“Hungry?” I ask when he finishes half the cup.
“Yeah, let’s eat on the couch. It’s more comfortable for my shoulder.”
Gabriel pulls on sweatpants one-handed while I grab a pair of his lounge pants from a drawer he points out. The fabric hangs loose on my narrower hips, but the length works fine.
The couch cushions welcome us with perfect support, neither too soft nor too firm. Gabriel settles at one end while I take the other, the breakfast cart between us. We share food without discussion, passing plates back and forth, his knee bumping mine when he shifts position.
“These eggs are perfect,” Gabriel says, breaking the comfortable silence.
I hum in agreement around a mouthful of bacon. “Your kitchen staff are incredible.”
“Not my staff,” he corrects. “Family staff. Big difference.”
The distinction matters to him, I realize. Anotherreminder of his uncertainty about his place in the Rockford hierarchy. I don’t argue the point, focusing instead on the fresh berries that share no resemblance with the half-moldy fruit I buy at the discount grocery near my apartment.
My apartment. The thought triggers another realization.
“I should tell Micah I’m here,” I say, setting down my fork.
Gabriel snorts, then winces. “I’m sure someone already told him, and he’ll be knocking on our door any second.”
“Your family are all gossips.”
“Sebastian would have told him as soon as he knew we were safe.” Gabriel reaches for more toast. “Your bestie has my brother wrapped around his dainty little finger.”
“As he should.”
Gabriel laughs, then groans and holds a hand to his ribs. “Don’t make me laugh.”
“Reconsidering not taking those pain meds?”
“We’ll get your fingerprint added to the door lock so you can come and go whenever you want,” Gabriel says, ignoring my suggestion. “You’re not a prisoner here.”
“But you want me to stay here,” I guess.
“I do.” Gabriel sets his plate aside. “We need to talk about Tony.”
The food I just ate turns into a solid ball in my stomach. “What about him?”
“He’s still free,” Gabriel says, not sugarcoating the facts. “His operation is collapsing, most of his lieutenants arrested or in hiding, but that only increases the risk.”
“A cornered animal,” I agree.
“Exactly.” Gabriel shifts, wincing as the movement pulls at his injured shoulder. “Your apartment isn’t safe anymore.”
“I can take care of myself.”
“You’ve already proven that,” he soothes. “You survived juvie. You killed Winters. No one questions your capability.”
The simple acknowledgment of my strength defuses my defensive reaction. This isn’t about my abilities, but about practicalities.
“Tony has your address,” Gabriel continues. “He has resources. Connections. Your building has no security system, no cameras, no doorman. Those are facts, not judgments.”
Put that way, I can’t argue. My apartment, with its cheap lock and fire escape accessibility from the alley,might as well have a welcome mat out for anyone determined to get inside.
“The manor has state-of-the-art security,” Gabriel says. “Motion sensors, armed personnel, and bulletproof glass. If you stay here, Tony would need an army to reach you. Those are also facts.”
“What about work?” I ask, testing the waters.
