Page 26 of The Woman in the Warehouse

“There are about ten thousand of them in the city,” Saylor interjected, moving between the two of us to make her way to the front door.

“I like your mom,” I told Saylor as we moved out onto the street in Hell’s Kitchen. Not too far from where she’d had me drop her off the night before. Not, I will add, in front of her apartment. I know this because as I was driving away, I saw her move back from the door she was standing at and start walking.

“Everyone does,” she agreed, turning, and starting to walk.

“Has she always owned the gym?”

“Ever since she married my father. After he died, she took it over.”

“I’m sorry,” I said, feeling like I’d pressed a sore spot.

“Don’t be. I never really even knew my father. He died in the ring,” she admitted. “Too many concussions,” she added, thinking I was going to ask. “The sad part, for my mom, was it was his last fight. He was going to retire just to run the gym and raise us. She’s literally never dated since.”

“My mother never dated after my father died either,” I admitted. “She said she had her soulmate, and that no one else could ever come close, so why bother?”

“That’s… really similar to what my mom said,” Saylor admitted, glancing over at me. “I personally don’t get it. Maybe she’s just like me; she likes being alone.”

That wasn’t it.

But I felt like there was no arguing with her about it, trying to explain that love like that existed, that I’d been seeing it happen again and again in my own family for years.

Lorenzo and Giana, Santi and Alessa, Brio and Ezmeray, Primo and Isabella, Emilio and Avery, Cesare and Mere, Cosimo and Halle, Salvatore and Whitney, Silvano and Millie, Mira and Vissi, and Renzo and Lore.

I was fucking surrounded by that shit.

I knew it was real.

I knew that if any one of those people lost their partner, they would be just like Saylor’s mom. Dedicating the rest of their life to their memory and love.

“Is your brother married?” I asked.

“No,” she said, the sound clipped.

That, it seemed, was me pressing on a wound.

So I let it drop as I matched her stride until she was heading toward the steps of the subway platform.

“Why didn’t we just take the truck?”

“Because that truck should be hidden away from view for the time being,” she said, looking back at me like I was an idiot for not realizing that.

The worst part was that she wasn’t exactly wrong. I’d brought it because I thought there might be the need for a quick getaway.

I said nothing as I jogged down the steps with her, then moved with her toward the edge of the platform while she glanced down the tunnel, her foot tapping impatiently on the ground.

Something must have caught her peripheral vision, because the next thing I knew, she was grabbing me, turning with me, my arms instinctively going to her forearms, holding onto her as she literally moved me out of the way just in time to get out of the way of two assholes fighting.

If they’d hit me, I would be down on the fucking tracks.

“Christ,” I swore, heart pumping even if the danger was gone.

“Have you had your eyes checked recently?” Saylor asked, her hands still holding onto me as she squinted up at me. “Peripheral and everything?”

“My eyes are fine,” I admitted. “I just have… bad luck,” I said, shaking my head at the phrase. “Shot, stabbed, shot, major car accident, nearly had my throat slit by my barber…”

“Coffee to the chest, car door to the head…” she filled in for me.

“Exactly,” I agreed, exhaling hard. “It used to be a running joke in the family. Now I think everyone thinks I’m cursed or some shit.”

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