Again, I conceptualize just how awful that would be, the knife twisting a little deeper. Worse, a second assassin was hired: Ian. Which means either they don’t think Icando it—being a mom and all (insert eye roll and middle finger)—or someone really wants him dead, and fast. It’s entirely possible Ian’s not the only other killer sent after Brian.
So Brian is in danger. And realistically, anyone nearby is too. Me. The girls. Our freaking dog.
“Because I consider you a friend, I won’t kill him—yet.”
I nod. “I have to go, but can you stay in town? There’s more to it. And since when do they send multiple killers after one mark?”
Ian tilts his head, raises a dark brow, like he hadn’t considered that. “Just what does your husband do, Nadia?”
I start to sayHe’s a management consultant, but the words die at my lips. “I don’t know,” I say instead. “He’s been lying to me about a lot of things.”
“What do you want me to do?”
“Can you meet me tonight? Around midnight?”
Ian nods. “Sure.”
Chapter Thirty
On the way back, Istop in the ladies’ room to make sure I’m not bloody, covered in dirt, or speckled with rubble. Also, I finally get that cactus spine out of my ass. I weave a story as I walk back out to the dining area:A bride was having a panic attack. I had to talk her down—
Prior to this wholehe needs to diething, I hated lying to Brian. And I hate that I hate it. The early days, when lies came fast and easy, when guilt simply didn’t exist, were far simpler. The second I catch sight of him—on his own phone—my heart palpitates. The vision of his head blowing to pieces Ian-execution-style plays on repeat in my brain, and my hand flies to my chest—No, no more panic attacks.No fucking time for them.
I smooth out my dress, take a breath, glance around. Any of these people could be hitters. Brian’s like a fish in a barrel, utterly vulnerable.
I can’t lose him.
A desperate flood of emotion smacks into me like a wave, pulling me under, pounding me with sand and leaving me bruised before I make my way to the surface again for air.
An hour ago, I was planning his death; now I can’t imagine life without him. I don’t recognize this woman. I am cold, calculated Nadia. Not an overly emotional wife on the verge of a panic attack.
Someone really wants Brian dead.
They hired me. They hiredIan. Who knows who else they put on their payroll? This isn’t how things work, not usually. I just can’t figure outwhy.
Brian catches sight of me and gives a big smile, a wave. He points to his phone—held up to his ear—then rolls his eyes in exasperation, as if to say he can’t help it. But it distracted him, kept him from noticing just how long I was gone. A basket of bread sits on the table but no entrées yet.
I survey the restaurant as I cross to him, noting the other patrons, the entrances, the windows. No one and nothing is safe. As I sit down, I realize that this isn’t just a matter of sorting out what his crimes are and how I judge them—if I kill him or let Ian kill him orwhateveris the right answer here—it’s also about keeping him alive long enough to get to the bottom of it.
Or what if his crime is being married to me? I hadn’t considered that. I do my best to keep my family out of my work, but it’s possible someone knows, someone figured it out. It’s also possible the agency set me up—to test my allegiance or maybe to see if I really will take on big targets.
“Sorry about that.” Brian ends his call. “Everything okay?”
Mutely, I nod. I wonder if Ian will help me—in sorting out what Brian’s done but also in keeping Brian alive. It’s not really his sort of thing. In his eyes, people are expendable, replaceable. What does it matter if I kill my current husband, because I can always get another one? But I won’t be able to do this on my own, not while ferrying the girls around and with Brian’s work schedule.God forbid he travel for work right now. That would be a death sentence.
Across the room, a plate clatters to the floor, and I jump.
“Whoa. It’s just a plate.” Brian’s hand rests on my wrist.
And it is just a plate, cheap ceramic dishware, but it’s also a restaurant with no fewer than four entrances and exits. A maze of a dining room with half walls for privacy and to control the noise. I walked right through the emergency exit—twice—and the alarm didn’t even go off.
We need to leave. I can’t keep him safe here.
“You want to get out of here?” I say it just a touch suggestively.
Brian’s eyes widen. “Huh?”
A server walks by with plates of food in her hands. Brian’s gaze follows; he’s obviously hungry. I can’t suggest we just have sex in the BMW; I’ll need more than that to tear him away.
