Page 59 of Gilded Saint

“He’s not answering my calls.”

“Hmmm.” I threatened him… “That doesn’t sit right. Have you traced him?"

Willow’s wide blue eyes meet mine. Her hair is darker, soaked wet from our morning shower. The color sets off those eyes like gemstones.

“Figured he was sleeping something off.”

“When I saw him last, he was stone-cold sober. And I threatened his life if he didn’t get the tapes from the club. He swears someone drugged her.”

“He’s fucking her,” Nick practically growls. “Defending her coked-up arse, and I’m supposed to believe a horny random did this? Much more likely, she got her hands on a bad batch of the drug du jour.”

I get why he’s suspecting the worst in Lina. She’s been through rehab twice—that I know of. But he’s off on Dante.

“Someone followed me from the club last night.”

“Probably paps. They’ve been bloodthirsty pricks ever since they figured out I’d bury any shit on Lina.”

Guaranteed payday. One call to Nick with a photo, and they get a lump sum payment. I couldn’t see shit behind those headlights. Maybe Nick’s on to something.

“I’m going to ask Ash to locate Dante’s car and phone.”

“Whatever gets your rocks off. I’ll be there in less than three hours to relieve you of Lina. The doc will beat me there. Let him in and force Lina to let him test her. Drug her if you have to.”

A dial tone sounds loudly in my ear, and I end the call. I shoot off a text, then push out a stool and pat it for Willow to sit next to me.

“What you hear, in this flat, you can’t share. Not with anyone. You got me?”

She nods, and I squeeze her thigh. Those lips are so tempting.

“Quiche will be ready in about twenty minutes,” she says.

“Scarlet. The one you called last night. What did you tell her?”

“No details.” Those sapphire eyes flash innocence. “She was married to a guy who did a lot of fighting. I told her you’d gone out with a gun, and I asked for her suggestions on how to prepare.”

“She’s your bestie?” I remember the redhead from our wedding. She didn’t seem too enamored with me.

“She’s my cousin. Before and after her marriage, she lived with us. Yes, to answer your question. She’s my best friend.” She smiles over the lip of the mug and then sips what looks like tea.

“Well, I’ve got a few more rules for you. If you call her, use a burner phone. Destroy it after you talk to her. You never know who’s listening or who might try to get a trace. I have a box of burners in my office. That’s all you use from here on out to call her, and if you’re going to be talking to her for more than a couple of minutes, call her from the studio. Just in case someone is tracing from her end. You hear me?”

She nods slowly, absorbing my words. I don’t know what the fuck is going on, but my instincts tell me something is not fucking right.

“And if someone is coming up in that elevator, and you don’t know it’s me, or if you’re ever scared, you push that button that collapses the stairs. Got it?”

Another slow nod.

“After breakfast—well, no, after Lina’s out of the flat—I’ll show you the panic room.”

“You don’t trust Lina?”

I don’t trust anyone. “I travel frequently for work. If I’m not home, you need a game plan. After Lina’s gone, we’ll map it out.”

“Is there a war going on?”

Her word choice is telling. Her father may not have taken an active role in the criminal underworld, but as a part of the broader family, she’s at ease with the vernacular.

Always is the answer. But what I say is, “Some things that happened last night don’t add up. It’s just a precaution. Best to be safe. What about other friends?” She’s a likeable person. Two weeks in London, and she had an oaf following her around. “University? Anyone you talk to regularly?”

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