Zeke paces behind his desk while Martinez works, the rhythm of his footsteps matching the sting of the needle. Neither of us speaks until the last stitch is tied off and the doctor packs away his supplies. Only when we’re alone does Zeke finally voice what we’re both thinking.
“Someone betrayed us.” His hands clench into fists. “Someone gave them access, told them where you’d be.”
I nod, testing my newly bandaged arm as I dig a spare shirt out of the cabinet in Zeke’s office. The pain has settled into a dull throb. “Question is, who? The guest list was limited. Coalition members only.”
“Could be anyone.” Zeke’s frustration fills the room like smoke. “Francesca Barone has been pushing boundaries. Or Nick Russo. He’s getting impatient for control.”
“Or someone else entirely.” I lean back carefully, mindful of my injuries. “This feels different. Professional. More like…”
I let the thought trail off, but Zeke picks it up immediately. “Nicolo.” His expression darkens further. “Testing our defenses. Seeing how we respond to pressure.”
“Makes sense.” Though I wish it didn’t. Nicolo Moretti playing games from New York is the last thing we need right now. “What’s our move?”
Zeke studies me for a long moment, calculation replacing anger in his eyes. “You need to disappear for a few days. Let them think the attack rattled us more than it did. Meanwhile,we’ll squeeze our contacts, find out who’s been talking to New York.”
The suggestion aligns so perfectly with my need to protect Naomi that it almost feels suspect. Zeke’s aware of her connection to Lucas’s death, but he doesn’t know how my feelings have progressed. Sometimes fate hands you exactly what you need. Usually right before it pulls the rug out from under you.
“I guess a few days won’t hurt,” I agree, already planning my exit. “Can’t be too long though, might look like weakness.”
Zeke nods, apparently satisfied. “Watch your back. If this is Nicolo making moves, there’ll be more coming.”
I leave through the back entrance, checking my surroundings with paranoid thoroughness. The afternoon sun feels too bright after the club’s dimness, making my head pound.
The drive to Hocking Hills stretches ahead, miles of highway between civilization and isolation. Time enough to process the day’s developments, to consider their implications for Naomi’s safety. With the investigation narrowing, Sandra’s growing suspicions, now this attack revealing weaknesses in our organization—each new complication increases the danger surrounding her.
Yet each problem also extends our forced proximity, keeping me close when I should be maintaining professional distance. The realization that I welcome these excuses troubles me more than the physical wounds throbbing beneath my bandages.
Attachment is vulnerability, and vulnerability gets people killed. I learned that lesson watching Sandra twist Lucas against me. I can’t afford to forget it now.
The city fades behind me as I drive, replaced by the looming shadows of forested hills. Out here, among the trees and silence, it’s easier to ignore the day’s violence, to focus on simpler concerns. Is Naomi safe? Has she eaten? Will she notice myinjury the moment I walk in, her green eyes filling with worry I don’t deserve?
My determination to protect her has evolved beyond professional obligation or familial duty. Something deeper drives me now, something I haven’t felt in decades.
The recognition doesn’t change my course—I’ll still protect her, still find a solution that ensures her safety—but it transforms my motivation from abstract principle to personal necessity.
As I turn onto the gravel road leading to the cabin, I can’t ignore uncomfortable reality. I’m falling hard for my dead son’s wife. The woman I should see only as a victim to protect, a responsibility to fulfill, has somehow become essential to my peace of mind. The distinction may prove crucial in the decisions that lie ahead.
The cabin comes into view, smoke rising from the chimney in lazy spirals. Through the window, I glimpse movement—Naomi in the kitchen, probably baking again. The sight sends an ache through my body that has nothing to do with physical injury.
God help me, I think as I park the truck.This can only end in tragedy.
Chapter 11
Domestic Revelations
Naomi
The rich scent of cinnamon and vanilla fills the small cabin, mingling with woodsmoke from the crackling fireplace. My hands move rhythmically through the bread dough, kneading with practiced motions that ground me. Flour dusts the wooden countertop, my apron, probably my face too, but I don’t care. Here in this temporary haven, up to my elbows in dough, I’m more myself than I have been in weeks.
Powder watches from her perch on a nearby stool, her blue eyes following my every move. The ragdoll cat has become my constant companion during these long days of isolation, her gentle purring a soothing backdrop to my thoughts. Sometimes when the memories of that day with Lucas threaten to overwhelm me, her soft fur under my fingers helps anchor me in the present.
I focus all my attention on the dough. The firm press of my palms, the springy resistance, the subtle changes in texture that tell me when it’s ready. Baking has always been my refuge—the one place where effort reliably produces results, where following the rules leads to consistent success. Unlike life. Unlike marriage. Unlike, well, every other complication in my life.
I push those thoughts away, concentrating on the physical sensations. The way the dough transforms under my hands from shaggy mess to smooth elasticity. The lingering sweetness of vanilla in the air from the cookies cooling on the table. The warmth radiating from the oven where another batch of cinnamon rolls rises.
“At least you appreciate my efforts,” I tell Powder as she stretches languidly. Her purr intensifies as though in agreement.
The cabin’s rustic kitchen has become familiar territory over the past weeks. I know which cabinet drawer sticks, which burner on the stove runs hot, exactly how long it takes the ancient oven to preheat. The space feels increasingly like home—a thought that brings both comfort and confusion.