I lean forward, peering at my plate. It's stuffed mushrooms. Large cap-shaped fungi overflowing with some sort of cream filling and baked to a golden brown. My eyes dart up to the server, a young woman with a friendly smile.
“This isn’t right,” I blurt out, my voice a bit sharper than intended. “I didn’t order this.”
Her smile falters slightly. “Oh, I'm so sorry, sir. Let me just…” she reaches for the plate, but I hold up a hand, stopping her.
“Wait,” I say, my brows furrowing. “I specifically ordered the bruschetta. I'm very particular about my order. I always specify no mushrooms.” I rake my brain as I try to figure out what happened. There's no way I misspoke. I've been ordering the same appetizer for years, regardless of the restaurant. And today, they served me the most mushroom-heavy dish on their menu. “I don’t understand.”
Natalie offers a small smile to the server. “I’m sure it was a simple mix-up.”
“It doesn't feel like it,” I say, more to myself this time, making a face as I stare at the appetizer. Just the thought ofputting one of the mushrooms into my mouth is enough to make me ill. “It's fine, I'll have the calamari, please.”
The server’s expression softens. “I apologize again, sir. Let me take this back and get you the calamari right away.” She reaches for the plate, and this time, I let her take it. As she turns to leave, I find myself left with a lingering sense of unease. Messing up my order with a different dish wouldn’t have mattered as much, but the mushrooms feel like a personal affront.
“So, you hate mushrooms, huh?” Natalie says in an effort to lighten the mood, but I can't shake the feeling in my chest enough to return it.
“Yes, I’ve hated them since I was a child,” I offer, distracted. “Excuse me, I’ll be right back.”
Natalie offers me another smile as I get up and head toward the bathroom, but I don’t go all the way in. Instead, I stop at a small alcove and pull out my phone, cursing when I realize I forgot to turn it on when I left the office. The screen lights up with messages when I turn it on, but there’s only one name I am interested in, and when I see it, I smile. That is, until I open the message.
My brows furrow in confusion when I read the message from Fiona telling me not to contact her anymore and to stay away from her. Then I open the picture she sent, and my heart drops to my feet. It's a screenshot of what appears to be the security camera feed of the restaurant. In the picture, Natalie is kissing my cheek—her way of thanking me before I left—but without context, the gesture looks intimate. Heck, even I would think it was intimate if I wasn't fucking there when it happened.
Goddamnit.
I dial Fiona’s number to explain the situation, but I’m sent straight to voicemail. I dial the office and ask to speak to Fiona, but I'm told that today is her day off. Fuck, she did mention that last night, but it slipped my mind. This whole mole thing has been fucking with my head for days. Still, I can't blame this date on that.
I curse myself for a fool as I slide my phone back in my pocket and walk back to the table. The calamari is already on the table and looks appetizing, but I’m not sure I can stomach anything at the moment.
“I’m sorry, Natalie, but I need to leave,” I inform her. “Something just came up that I need to take care of.”
“Oh,” she says, her brows drawing close with concern. “Is everything okay?”
“No, I say, reaching for my wallet. “I need to leave. Now. I’ve covered your lunch, so you stay and enjoy it.”
“Go,” she says. “You’ve been nothing but honest with me. And Valentina will be here any minute.”
“Are you sure?”
She stands and pulls me into a quick hug, then presses a kiss to my cheek. “Thank you, Lorenzo. For everything. Now go fix whatever's wrong.”
I don't need to be told twice.”
I hail a taxi the second I step out of the restaurant, dialling Fiona’s number the rest of the ride to her apartment, but she doesn’t pick up or respond to any of the messages I send. The elevator ride to her floor is the longest, but when I get there, she doesn’t answer the door either.
Fuck!
I consider waiting outside for her to calm down and let me in so we can talk, but I can't imagine going yet another second without sorting things between us. So against all judgment, I pick the lock and storm inside. A quick look around her place is enough to tell me that she’s not there.
Where the fuck is she?
I call the O'Shea Protection Services office, but they inform me she isn't there either. Her phone is off, so I can't fucking track her location, and it seems everyone was expecting her to stay at home.
I wander into her living room, hoping to find some clue about where she could have gone. When I see the files spread on her coffee table, I realize she was working on the mole case. Guilt rolls through me in waves. Here she was, helping me with a case that didn’t concern her at all, and I wasn’t here with her.
I scan the printed pages she left out—login records, security logs, metadata analysis. She's marked up an employee file with notes in red pen. It takes me all of three seconds to realize what it is I’m looking at. The traitor. The thief who’s been stealing from my family and selling our information. She found him.
And then my stomach sinks when I realize that she must have gone to confront the mole.
No, no, no.
