Page 70 of Bulletproof

“Cristo needs to talk to you about things.”

“What things?”

“Just …” He raked his fingers through his hair. “Just come talk to him. It’s a short ride, and then he’ll ask you some questions, and then you’re done.”

“None of what you said or how you said it sounds appealing at all.”

“Jory, you saved my life. I owe you. I would never let you get hurt.”

“But if I say no, are you gonna make me?”

“Yeah,” he said, but he sounded pained.

“Okay,” I agreed, “lemme grab my keys and my wallet and my phone.”

He exhaled sharply, and I could tell that the fact that he didn’t have to “make me” was very appealing.

I was quiet on the drive downtown and kept track of where we were going, the alleys we drove down, the buildings we passed, until we reached a pub. I was surprised, really. I had expected a locked garage or a pier or something infinitely more sinister, more Scarface or The Godfather.

Inside the pub, it smelled damp and like wood polish. I followed behind Eddie as we passed people eating at tables, sitting at the bar, throwing darts, playing pool. It was crowded, and that made me feel a little better. I looked out of place in my running clothes, but no one stared too long. I started to calm … until I reached the table.

Sam was sitting at a round table with Agent Calhoun, two other men I didn’t know, and Cristo Liron. And I could have blown it off, tried really hard to ignore the torn lip and the red blotches that would become bruises on Sam’s face, but his eyes lifted, found mine, and heated. There was no missing, to anyone who was even remotely perceptive, that he was looking at what belonged to him. But thankfully, no one was giving Sam any attention. All eyes were on me.

“Jory, there you are,” Cristo greeted me, smiling in a way that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Here I am,” I returned, looking at him.

“Well?”

I squinted. “Well what?”

“Go to him,” he taunted me, tipping his head at my husband.

“To who?”

“To your man.”

“What are you talking about?”

He snickered. “That’s your detective, right?”

“Who?” I hoped I sounded annoyed. I was trying for it, even as my heart pounded in my chest.

His brows furrowed with the first trace of uncertainty.

“Him.” Cristo pointed at Sam.

“I guess I’m not understanding what’s happening.”

“Then I’ll make it clear for you.” His voice rose. “Is this or is this not your detective?”

“Who?”

“Him,” he barked at me, pointing at Sam.

“You think—oh, sorry. Not.”

“What?”