“He’s not going to want to leave,” I said quietly.
“Then you’ll have to convince him. Because if you don’t, he’s going to be dead within forty-eight hours.”
The line went quiet, and I could hear the weight of truth in Gabriel’s words. Carlo wasn’t the type to wait around once he’d identified a threat. He’d move fast and decisively, probably tonight or tomorrow at the latest.
“Where do you suggest we go?” I asked.
“Somewhere remote. Somewhere Carlo’s people won’t think to look.” Gabriel paused. “What about that cabinupstate that Rafael used for the witness protection case last year?”
Rafael had told me about it—a small, isolated place in the Adirondacks, miles from the nearest town. No cell service, no internet, no connection to the outside world. It would be perfect for keeping Charles safe.
“Fine,” I said. “But I want daily updates on the NYPD’s progress. And if they don’t have Carlo in custody within a week?—”
“They will. I’ll make sure of it.”
The call ended, leaving me alone with the weight of what I had to do. I shoved the phone back into my pocket and tried to figure out how to tell Charles that his life as he knew it was about to come to a screeching halt.
FIFTEEN
CHARLES
The rhythmic motion of chopping vegetables was exactly what I needed. Onions first, diced small and uniform, then carrots cut into perfect little rounds, celery sliced thin. Each cut was precise, controlled, the sharp blade moving through the vegetables with satisfying efficiency.
Beef bourguignon wasn’t exactly quick weeknight fare, but that was the point. I needed something that would keep my hands and mind busy for hours. Something that required attention to detail and patience—two things that might help me forget that a murderous mob boss had been standing in my bakery a few hours ago, smiling at me with those cold, calculating eyes.
The beef had been searing in my heavy Dutch oven for the past ten minutes, filling the kitchen with the rich scent of caramelized meat and red wine. I’d already rendered the bacon until it was perfectly crispy, setting it aside to add back in later, and now I was building the base of the stew—onions and carrots going translucent in the bacon fat, a generous splash of burgundy to deglaze the pan, fresh thyme and bay leaves for depth.
This was my sanctuary. In here, surrounded by the familiar tools of my trade and the comforting aromas of a meal slowly coming together, I could almost pretend everything was normal. That I wasn’t hiding from a killer. That the gorgeous man currently pacing around my back porch wasn’t a cop assigned to keep me alive. That the flutter in my chest every time he looked at me wasn’t getting stronger by the hour.
I added the beef back to the pot, along with enough wine and stock to barely cover it, then slid the whole thing into the oven. Three hours at a low simmer, and it would be perfect—tender meat falling apart at the touch of a fork, vegetables melting into a rich, velvety sauce that would make you forget all your troubles. At least, that was the theory.
I was washing my hands when I heard the back door open, followed by the heavy tread of Eamon’s boots across the hardwood floor. Something about his footsteps sounded different—more urgent, less relaxed than they’d been when he’d stepped out to take his call.
“Everything smells incredible in here,” he said from behind me, but his voice was tight.
I turned around, drying my hands on a dish towel, and immediately, I knew something was very wrong. Eamon’s face had gone pale beneath his stubble, and there was a tension in his shoulders that hadn’t been there twenty minutes ago.
“What happened?” I asked, my stomach dropping like a stone.
He ran a hand through his dark hair, looking like he was trying to figure out where to start. “We need to sit down.”
“That bad?”
“That bad.”
I followed him into the living room, my heart starting to race again. What could’ve possibly happened? I’d just started to feel like maybe, possibly, we might have bought ourselves some time with my lie to Carlo. But the expression on Eamon’s face said otherwise.
“Carlo went to the banquet hall after he left your bakery,” Eamon said.
My blood turned to ice water. “Oh god. Is he okay? Steve, I mean— Is he hurt?”
“He’s fine. Physically. But, Charles…” Eamon leaned forward, his green eyes dark with what looked like guilt. “He told Carlo the truth about when you were there. The real timeline.”
The room tilted sideways. I gripped the arm of my chair, trying to stay upright as the implications hit me like a freight train. “What exactly did he say?”
“That you arrived around nine-thirty, not nine. That he saw you leave when he came back from getting chairs at ten-fifteen.” Eamon’s voice was gentle but relentless. “Carlo knows you lied to him. Which means he knows you’re the one who overheard his conversation.”
I couldn’t breathe. The careful story I’d constructed, the timeline Eamon had made me practice until I could recite it in my sleep—all of it was worthless now. Because Steve, sweet, honest Steve, who couldn’t lie to save his life, had unknowingly signed my death warrant.
