Regan freezes as her eyes drift to mine. She doesn’t like my plan, but she’s open to my compromise.
Hoping she’ll continue to see our negotiation in a favorable light, I stack more wood onto the fire. “He’s an agent, a top-ranked marksman during his time at the academy, and just like me, he’d do anything for you.”
Regan’s lips twitch, but not a word spills from them.
“I’ll keep him safe, Rae. I’ll never let anything happen to him.”
“It’s not him I’m worried about,” she admits, her voice quivering.
This time when I move for her, she doesn’t pull away. I tug her until she is sitting in my lap and her ashen face is burrowed into my chest.
“Don’t make me do this, Alex. Please don’t make me pick,” she begs a short time later, her worry at an all-time high.
I swipe away a tear falling down her cheek before raising her eyes to mine. “You don’t have to pick, baby. There’s no picking. Just like you’ve done for Isaac the past year, I’m doing the job I’m paid to do. Furthermore, Callie deserves to have more than just Isaac on her side. Let me give her that.”
Regan is shaking so fiercely, if I didn’t have my eyes locked on hers, I may have missed her dipping her chin in agreement.
“Yes?” I double-check.
I never thought relief would be the first emotion I’d feel upon agreeing to undertake an illegal activity, but there is no doubt sweet relief is the first thing I feel when Regan nods for the second time.
Thirty-Eight
Alex
By the time Regan and I exit HQ, the sun is breaking over the horizon. I’m not surprised to notice the owner lot at the back of the Dungeon nightclub is empty. Isaac’s Bugatti has rarely been seen zooming through the streets of Ravenshoe during the twilight hours the past two months. He was too busy messing up the sheets with Isabelle to worry about his business adventures. How do I know this? His capital took a hit of three million dollars the last quarter, and that’s excluding the secret payments he transferred to Vladimir. At one stage, I was pleased his personal worth took a hit. Now I feel like an ass.
I pace a few steps in front of Regan to open the passenger side door of my car for her. I’m not just being a gentleman. It’s a little sticky.
Yeah, right.
As she slides in to sit on the cracked vinyl, I ask, “You said Isaac saved both Dane and me that night at Substanz. What did you mean by that?”
Regan scans the alley to ensure we’re alone before asking, “Off the record?”
Once her eyes return to me, I nod.
“Isaac called Henry. He thought it was one of his guys firing at you. Turns out it wasn’t.” Her teeth graze her lower lip before she stammers out, “Our driver took care of the mark.”
Her reply blindsides me. That’s not what I expected her to say.Isaac saved us? What the fuck?
While jogging around to the driver’s seat, I work through the facts. Regan’s confession confirms there were two shooters that night, which means the rogue FBI’s statement about them not waving their hands in the air could have been in reference to their driver. That would make sense because an arm signal was his means of identifying the people he was there to collect.
If that is the case, who was Gabriele there for? I was out in the open minutes before Dane. If he was there to take down agents in a law enforcement shoot up, why wouldn’t he have targeted me? I was a sitting duck. Unless he wasn’t there for just anyone. He was waiting for the right man.
I’m so deep in my thoughts, I don’t realize I’ve put on my seatbelt, backed up my car, and started my trip to my apartment until Regan asks, “Have you always worn cufflinks?”
Her voice isn’t as rickety as it was when we reached out to Ayden to ask if he could remain stateside until Callie’s sale goes through. He was apprehensive until I told him I’ll treat it as a proper operation. That saw him coming around.
I drop my eyes to the hideous gift Kristin gave me yesterday. Clearly, she failed to notice I haven’t worn the cufflinks she gifted me since the day she gave them to me. “No. They’re more annoying than anything, but since they were a gift, I thought I should wear them.”
Regan’s blond brows bunch. “Someone bought them for you?”
“Yeah, why? Don’t like them?” I wink at her, smoothing the grooves on her forehead.
She smiles, taking my comment as I had intended: playfully. “They’re alright. Better than your suit.” Her snarky remarks cool the heated tension brimming between us—in a good way. “I’m just surprised they were a gift. They’re pretty pricy.”
“How pricy?” I ask, aware of her extensive knowledge of all things bling.
