Page 53 of Deceitful Oath

“Let me make a coffee first,” he teases. “Then I’ll have a good comeback to that.”

“Enzo, I need you to do something for me.”

“I figured. What’s up?”

“The waitress,” I say, my voice low, trying to cover my embarrassment. “I need you to watch her.”

“I thoughtyouwere watching her,” he laughs. I swear, if he was beside me right now, he’d be winking and shooting me finger guns.

“Shut up,” I snap. “She’s no longer in my…care. I need you to find out where she’s staying and what she’s doing for money.”

“Mhm,” he grunts. A cacophony of beeps blare through the speaker, and he swears. “Stupid fucking espresso maker. Okay, okay, keep tabs on her…anything else?”

“Make sure she’s safe,” I say, hanging up right away. My face burns, knowing Enzo’s probably figured out that this is more than business. I boost the speed and incline on the treadmill and put myself through hell for the next hour.

Sweating out my demons helps a little, and by the time I hop in the shower, I feel refreshed. Not exactly fresh—but less like a dog that’s been kicked into the mud. I nearly have a stroke when Enzo’s name flashes on my phone screen.

Tripping over my wet towel, I scramble to grab it.Answers. He has answers.

“Yeah?” I pant, embarrassingly breathless.

“You good, boss?”

There’s a hint of humor in his voice. I immediately want to punch him, but I need him too much to piss him off.

“Yeah, yeah, fine,” I say, trying to even out my voice. “What did you find?”

“You’re going to want to sit for this one,” he says, chuckling lightly.

“Enzo, I don’t have time for this shit. Where is she?”

“Mancini’s safe house on the edge of town.”

I fall silent, staring at myself in the mirror. My face pales and the phone slips out of my hand.

“Told you you’d want to sit down,” Enzo’s voice floats from my phone on the floor. “Boss? Hello?”

Mancini’s safe house.

This can’t be good.

Chapter Twenty

Lux

“What’d you say this place was again?” I ask casually, leaning over to peek out the window.

Lisa looks up from her plants and puts her watering can down. “Community living.”

“Uh-huh,” I say, pressing my forehead against the glass. “Is that Dante from The Velvet Room?”

I squint at the parking lot. A big burly man strolls toward a black BMW, bopping his head to the tune in his headphones. ItisDante.

“Uh...yeah.” She turns away from me, strolling into the kitchen. “He lives here, too. He’s the one who told me about it.”

That’s so strange. Dante, the weeknight bouncer from the bar, is the third person I’ve seen here who works with us.

“It’s like a Velvet Room commune,” I joke, trying to laugh it off, but a weird feeling makes my stomach churn.

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