I don’t know where I’m taking her. I just know she’s not fucking leaving.
My phone vibrates against the console.
I glance down.
Angelo.
Fucking Angelo Amato. I forgot his father just passed and the damn text when I landed about the Armenians.
Fuck.
I answer on the second ring.
“I got the text,” I say before he can start. “I’m on my way.”
Ayla turns her head sharply. “Who is that?”
I ignore her.
On the other end, Angelo goes quiet for half a beat. Then, “You sound preoccupied.”
I glance at her again.
Her arms are still folded, eyes narrowed, mouth set in that angry little line that makes me want to bite it until it softens.
“I have… a visitor,” I say. “But I’ll swing her by my safe house.”
Her hand slams into my arm.
Hard.
I don’t look at her.
Angelo huffs something that might be a laugh. “Don’t bother. Drop her here. We’re keeping the women together anyway.”
“No,” Ayla snaps immediately. “I’m not going anywhere.”
“Ayla,”I murmur, but keep driving.
The silence on Angelo’s end says he heard that.
“Fine. I’ll drop her there. Ivan can pick her up after.”
I end the call.
She twists toward me fully now, anger burning hot enough to feel. “Ivan can get me from where?”
“The Amatos.”
That does it. She goes still. Not angry still.
Worse.
The kind that makes me look at her twice.
Her face doesn’t change much, but something in her body pulls tight all at once, every muscle locking under that ragged sweater like she just got dropped into ice water.
I look back at the road.
