Page 38 of Defending What's Mine

“Got another escalation on the Sinclair front.” I drop the envelope on an upturned crate and angle my body so the corridor camera can’t catch my lips. “Typed note, windshield placement. Message:Fairytales don’t end well for liars. He can’t protect you forever.No fingerprints yet; I’ll run a dust later. Resort CCTV request submitted.”

Dean’s keyboard clacks in the background. “Fits the MO. Anything new on Sinclair’s location?”

“Keeping low profile. We crossed paths once yesterday—he was lurking near the stables, just ‘happened’ to watch Charlotte ride out.” I grind my molars remembering Prancer’s spook. “Guy’s plotting something. And he’s got resources here.”

Dean exhales a slow breath, no stranger to the scent of rot beneath boardroom polish. “I yanked more threads. Sinclair Group is leveraged to the rafters— bridge loans, personal lines, IOUs to private lenders you don’t wanna meet in daylight. One Cayman fund in particular traces back to Manzano cartel wash-throughs.”

My blood pressure spikes—just as I feared. “Cartel money.”

“Yeah. And they’re not patient. Wade stands to lose controlling interest by quarter-end if he doesn’t inject capital. MarryingCharlotte gives him a multi-million infusion overnight—dowry via joint venture, plus a PR bump to boost share valuation.”

“Desperation equals unpredictability.”

“Exactly. Our working theory: cartel silent-partners want a guarantee. They’re either pushing him to lock in the marriage or cut their losses and recoup via intimidation.” Dean pauses. “Any sign of direct surveillance teams?”

“Not yet, but the note’s tone suggests they’re close enough to watch. Could be testing our reaction time.” I glance down the corridor. It’s still empty. “What’s your next move?”

“Running shell-company directors. If any name pops with warrants, we’ll use it to pressure local law enforcement. But that takes time.”

Time we may not have. I rub the bridge of my nose. “I’ll shadow Charlotte tonight. She thinks it’s girls-night only; we’ll see.”

“Stick to her like epoxy,” Dean says, echoing his earlier order. “Wade’s leverage crumbles if Charlotte’s off the table. That makes her target #1.”

“Roger that.”

There’s a beat of silence, then Dean adds, softer, “You good?”

My laugh is a humorless puff of air. “Define good.”

“You sound… invested.”

“She’s my client.” Even to my own ears it’s mechanical. The image flashes: Charlotte on the trail, fingers white-knuckled on the reins, and then how her hand fit into mine afterward like it belonged there. I clear my throat. “I’m fine.”

Dean doesn’t press, but his final words linger after the line goes dead: “Keep your head, Hawke. Feelings get you killed.”

I stow the evidence envelope in my pocket, then take the back stairwell two flights up, emerging in a staff lobby adjacent to Vintner’s. A carved wooden screen hides me from the main dining area but gives partial sightlines through its lattice. I lean against the wall, one ear on the corridor, eyes tracking the bar.

Charlotte sits at a high-top with Melanie, half-turned toward the room, posture open, legs neatly crossed. Defensive line of sight—good girl. A rosé spritzer glints by her elbow. She’s had maybe two sips. Melanie gestures animatedly, telling some hilarious story if the broad grin is any indication. For a moment Charlotte’s laughter rings out—pure, clear, nothing forced. It spears something in my chest I don’t name.

Threat assessment cycles anyway. Patrons count: twenty-seven visible. Staff: four bartenders, six servers. Potential shooters’ lanes: front door to bar (forty feet, obstructed by wine rack); kitchen swing door (thirty-five feet, partial cover); mezzanine balcony above (seventy feet, downward angle). I map angles, memorize faces, measure distances to nearest exits.

Mid-scan, Charlotte’s gaze skims the room and snags on me. Surprise flickers, then relief, then something that looks dangerously like fondness. She raises her glass an inch in silent salute. I nod—a small, steadying motion. Her shoulders relax another notch. Melanie twists in her chair, spots me, and flashes a grin that’s two parts mischief, one partI-see-you-watching-my-friend.

Ten minutes pass, maybe fifteen. I order club soda from a passing server— tip heavy to stay invisible— and keep vigil. Everything stays mundane until a figure appears in the barentrance: Wade Sinclair, slate-gray suit tailored within an inch of its life, hair slicked back with boardroom precision. My muscles coil. He scans the lounge, locks onto Charlotte, and his lips curve. Shark scenting blood.

But before he can move three steps, Melanie slides off her stool, intercepting with saccharine enthusiasm— clearly stalling. Charlotte’s eyes widen. She covertly pulls out her phone, typing. A second later my screen vibrates:

C: He’s here.

I push off the wall, ready to intervene, when the bartender swings a new tray of drinks across Wade’s path, forcing him to sidestep. Small delays—a godsend.

Wade frowns, checks his watch, and then vanishes the way he came. I exhale slowly, tension leaking out by a few degrees. Charlotte catches my eye, and I give a short nod—crisis fucking averted. For now.

The women settle their tab. I drift to the corridor outside, so I can fall in with them naturally. When Charlotte rounds the corner, she arches a brow.

“Decided to join us after all?”

“Stakeout was riveting,” I deadpan, and she chuckles despite the long day weighed on her shoulders.

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