Page 106 of Gilded Saint

“Intercepted conversations.”

“How?”

“Lina. He’s upped security.”

Right. She had her watch and jewelry cleaned in London, and the CIA has been monitoring her conversations ever since.

I shake my head. Nick and the syndicate are no longer my priority. It’s time to focus on transition.

“Who hired Cohen?”

Jack’s smugness pisses me off until I realize he’s looking at me like that because he thinks I should know the answer. It all clicks into place.

Motherfucker.

“No. She’s got to go back. She will not lose her family because of me.”

“Have you asked her what she wants? Because it’s going to take some time for the judicial system to work its magic, but her family will crumble.”

“Nick’s going after them for revenge.” It’s a statement that I say more to myself. He won’t forgive them for going after Lina.

“Nick’s not the only one. The crumbling has begun. Infighting. Her father will be targeted. You sure you want her living through that?”

Once the other Italian mafia families smell blood in the water, it could become quite dangerous to be a Lupi Grigi living in southern Italy. Not to mention, if Nick’s plan works, the Russian mob will go after them too.

“Talk to her,” Jack says. “But I’m telling you, if we concoct a plan to send her back, no matter what we do, it’ll raise suspicions. It’s risky.”

Jack’s right. I know he’s right. But fuck, this is not what I wanted for her. How did our plan get so fucked? Because Nomad, that’s how. He fucked me over.

Thanks to him, the option she’s being forced into is essentially witness protection for the rest of her life. She loves her family. She doesn’t have any idea what it’s like to walk away from her family, and it’s a pain she shouldn’t experience.

When I push open the door to the primary suite, a location doled out as if it’s a reward, she’s sitting on the bed, legs tucked beneath the comforter in a pale pink silk nightgown. She looks up, cheeks slightly flushed from her shower, her hair wet and dark. There’s faint bruising below her eyes from where the airbag hit her. The bruise across her collarbone is darkening. The skin from the black eye Leandro gave her has yellowed. She’s a patchwork of bruises, yet she’s still beautiful. The sight of her slows my heart and squeezes my chest.

“How are you feeling?” What a stupid question. We crashed into the Thames.

“Sore. Is everything okay?”

She’s worried. Can’t blame her.

On the trawler, we said little. The men with us had been engaged for a specific piece of this op, and I wasn’t aware of their clearance. Given the speed at which the operation unfolded, I doubt they had much more information than there were two people they needed to covertly rescue and transfer to a waiting yacht.

Once we boarded the yacht, I encouraged Willow to take a hot shower to quell her shivers, and I was escorted to an office onboard the yacht for Jack’s debriefing. The plan is to sail across the ocean and dock in a harbor where there will be no record of our entrance into the US.

“Leo?” She lifts an arm, reaching for me, and grimaces.

“Did you take any Advil? Anything for the muscular pain?”

“I did.” She inches forward until her fingers warm my forearm.

“You need a shower, too. Are you sore?”

I’m a little sore, but it’s nothing compared to what it will feel like tomorrow. I’m old enough my body hates me for my choices. But that’s not what Willow and I need to talk about.

I kick off my shoes and slide back on the bed, careful to remain above the comforter since my clothes reek of dead fish, thanks to the dip in the Thames and hours on a fishing trawler.

“Leo?”

God. Those bright blue eyes. How do I tell her?

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