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I glance up at her in surprise, the admission catching me off guard because she always seems like she has her shit together. But maybe that wasn’t always the case. “This used to be my favorite. Not that I got to eat it much in foster care. But a few times I had families take me out to restaurants to see if I would be a good fit for their family, and I remember this pasta always eased the disappointment of not being good enough.” The raw admission falls from my lips before I can catch it, and not for the first time, I’m struck by how easily I open up to Emerson. I’m not sure there’s anyone who has ever found their calling the way she has.
She nods, but surprisingly she doesn’t look at me with pity in her gaze. It’s rare for someone to be able to hear a sob story like that without feeling sorry for the person, and the fact Emerson can hold so much empathy for the people around her, but not judge the worst times in their lives, is a true testament to how good she is at her job.
A phone ringing drags my attention from the sauce I’m stirring, and I realize too late that the ringtone belongs to my phone.
I glance in its direction with panic as I watch Ace reach for it, but there’s nothing I can say to stop him from answering it. Not without dragging more questions to the surface.
It was only a matter of time before he found out about Kyle’s calls, but I had hoped it wouldn’t be until I was long gone. That way I didn’t have to see the disappointment in his eyes when he found out I’d been keeping something so significant from him.
“Hello.” His voice moves through the apartment, but his eyes are locked on mine, almost as if he knows there’s something I haven’t been totally honest about.
The wooden spoon in my hand clatters to the ground, sauce flying up my bare legs and cupboards, but there’s nothing I can do to stop Ace from learning the truth I should have told him after the very first call.
Too little, too late.
CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE
ACE
The look in Mia’s eyes tells me whatever is on the other end of this call isn’t good, but I’m too far gone. The phone presses against my ear, and a greeting falls from my lips before I can think better of it.
The only people who should be calling Mia have their number programmed into her phone, so why is this call from a No Caller ID?
What isn’t she telling me?
I’m met with silence as I watch Mia drop the wooden spoon, and sauce splashes up the fronts of the counter, but I listen intently.
Someone breathes quietly on the other end, and instinctively I know it’s not a telemarketer. After the first few days, I stopped monitoring the phone, wanting to give her privacy to speak to Emerson anytime she wanted without me prying, but perhaps I should have known better.
“Hello?” I repeat.
But no one responds, not so much as a heavy sigh or a hitch in breathing, and although I have no way to confirm my suspicions, I know it’s Kyle fucking Clark on the other end of the line. How the fuck did he get her number? And how long has he been calling?
I meet Mia’s gaze as she rises with the spoon in her hands and sauce all over her. The guilt in the blue pools is clear, and it takes everything I have not to lose my shit.
How could she keep this from me?
How could she keep something so crucial to her safety a secret, knowing this could put her in more danger than she’s already in? Is this how they know where she is? Were they tracing the calls? I made sure the phone itself wasn’t traceable before Tommy gave it to her, but unless it’s a burner, it’s hard to make calls untraceable.
“Did you like my gift, Ace?” The voice that comes from the other end of the line is familiar. Too fucking familiar. But I haven’t heard it in a long time.
He wasn’t introduced to us as Kyle when we were kids though.
Our stepfather called him something else. Something fucking stupid, but I can’t quite put my finger on exactly what it was. Men like him don’t allow their names to be a matter of public record, which is why I’ve had such a hard time tracking the motherfucker down.
“No,” I growl. “What I would like is for you to fuck off and leave my woman alone.” The tone of my voice is so sharp I almost don’t recognize that it came from me, but the anger thrumming through my veins won’t allow for the calm persona I try so hard to emit.
Rayne moves closer to me, his phone out as he types furiously, and I know he’s getting Everett to trace the call. Could we end this tonight? I don’t dare to hope often, but right now the idea of nailing this motherfucker is like a shining beacon of light.
He chuckles. “Ah yes, I’m sure you would. You always were obsessed with the little whore. It’s part of the reason your foster father gave her to us, you know? To punish you and that piece of shit brother of yours.”
It’s not easy to render a man like me speechless. And yet this asshole has managed it.
I’ve been harboring guilt for the last eight years that I didn’t get to her in time, that we were just too late to save her. But the fact that the reason they ever took her in the first place was because Tommy and I ran and ultimately had The Factory move out of Chicago will eat at me for the rest of my fucking life.
“I suggest you hand over the girl, Ace. She’s used goods. Broken. What good is she to you after all she’s been through?” He poses the question like he wants what’s best for me, but we both know my interests are the last thing he’s concerned about.
“Over my dead fucking body.” Each word comes out in a harsh growl, but I’ve never felt rage so deep before. Not when Mia was taken from me. Not each time we’ve uncovered every fucked-up thing they did to her. And not even when that asshole triggered her earlier today. No. None of that compares to him calling my woman used-up goods. Broken. She’s not fucking broken. She’s fucking mine.
