Except apparently I did now.
I checked my phone for the third time in ten minutes. No texts from Troy. Nothing since this morning when he'd confirmed the security detail had checked in and the perimeter was clear.
I set the phone down. Picked it up again thirty seconds later.
This was getting ridiculous. I was acting like some anxious spouse waiting for their partner to call, not a grown man who'd survived decades without needing constant reassurance that the people in his life were still breathing.
But Troy wasn't just people. And after yesterday morning, after the gunshot and the shattered window and the very real possibility that we could have been dead if we'd been upstairs, I couldn't shake the need to know he was okay.
A knock on my door made me look up.
Rafael stood there holding two bags that smelled like Chinese food. He was dressed casually today in jeans and a sweater that probably cost more than my monthly rent. His expression was concerned and friendly, the same expression he'd worn for years when checking in on the fighters at the gym.
“Thought you might be hungry,” he said.
I gestured to the chair across from my desk. “Come in.”
He set the food down and sat. Studied me with those sharp dark eyes that missed nothing. “You look terrible, Declan. What the hell happened?”
“Long couple of days.”
“That's an understatement.” He pulled the containers out of the bags and set them on my desk like we were going to have a picnic in my office. “When's the last time you ate?”
I tried to remember. Breakfast yesterday before the shooting. Then nothing until Dmitri had forced food on me last night. “Yesterday morning, maybe.”
Rafael opened one of the containers. Steam rose, carrying the smell of fried rice and vegetables. “Eat. Then tell me what the fuck is going on.”
“Someone shot at my house yesterday,” I said. Picked up the fork he'd set in front of me. “If Troy and I had been upstairs, we'd be dead.”
Rafael's fork clattered onto his plate. “What?”
“A sniper. Put two rounds through my bedroom window.” I took a bite of the food. It tasted good, better than it should have. “Troy and I were downstairs having breakfast. Got lucky.”
“Fucking hell, Declan.” Rafael's face had gone pale. “Someone tried to fucking kill you?”
“Tried to kill Troy. I was just collateral.” I ate another bite. “Whoever's after him figured out where he's staying and decided I was fair game too.”
“Who the hell is after him? What did he do?” Rafael was leaning forward now, all the easy charm gone from his expression. “And why the fuck are you sitting here eating lunch like this is normal?”
“Don't know who yet. Troy's working on it.”
“Troy's working on it.” Rafael repeated. “Someone shoots at your house and Troy's just handling it? What does that even mean?”
“It means he's got people looking into it. Trying to figure out who's behind the attacks.”
“Attacks? Plural?” Rafael's voice went up. “How many goddamn times has someone come after you?”
“This is the third one. Each one more serious than the last.”
“And you're still going to work like nothing happened?” Rafael looked at me like I'd lost my mind. “Declan, you need to get the fuck out of that house. You need to go somewhere safe. You need police protection or something.”
“The police can't help with this.”
“Why the hell not?”
“Because it's complicated.” I set the fork down and met his eyes. “Troy's got his own way of handling things. People who know how to deal with this kind of threat. I'm staying out of it and letting them work.”
“That's not good enough.” Rafael stood up and started pacing. “You're my friend. You almost got killed yesterday. And you're sitting here telling me to trust that your stepson's mysterious people are going to fix it?”
