Rome’s mind connected the final pieces.
The photograph on her kitchen table hadn’t been taken by chance. It had been earned through weeks of surveillance.
Whoever left it had watched her long enough to learn exactly where she’d be—and when.
His phone vibrated before he could say anything.
“Dammit,” he bit off.
Cannon’s projected into his ear. “War room. Now.”
Stina went still.
He held back a sigh. “Copy.”
He didn’t move right away.
Neither did she.
Her fingers curled around the towel. “You have to go.”
The flatness in her voice made leaving worse.
He stepped closer, unable to stop himself this time. “Listen to me. You’re safe here. Try to stay busy.”
Her mouth twitched without humor. “You just want me in the kitchen.”
“This isn’t a joke.”
“I know.”
That quiet answer bothered him more than any argument.
Rome lifted a hand, then dropped it before he touched her face in the middle of the kitchen and gave them both another problem. “We’re finishing this conversation.”
“When?”
“When I get back. I’ll talk to Cannon about what you told me.”
She held his gaze. For the first time, she didn’t argue.
The phone buzzed again.
Cannon. Impatient bastard.
Rome backed toward the door even though everything in him wanted to stay. Stina remained beside the counter, surrounded by ingredients and the wreckage of a meal she’d never cared about making in the first place.
He turned into the corridor and forced himself toward the war room, worry weighting every step.
Whatever started in Chicago wasn’t over.
* * * * *
Stina ruined the recipe ten minutes after Rome walked out.
She didn’t do it intentionally, but at some point the pile of ingredients became a disaster that a dog probably wouldn’t eat.
She set down the knife and braced both hands on the counter, replaying their discussion in her head.
