“I’ll have Stefano verify if there are any public events happening tonight,” he says. “And keep our men on Martello. The moment Clinton steps inside my estate… that is when Martello disappears.”
Spike’s already on his phone, relaying instructions.
I pull mine out and call Patch.
“She’s fine,” he says before I can even ask. “She woke long enough to drink broth. Gave me a glare while doing it. Took her meds. Went back to sleep.”
I exhale.
“Is that much sleeping normal?” I ask. “She was out earlier, too.”
“Tank,” Patch says dryly, “have you never been sick?”
I rub a hand down my face.
“It’s normal,” he continues. “Her body’s burning energy fighting that fever. Rest is part of the process.”
“How are her lungs?”
I hit speaker so Spike and Maverick can hear.
“A little raspy on the left,” Patch admits. “Some mild congestion, but her oxygen levels are solid. No crackles that concern me. I’m not even slightly worried. Which means you shouldn’t be either.”
“How the hell am I not supposed to worry?” I snap. “I’m three thousand miles away, and the woman I love is so sick she can’t keep her eyes open.”
Silence on the line for half a beat.
“Because I’m there,” Patch says evenly. “Because you trust me. Don’t you trust me, Tank?”
Fuck.
“Of course I do,” I say, jaw tight. “It’s not that. I’ve let her down so many damn times it feels like I’m doing it again.”
“I get it,” he replies. “But this isn’t you running from her. This is you handling business, so it doesn’t follow you home. Focus on ending it quickly…without rushing and screwing it up. Her fever hasn’t spiked again. That’s good. By the time you land back in California, she’ll likely be upright and bossing people around.”
That actually helps.
“Thanks, brother,” I say quietly. “How’s everything else?”
“We’re good,” Patch chuckles. “Bree’s teaching Asher how to braid hair. Asher’s teaching her motorcycle parts.”
“That’s my boy,” Spike laughs from beside me. “We should be in the air sometime tomorrow if this goes clean.”
“Good,” Patch says. “I’ll call if anything changes. Stay sharp.”
The line goes dead.
I sit back against the seat, staring at nothing.
Three thousand miles.
Too damn far.
“We have six hours to kill,” Maverick says. “Who wants to come with me to check on my businesses and threaten a few people for pissing me off?”
What I want is to get this shit over with so I can go home and become a domesticated house husband.
But threatening people sounds fun, too.
