Page 174 of A Dangerous Kind of Love

Money was probably part of it. It usually is. Men start thinking they deserve more than what they already have. More power. More influence. More money than the organization is already putting in their pockets. But the longer I think about it, the less I believe money was the only reason. Money explains greed. It doesn’t explain patience. It doesn’t explain months of feeding information out carefully enough that nobody noticed until real damage had already been done.

That kind of betrayal takes confidence. It takes somebody convincing Sal he’d be protected once this all blew up. It takes somebody making him believe he could help chip away at my organization and survive long enough to enjoy the payoff afterward. That’s the part bothering me now.

Sal wasn’t smart enough to build something like this on his own. He was a soldier, not a strategist. He heard things because he stood close enough to hear them, because trusted men become part of the background after enough years around you. Somebody else had to be directing him. Somebody else had to be telling him what information mattered and where to send it once he got it.

Which means Sal running doesn’t solve the problem. It just proves there’s somebody else out there waiting for him to stay hidden long enough to become useful again.

“Marco’s moving people already,” I say. “But I want more eyes out there.”

Luca nods. “I’ll handle it.”

I know he will. There are very few people in this world I trust completely. Luca and Marco are at the top of that list.

I look toward the stairs again when I hear Katie’s laugh drifting down. It’s warm, happy, and mine. Sal threatened that. He threatened this organization, and he threatened my peace. He’s not going to get away with that, and he’s going to pay for it with his fucking life.

Chapter 62

Katie

October

It’s been three months since my mom died, and I moved into Michael’s house full-time. I still don’t know how to describe what my life has turned into.

Most days, I’m in the bedroom he had converted into an art studio for me, the windows stretching out over the entire estate. I paint until my hands ache or my mind finally quiets down. Painting and him. Those are the only things that have kept me from breaking.

People always assume I want to be independent. Why? Because I’m loud? Because I can handle shit on my own? That doesn’t mean I enjoy it. I grew up watching my mom work herself into the ground trying to keep us afloat, and then when she got sick, I got handed the exact same miserable bullshit. Fuck that.

Deep down, I just wanted someone who’d take one look at me and decide I was theirs to protect. Not because I couldn’t survive on my own, but because I was tired of having to. Prince Charming in my head used to look soft and sweet. Michael is six-foot-five, tattooed, obsessive, a little controlling, and looks like he’d kill someone for talking to me wrong, but then he looks at me like I hung the fucking moon. He loves my insane energy and laughs when I bite him. He is absolutely my Prince Charming.

I know there are people who think I’m moving too fast or throwing my life away for a man. But what exactly was I giving up? Chronic exhaustion? Two jobs I never wanted? A stress-induced eye twitch? Teaching was fine, but it was never the dream. Michael’s the first person who’s ever looked at me and said, “Okay, then what do you actually want?” And then he made it happen.

A few weeks ago, he started bringing in art dealers to look at some of my work. I thought he was out of his mind the first time he mentioned it. My paintings had always been personal. They were pieces of me that I’d poured onto canvas when I didn’t know what else to do with my grief, my anger, or my love.

Then one of them bought a painting. After that, another one sold. Now there are a few more sitting in a gallery downtown waiting to be shown.

The other night, I was cleaning brushes at the sink when Michael walked into the studio carrying two glasses of wine. He handed one to me before leaning against the counter beside me.

“You know this could be real, right?” he asked.

I laughed. “Are they fake paintings?”

“No, Doll,” he said, shaking his head. “I mean really real. Your own studio. Your own name on the building. People buying your work because they believe in you.”

I looked down at the rag in my hands. “That sounds terrifying.”

“It sounds deserved.”

“I wouldn’t even know where to start.”

“You wouldn’t have to figure it out alone.” He took the brush from my hand and set it down before stepping closer. “You could sell your paintings. Teach classes if you wanted to. You’re talented enough to do both.”

“You really think people would want that?”

“I know they would.” His hand slid around my waist as he looked toward the unfinished canvas behind me. “I’ve watched you bring entire rooms to life with this. You make people feel things when they look at your work. That’s rare.”

I swallowed hard, trying not to get emotional.

Michael smiled. “Doll, I think it’s time you finally let yourself have something that belongs to you.”