I flicked the phone open and punched in the number I’d memorized months ago, just in case. Pressed the phone to my ear. Listened as the line connected.
Toot too?—
“Rothwell.” A curt, no-bullshit voice clipped out.
Drawing in a deep breath, I curled my fingers into my palm and pressed until blood gushed from the skin. “It’s Tierney.”
A hum of satisfaction escaped the federal agent. He had a massive hard-on for the Ferrantes. Bringing them down was his career goal, and he was one hell of a go-getter.
“It’s about the flowers,” I drawled.
“Where are you calling me from?” he asked evenly.
“A burner.”
“Call a friend and ask them to meet you at your regular nail salon. Walk in there with them an hour from now. I’ll wait at the back.”
He wanted to make sure no one suspected I was meeting him. No doubt to protect his investigation, not me. From the little I knew about Rothwell, he was more ruthless than all the mobsters I’d met combined.
“I’m bringing a USB containing receipts.” I hung up the phone and tossed it across the couch, closing my eyes. When I opened them, I studied my surroundings one last time, knowing I was never coming back to this place.
Once I got my bearings, I grabbed my real phone and texted my friend Jessa to join me for a mani-pedi.
Sure, her response popped up immediately.
I’ll fetch some coffee. Can’t wait to hear about your Italian wedding!
Said Italian wedding seemed a lifetime away. One weekend with Achilles changed everything.
Most of all, me.
My next phone call was to Sam Brennan, an underworld fixer Tiernan had on retainer.
“Yes?”
“Sam.” I stood up and strode to my walk-in closet, pulling out a duffel bag. “Are you in Switzerland or the States?” He split his time between both.
“Boston.” His pronunciation of the word left no room for doubt it was his hometown. “What do you need?”
“A fake passport.”
“A good one?”
“Yeah. It needs to pass inspection for an international flight. Several, maybe. And every governmental system it’ll be run through.” I unzipped the duffel, tossing in clothes I needed. I stuck to basics—nothing flashy. Things that’d be comfortable to be on the run in.
“How soon?” he demanded.
I snorted. “Yesterday.”
“All right.”
“And…Sam?”
He didn’t answer. Just stayed silent. I gulped. “Please don’t tell anyone you’re doing this for me or my new name.”
“I don’t work for the Ferrantes.” He quickly did the math, his tone dry and oddly comforting. “I’m an independent contractor. As such, I have loyalty only to one person—myself. Call me from a burner in about two hours.” He hung up.
My next move was to withdraw as much cash as I physically could, but I was going to do that after a shower.
