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Roseline’s heart swelled, moved by his honesty. She sensed then that what lay between them went far beyond mere physical desire into a realm infinitely more profound. In each other, they had found spiritual sanctuary amid the chaos.
After they exchanged tender “be safe” farewells, Roseline set down her phone with renewed courage. Callan’s comforting voice had eased her frayed nerves. She only had to endure a little longer before this precarious night gave way to a hopeful new dawn with him by her side again.
CHAPTER TWENTY
Callan walked down the sidewalk, keenly aware of Antonio Ricci’s presence just behind him. As he escorted the last potential victim to the safe house, his thoughts drifted inevitably to Roseline and the delicate scent of her perfume.
Unable to resist, Callan paused to pull his phone from his pocket, thumb hovering hopefully over her name before thinking better of it and shoving it back. Now was not the time to be distracted, no matter how he wanted to hear her voice, to tell her… what exactly?
That he cared for her more than he’d thought possible? That she occupied his every waking thought and haunted his mind? No, better to focus on the task at hand, though the ache of missing her remained sharp in his chest.
With an effort, Callan turned his thoughts to Antonio Ricci, the last potential victim they needed to protect. He recalled the mobster’s initial skepticism and suspicion when Callan had first approached him with the offer of police protection. Antonio had balked, his distrust of authority figures running generations deep, steeped into his very blood since birth. His dark, hooded eyes glared at Callan from behind a haze of cigar smoke as he spat, “You think I need your help, cop? I can handle my own against this punk.”
It had reminded Callan so much of his first attempts to convince the other men; Muska with his nervous twitch and oily hair, Amenetti who reeked of arrogance and expensive cologne, Alossio whose cold stare spoke volumes of brutality. All had resisted, the oath of omertà ingrained too deeply. But Callan had persisted, appealing to their reason and self-interest, demonstrating the genuine threat they all faced. And one by one, his sincerity had won through.
Now, as he escorted Ricci to safety, he could only pray his words had been convincing enough, his intentions transparent. Because Antonio Ricci was a ruthless man, but a human being, nonetheless. And Callan knew with solemn certainty that his duty was to protect the mobster, no matter his personal feelings. For if he failed, the man would meet the same gruesome fate as the others. Callan only hoped his best efforts would be enough to save Antonio’s life. The alternative was too grave to contemplate.
The safe house loomed ahead, a dilapidated brick building as drab and nondescript as planned. Callan tensed, his cop senses suddenly on high alert. Was that a shifting shadow in the alley, or just a trick of the light? He paused to scan the empty street, unable to shake the prickling feeling of unseen eyes watching them.
Beside him, the mobster shuffled, his Italian leather shoes scraping on the cracked sidewalk. “I don’t like this, feels like we’re sitting ducks out here,” he muttered under his breath. His dark eyes darted about suspiciously beneath a heavy brow.
“Almost there,” Callan offered, injecting a confidence into his voice that he didn’t quite feel. The mobster grunted in reply, a sheen of nervous sweat beading his brow despite the autumn chill.
They were halfway up the weed-choked walkway when the sudden screech of tires shattered the tense silence. Callan whirled to see a black SUV careening toward them, weaving recklessly across lanes.
“Get inside, now!” Callan shouted, shoving Antonio toward the safe house’s doorway as his cop instincts kicked into high gear.
Antonio stumbled, cursing in Italian as Callan reached for his own weapon.
Yet the opportunity had already slipped away. With a squeal of brakes, the SUV skidded to a stop just feet away. Before Callan could react, two masked assailants leaped from the vehicle, gripping menacing baseball bats.
“Well, well, look what we have here,” one taunted in a mechanically distorted voice.
Callan planted himself between the attackers and Antonio, gun aimed unwaveringly. He had to buy the mobster time to get inside.
“I don’t want any trouble,” Callan stated calmly, though his heart hammered against his ribs. “Just let us leave, and this doesn’t have to get ugly.”
The assailants merely laughed, a cruel mocking sound as they advanced with their bats raised.
Callan managed to squeeze off two quick shots, but the first bat caught him hard in the shoulder, sending his gun flying. Crying out in pain, he tried to evade the next swing, but the second bat struck him forcefully across the back. The blow dropped him to his knees with a choked groan.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw Antonio frozen in panic on the stoop, eyes wide.
“Run!” Callan wheezed, knowing it was futile.
The two masked attackers closed in, movements predatory and synchronized.
Callan blinked, trying to clear the dark spots from his vision. When had the world started spinning?
“Please, please don’t hurt me,” Antonio begged, already visibly trembling.
The assailants ignored him, looming over Callan’s crumpled form. He stared blearily up at the featureless black masks, seeing his own death reflected there. This was it then. At least he’d saved Antonio, fulfilled his duty one last time.
Callan flinched, anticipating the killing blow. But instead of crushing his skull, a boot arced up in a powerful kick to his temple that made stars explode across his vision. The sidewalk rushed up to meet him as oblivion swallowed him in her dark embrace.
Distantly, he heard Antonio’s panicked sobbing as if through a long tunnel. Then silence, heavy and smothering.
His thoughts turned to Roseline. Her smile, flashing quick and unexpected, never failing to lift his weary spirits. Her intellect, sharper than any he’d encountered. Her resilience, rising up again and again no matter how many times life knocked her down. Already, she seemed like a dream, a figment fading as cold pavement pressed hard against his cheek.
