“A man in my position does not have the benefit of friends,” I share. “I may have allies and underlings. But I now have confirmation of a traitor in my midst. I am taking steps to ensure both our safety.”
She sets her fork down, focusing on me. “What steps?”
I don’t answer. Instead, I reach for the mug on the nightstand—I set it there before I woke her—and hand it to her. “Drink some tea.”
She brings it to her lips. The first sip makes her freeze. “This isn’t…” She gazes at the mug, then at me. “What kind of tea is this?”
I reach into her nightstand drawer, where I cunningly tucked the object. Brand-new, expensive, the tin is one she mentioned in her diary from a tea shop she visited with her mother.
Setting the mug down, she snatches the tin, reading the label with reverence. “Oh my God! I love this. The shop closed. And I’ve been trying to find it foryears. Where did you get it?”
I tuck a few tendrils of her hair behind her ear, my fingers brushing her cheek. She goes still.
“Now, Darlin, I can’t share all my secrets.”
One of my trusted contacts, who knows where to find anything in this city, tracked it down.
“How did you know?” Her voice cracks.
I rub my lips along her neck. “Your diaries made for informative readin’ material.”
She freezes and turns to look at me, her face flaming hotter than the sun. “You—you read my diaries?”
I pull back, unrepentant. “The pit bull doodles were quite cute. You clearly love them. But you don’t own one.”
She shakes her head, her throat tightening. “Not anymore.” She cradles the mug in both hands, taking another sip. “If you’ve been reading my diaries, you would know she died.”
I skim my knuckles down her arm. “Didn’t get that far yet. What was her name?”
Though her fingers tighten around the mug, her expression softens, the grief rising to the surface. “I named her Maggie.” The words thin at the edges. “After Maggie Smith. My favorite actress. Mom and I were planning a trip to Highclere Castle when…” She trails off. “Well, it just didn’t happen.”
Her shoulders tense, her gaze drifting far away.
“I’m sorry for the loss of your mother. Some losses don’t fade.” A loss I know well…unfortunately.
Her expression flashes with anger first—how dare he—but the tears come, and she blinks rapidly, trying to hold them back. How long since she cried those particular tears?
“H-how much did you read?” She turns away.
But I tilt her face to me with one finger. And brush a tear from her cheek.
“I stopped at the passage where you mentioned the first anniversary of her death.”
I don’t mention the overdue medical bills I found in one of her diaries. Or the entry where she talked about dropping out of nursing school to care for her mother.
She’s not ready for that conversation.
She pulls away, exhaling deeply. More tears hover just beneath the surface.
“I am not talking about my mother’s death with the head of the Irish fucking mafia.” Regret crosses her expression. The words came out sharper than she intended.
I raise my hands. “Just as good as the next guy, Darlin.”
She makes a scoffing sound, but feisty. “Yeah, if the next guy is Dracula.”
“Ouch.” I feign a wounded expression.
She smiles. Real, soft, and genuine. “Thank you for breakfast. And for the tea.”
