As she leads me through the house, toward the back and the garage, I take in everything. The security cameras. The windows. The doors. The layout of the furniture. The way the light falls in the hall.
It's a nice house. Well-maintained. Clean.
But it's not a fortress. And right now, that's what it needs to be.
She opens the door to the garage, and I step inside.
It's a large space, clean and well-organized, with room for three cars.
One of the bays is empty, but the other two are occupied.
The car on the left is a sleek, black convertible with the top already down. It's a beautiful car, expensive and powerful, but it's also a nightmare for security.
The car on the right is a white SUV. More practical, less flashy. Probably her daily driver.
But however practical it is to drive daily, it's not practical for protection.
We were always going to be taking my car anyway.
She walks to a small key rack on the wall, takes down a set of keys, and hands them to me.
Without a word, I walk to the first car, the convertible, and start searching it by hand.
Chapter Six
Caterina
The car was clean, of course it was clean. He moved with an unnerving economy of motion, not wasted, not theatrical. Just efficient. His hands were not delicate, but the way they moved over the upholstery, under the seats, into the glove compartment, was precise, almost clinical.
He didn't ask for permission. He didn't explain what he was doing. He simply did it, and I was left standing there in the cool, quiet garage, watching a man I had known for less than an hour invade my space with an authority that felt both insulting and, to my immense irritation, necessary.
He finished with the convertible, a car I loved for its speed and its sleek lines, and moved to the SUV. I could feel the judgment radiating from him, a silent appraisal of my choices.
This one was for errands, for days when the weather was poor, for hauling things. Practical. But I knew what he saw: a larger target. Softer corners. More places to hide a device.
He straightened up from the SUV and held the keys out to me, palm flat.
"Satisfied?" I ask with one brow lifted. The question is petty, and I don't care. I'm still annoyed he's here at all.
"I won't know until I do a full sweep with my own equipment," he says. "These aren't secure. But I needed to make sure there wasn't any sort of tracking device on them."
"You think someone would be so obvious?"
"It's obvious because it works. It's the easiest way to track your patterns without getting too close," he says, then looks at the empty bay. "Do you have any other cars or use any other type of transportation?"
"No," I say. "These are the only two I use."
"Good," he says. "We won't be using them."
My jaw tightens. "Excuse me?"
"We'll be taking my car," he says, as if it's the most natural thing in the world. "It's a more secure vehicle. Armored."
"You expect me to arrive at my own casino in your car like some damsel in distress?"
"I expect you to arrive alive," he says, his gaze unwavering. "How you get there is irrelevant to that goal."
I hate him. Just for a second. A hot, clean flare of it. He's so reasonable, so direct. He doesn't rise to my bait, he doesn't get flustered, he doesn't apologize. He simply states his reality and expects me to step into it.
