Page 86 of What's Left of Us

I make my way toward the coffee shop, where an extra-large cup of caffeine is waiting for me before my session tonight with my favorite psychiatrist. But the last thing I expect when I walk in is the sudden scent of Valentino perfume and the back of a familiar head.

My shoulders tense when I scope out the hand pressed against the small of her back, following the arm over to the person it belongs to.

When the man beside her turns, there’s a slick grin on his face.

Luca-Motherfucking-Carbone.

He slides his palm up her back and onto her shoulder, squeezing it once before trailing it back down. This time, he rests it farther south than before, leaving it on the curve of her ass. “Hello, Detective Danforth. Long time, no see.”

Georgia’s body tenses, moving slightly away from the youngest Carbone’s touch before turning in slow motion to meet my gaze.

I see red, snapping the flower stems in my grip until the roses fall to the ground in broken disarray.

It seems appropriate.

Symbolic, even.

Georgia’s eyes follow the discarded flowers.

“You have got to be fucking kidding me,” I hiss, watching as Luca’s smile grows and Georgia’s frown deepens.

I hate Valentine’s Day.

*

It’s ten minutespast when my session starts, and I’m doing my best not to punch the smug nepo baby still smirking at me from the pickup counter.

“Er, sir?” the young cashier says, shifting on her feet. “Will that be cash or card?”

Snapping out of my stare down with the douchebag my ex-wife is standing silently beside, I turn back to the teenager waiting for me to pay for my drink. “Sorry. How much is it?”

When she repeats the number, a ten-dollar bill is handed to her by someone else. I stare at the gold Rolex and know exactly who it is before I even look at the custom suit that’s probably worth my mortgage payment.

“I’ve got it,” Luca says.

“I don’t need you to pay for my damn coffee.”

He puts the change he’s handed into the tip jar with a smile that feigns innocence. “I’d do anything for law enforcement.”

What a crock of shit. “I don’t know what game you’re playing, but I’m not interested.”

He holds his hands up. “No games here. Just respect. Putting yourself on the line of duty isn’t for everybody. You have to have a certain mindset to take those risks.”

To anybody else, this might sound like a regular conversation—like he’s complimenting me. But I know better than that. It’s a veiled threat delivered with a politician’s smile.

Honestly, I can’t blame Nikolas Del Rossi for liking Luca Carbone. He’s a great manipulator.

“You know, I never got to reach out and tell you how sorry I am for your loss,” he says, his words boiling my blood. His hand finds my arm, his fingers gripping my biceps. “It’s a shame what happened to your colleague. Such a tragedy that should have been avoided.”

You’re in public,I remind myself, suddenly glad I left my gun at home instead of holstered to my side. “A lot of thingsshould havehappened that day,” I reply, dropping my voice so only he can hear me. “There’s still time.”

His smile remains calm, unthreatened. “Not for everybody.”

My fingers twitch at my sides; then my eyes go to the woman still standing by herself with her eyes downtrodden, evading everybody around her like she wants to remain invisible.

I put my hand on Luca’s shoulder and squeeze once. Instead of threatening him or throwing the first punch like he wants me to, I walk around him toward Georgia.

Her shoulders stiffen when she sees the tip of my dirty Wolverine work boots. She was the one who bought them for me. I wear them every day when I’m not on duty. I’ve been tempted to throw them out, but if I threw out everything Georgia gave me over the years, I’d have to buy a whole new wardrobe.

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