Tessa pushed to her feet. “Try not to kill him before lunch,” she said, wry amusement tugging at her lips as she headed for the door.
“No promises.”
Late morning slipped into early afternoon. I cleared a few more emails, made two quick calls, and by the time the clock hit 12:40 p.m. my focus was gone. Numbers blurred together—sterile and lifeless.
Space. Air. My body craved both.
Lucio’s called my name—the same pizza as last night, the same comfort. Only two blocks away; the walk was quick, the memory of Emma’s laughter tangled with the smell of tomato sauce already waiting for me.
Lucio himself, an elderly man straight from the streets of Naples, lifted a hand the moment I walked in. “The usual?”
“Yes, please.” I loosened my tie and took my corner booth. Worn red-leather seats held together with duct tape and dreams, a dinged-up table, crayon stains spattered across it from too many family meals.
The place buzzed with midday chatter—cutlery clinking, laughter spilling between tables, garlic and tomato thick in the air. When Lucio set the pizza in front of me, he grinned. “Two days in a row, huh? You eat here a lot, but usually not back-to-back.”
“Had company last night. Had to show them the best pizza in town.” Appreciation bled through.
“Yeah, yeah.” He waved me off. “Flattery won’t get you free pizza, Holt.”
“Believe it or not, this is the second time in seventy-two hours I’ve been accused of flattery for personal gain.” I laughed.
“I’m sure.” He turned to another customer. “You’re a weasel.”
The insult carried no weight—only the teasing ease of people who’d broken heavily basiled bread together.
The first bite burned the roof of my mouth, but I didn’t care. It was perfect.
Habit made me reach for my phone before I could stop myself.
Emma: My back feels so much better today!
I smiled, my response already forming in my mind.
Me: Glad to hear it. I’ll send an invoice for my services later.
Her reply landed before I could set the phone down.
Emma: I’ll give you two dollars tonight and call it settled.
I grinned.
Me: Two dollars and one more text from you, and we’ll call it even.
No response.
The black screen reflected the light from above as I set it beside my plate and took another bite. The crisp crust and molten cheese filled my mouth, but it couldn’t curb the uncertainty of her silence.
By the time I returned to Falkirk, the building had slipped back into its sterile hum.
Two more calls. One more report. My inbox—clear. On paper, I was productive. In truth, I was counting down.
My gaze flicked to the corner of the screen—1:56 p.m.
The door crashed open seconds later. Nathan Bell, early as always when he smelled blood.
He never knocked—like Tessa—but without an ounce of her grace. The door smacked the wall as he lumbered inside and threw into the armchair opposite me. The wood groanedbeneath him. Sweat beaded along his receding hairline, his shirt buttons threatening to surrender.
“You’re early.” I glanced at the clock.
