Page 63 of Taking Care of the Target

But that was his heart overruling his head again.Stop being a pussy and do what you know needs to be done.

He emptied his pockets—fucking feds making him need two phones everywhere he went. Using his brand-new burner, he called Sal. It was a sad day when he was the only one Carlo could call. Why couldn’t the gnat be sweating it out in a cell instead of Dante?

“Sal,” Carlo said as soon as he answered. “I need you to listen very carefully to my instructions, and I want them followed to a T. Vince is taking care of the waitress tonight, but…”

His throat tried to close on him. Was he really doing this? He ran a hand through his hair and sat forward. “I want a little extra reassurance, just in case. Don’t send Jackhammer.” He searched his brain for the right guy. Quick and quiet and would never point the finger at him, even if he got caught. Someone Vince wouldn’t see coming, either.

Just in case,he mentally reassured himself.It’s always a good idea to have backup.

Finally, he came up with the best option he could under the circumstances and gave the detailed instructions to Sal to relay to the hired third party.

“What if Vince gets in the way?” Sal asked.

Carlo’s gut clenched, and he breathed out through his nose, forcing the weak, affectionate sensation away. “Just have him do what needs to be done.”

Blood was thicker than water, but if his blood tried to cross him, it’d be the last thing he did.

***

Cassie had the first shift at McCarthy’s today, but since it was super slow and her concentration was subpar anyway, Mr. Brown let her off early. She decided the perfect way to celebrate was to buy the dress she’d had her eye on, get all fancied up, and make a nice dinner for her and Vince—he’d called earlier and said he’d be over as soon as he could.

Tonight was going to bethenight. Yesterday she and Vince had pushed past all the barriers. Exchanged I love yous. So no more waiting. She seasoned the chicken, and while it was marinating, changed into her new racy hot-pink dress. The first time she passed the window display featuring it, she fell in love with the bright color, but decided it didn’t have nearly enough material for her to actually wear, even with her more-bold-and-adventurous goal in place.

But the way Vince looked at her the other night when she wore her little black dress gave her the confidence to buy the strapless, mid-thigh number. She might never wear it outside of her apartment, but she’d rock it tonight. She curled her hair in loose waves and slipped on four-inch nude pumps. Hopefully, the combination would prove to be more than Vince could resist, because she wassoover resisting.

She’d just sprinkled fresh basil over the chicken when there was a knock on the door. Cassie wiped her hands on the kitchen towel and answered it.

Vince stood there, deliciously scruffy, his dark hair a bit messier than usual, wearing his green army jacket. He had a large black duffel bag over his shoulder. Hope tingled through her—maybe he planned on staying the night. Or the week, considering the size.

“That’s a big bag,” she said. “I think I could fit in it.”

He looked at her—or more like through her. “It’s all my work stuff. I didn’t want to leave it in the Jeep.”

“Well, I’m about to put dinner in the oven. I can open a bottle of wine if you like, or you can kick back on the couch for a few minutes while I wrap this up, and then I’ll join you.”

“I’m gonna go wash up, actually.” He walked over to the television, turned it on, and then walked down the hall, still carrying his duffel bag.

Weird.She wondered if it was Bobby or if something at work left him so…detached.

And why did he turn the TV up so loud?

He hadn’t noticed her outfit either, which was disappointing to say the least.Maybe he just needs a few minutes to unwind. We’ll have dinner, get to an easy flirty place like we always do, and the night will get back on track. Just a minor setback, nothing more.

Cassie pulled out a cutting board and grabbed a tomato. She bounced it on her forearm and caught it. Tomatoes got wimpy throws because otherwise you ended up with mashed tomatoes—not nearly as good as mashed potatoes. Unless of course you were making marinara, which she wasn’t.

She picked up a knife and glided it through the tomato, making thin, even slices to place on top of the chicken. After that she’d sprinkle Parmesan cheese over the top and bake it for forty-five minutes. Add a salad and the loaf of crusty bread and they’d have an amazing meal.

She let out a long breath, trying to exhale her nerves and her worry over whatever was up with Vince.There’s not much food can’t fix.

The blare of the TV cut through her cooking Zen. Must be a cop show, because there was yelling and shooting.

Cassie leaned over the counter, trying to get a look at what all the racket was about without getting her dress messy. She needed to buy an apron now that she had a reason to cook full meals.

Onscreen, a man had a gun trained on another guy who had his hands up and was begging for him not to shoot.

A prickling sense of wrongness crept up Cassie’s spine and sent goose bumps across her skin. Admittedly, she’d never liked violent movies or shows, but this was… That odd déjà vu sensation that occasionally popped up since waking up in the hospital hit her full force.

An ache worked its way across her forehead.

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