“I’ve been stuck, Amelia,” he continues. “If a downfall is what it takes to get me moving again, I think I’ll survive it.”
“You’re very dramatic.”
“I’m Italian.”
“That’s not an excuse.”
“It’s a perfect explanation.”
I laugh under my breath, and his eyes drop to my mouth.
“Open,” he murmurs.
My stomach flips.
“This is becoming a habit.”
“Yes.”
“You’re not even sorry.”
“No.”
I should probably object.
Instead, I open my mouth.
Again.
“Perfect,” he breathes. “I think spaghetti is my new favorite meal.”
Yeah, big guy. Mine too.
Chapter Twelve
Maverick
Foster sits across from me with a laptop balanced on his knees, looking far too comfortable for a man who nearly got carved open in my kitchen two weeks ago.
Spike stands near the windows, arms crossed, his expression carved from stone.
Tank leans against the wall beside him, quiet in the way large, dangerous men become quiet when they’re waiting for bad news.
I look at Foster. “Update.”
He glances up from the screen. “Nothing that makes me twitchy.”
He turns the laptop slightly, showing me several open windows I don’t pretend to understand. “I put the Shadows’ name in the right corners. Watched the usual feeds. Checked the boards, local chatter, burner accounts, private groups. Plenty of noise. Usual garbage. People asking questions because people like asking questions. No threats. No movement. No one suddenly too interested in the compound.”
Tank shifts. “What about our people?”
“I checked,” Foster says. “Everyone living at the compound. Close family. Regular staff. Known associates. No weird deposits. No sudden travel. No new online behavior that sticks out. No one poking around places they shouldn’t.”
Spike looks at me. “Could still be coming.”
“It could,” Foster says. “But right now? I don’t think the Shadows are the target.”
My eyes narrow. “You think Melvin heard wrong?”
