet…you spent all day cooking for them.”
Anddragging me along.
Her chin tips up, defiant. “I committed. I honor my commitments.”
