Page 95 of Ruthless Enforcer

A chill moves down my spine. “While he does what?”

“I don't know yet.”

He reaches for my hand. His fingers close around mine, warm and strong. “But we're going to find out.”

68

GABRIEL

Forty-two minutes.

That is how long it takes for a well-trained scout to crest the north ridgeline, set up a spotting scope in the brush, and verify whether Turner’s been under our noses all along.

I lean against the dining table, arms crossed, staring at the front door like intimidation might work on architecture. The radio sits beside me, stubbornly silent.

I fucking hate waiting.

Across the room, Clara sits curled in the deep leather armchair near the hearth. Her bare feet are tucked under her thigh, her sketchbook resting against her knees, the charcoal pencil in her right hand moving in deliberate, rhythmic sweeps. Every few seconds, the graphite scratches against the textured paper—a soft, steady cadence that cuts right through the metallic tension in my skull.

Her thick auburn hair is loosely piled on top of her head with a few stray curls clinging to the warm curve of her neck.

I want to kiss it. I want to burrow my face into that curve and shut out the world.

That's new. I've spent my entire life dealing with problems by moving toward them. Fixing them. Eliminating them. I've never looked at a woman and wanted to hide inside the quiet she gives me.

But that's what Clara is becoming—the only quiet place in my head. Which is probably something I should examine.

Later.

After I take out Cole Turner.

Somehow my wife isn’t trembling. She isn’t asking when this will be over. She isn’t hiding behind anyone. She sits there cataloging us with an artist’s ruthless eye, taking the jagged edges of a war council and rendering them immortal in black and white.

My ring catches the overhead light on her left hand. Every time I look at it, a dark, territorial ache settles in the center of my chest.

Mine.

Nothing will stand in the way of that.

"Still nothing from Hendricks?" Jake asks, his low baritone cutting into my thoughts.

I pull my gaze from Clara and glance down at my encrypted burner on the table. The screen is dark.

"Radio silence," I say. "Hendricks and Mandy are off-grid.”

Luke snorts from across the room, where he’s systematically breaking down the slide on his customized .45. “Does that make anyone else nervous, or is it just me?”

"Mandy on the loose? Shit," I drawl.

Emma sits at the far end of the kitchen island, a steaming mug of peppermint tea cradled between her hands as she’s sifting through photographs. Jake’s gaze drifts toward her every so often, instinctive and protective. She catches him looking, offers him a small, reassuring curve of her lips, and reaches across the marble to touch the back of his wrist.

It’s the quiet language of people who have already bled for their peace.

I understand it now in a way I didn't three weeks ago. Three weeks ago, my life was cold logic, family ledgers, and taking care of shit before Alessandro had to order a cleanup crew. Now, there’s a redhead sitting twenty feet away who negotiated her way into my bed and rearranged every priority I’ve spent thirty-five years cementing.

If Cole Turner touches a single hair on her head, I won't just kill him. I’ll finish what I started in that cell almost two months ago. I'll take him apart piece by piece until there is nothing left to bury.

The heavy latch on the side mudroom door clicks.