Then I saw Saint.
He was standing near the window, Emmy in his arms, humming softly.
She was awake, staring at him like he was her whole world.
“I’m sorry,” I said quickly. “I didn’t mean to fall asleep.”
“It’s okay,” he said. “She needed a diaper change. I handled it.”
I stared at him. “You… changed her?”
He smiled a little. “She didn’t complain.”
“She never does.” My throat tightened. “She likes you.”
“I never want to put her down,” he said quietly. “I love her.”
Tears burned my eyes.
“I’m scared,” I admitted. “I keep thinking any minute someone is going to walk through that door.”
Saint’s expression changed instantly. Focused. Sharp.
“No one is getting to you. Or her.”
“What if you’re wrong,” I whispered.
“I’m not. Not about this.”
I wanted to believe him.
God, I wanted to.
Interlude
Marco
The first man tells me because he is afraid.
The second tells me because I break his hand.
Either way, I get the truth.
My mother has hired outside contractors.
Not security.
Not investigators.
Killers.
I stand very still in my office in Milan, phone pressed to my ear, and feel something cold settle behind my ribs.
“She said the girl was a problem,” the man says nervously. “That it needed to be… resolved.”
The girl.
Laney.
