“I can protect you, Nash. It don’t matter if you’re runnin’ from one man or a whole country’s goddamn government. I’ll keep you safe.”
Chapter Fifteen
Raelynn
While the cat devours his first indoor meal, I pull a cube steak out of the fridge. After I told Nash what I do for a living, he only asked one question.
“Do all of those people—the ones you work with—know about me?”
My answer—yes—wasn’t what he wanted to hear. He said he needed space, so for the past two hours, he’s been down in the basement, putting my electrical panel back together.
Ryker’s number flashes across my phone screen, and I pop in one of my earbuds. “Yeah?”
“Tank is set up at a hotel two miles away. He and Graham will take shifts watching the traffic cameras in your area. If your security system goes off, they can be there in under five minutes. West and Inara are staying at Nash’s place tonight in case the shooter comes back. You got anything new?”
I angle a glance into the living room—at the basement door. “He’s scared, Ry. If I push him too hard, he’ll run.”
“So that’s a no.”
“It’s a maybe.” Pulling out the flour, seasoned salt, and pepper, I try to decide how much to tell him. “Wren was right. He wasn’t born Nash Grace.” Ryker’s silent long enough, I finish beating the eggs before I crack. “No. I don’t have his real name.”
“When this is all over, you’re getting a refresher course on interrogation. From Trevor.”
I cringe. The former CIA assassin is one of the only men in the world scarier than West and Ryker. Last week, I would have cussed Ry a blue streak for implying I’m not doing my job. But instead, I ask, “Do you trust me?”
He doesn’t hesitate. “Yes.”
“Then give me until tomorrow. He’ll talk to me. But it has to be his choice. When he’s ready.”
Ry grumbles something unintelligible, then sighs. “I’ll check in at oh-eight-hundred. But if you don’t have anything by then, I’m paying you a visit. With both the SEALs.”
He hangs up before I can say another word. “Well, that went well.”
“What has to be my choice?” Nash asks. I drop the large piece of steak, and it hits the counter with a splat.
“Shee-it. I didn’t hear you come in.” I nod at the fridge. “Lettuce, tomatoes, cucumbers, and ranch dressing. Take care of the salad, will ya’?”
“Answer my question first.”
“That was my boss.” I fiddle with the knob on my ancient stove until the flame catches, then slide the cast iron skillet onto the burner. “He asked for an update. I didn’t give him one. Not one he wanted, anyway.”
Nash stares at me for a beat, then moves to the fridge. “So my name…?”
“I’m walkin’ a very narrow line, Nash. The folks I work with are a family. One I didn’t ask for. But they all dropped everythin’ to help me—and you—today. I didn’t ask them. I didn’t have to. Until you give me the okay, what you told me stays between us. But we can help you. If you let us.”
I finish dredging the steak and wipe my hands. Nash doesn’t say another word as he washes the lettuce and cuts the vegetables.
“Bring all that to the table. I got beer and Dr. Pepper. Help yourself to whatever you want. The gravy takes ten minutes.”
He twists the cap off a bottle of Shiner Bock and leans against the wall, watching me recreate another of my mama’s recipes. “Nathan Rossi. Son of Angelo and Stella Rossi.”
“That name supposed to mean somethin’ to me?” I steal a sip of his beer and pull the steak from the pan.
“Twenty years ago, the Rossi family controlled more than fifty percent of all illegal gambling in Chicago.”
I whistle. “Organized crime. So the car accident…was a mob hit.”
“There was no car accident,” he says, shaking his head. “That was a cover story. My family was murdered.”
