“Routine check.” He shows me his open palm. “License and registration.”
My teeth grind together. There’s a gun in my glove compartment, but I keep the registration in the center console.
I hand the ID and the document to the cop, and I stare ahead while he looks them over. The ID’s fake, but it’ll hold up. I’ve got Rafe to thank for that.
“You live at One Landhorne Lane, right?”
“Yeah.”
“Beside the house that caught on fire?”
I cock my head. “Were you there yesterday?”
“No, but some friends of mine were.”
Something about the way he says the word “friends” tips me off.
Is this fucker friends with Blake’s ex?
I give the cop a vicious grin that’s made lesser men shit their pants. His eyes widen, but to his credit, he doesn’t bolt.
“It was a terrible accident,” I say. “Let’s hope there won’t be any more of those.”
He pushes his sunglasses up to his head and frowns. “Rowan Miller. Your ID is from Nevada. What are you doing in Darkwater Hollow?”
“I live here now. Moved recently.”
“What for?”
“I felt like it. It’s a free country, Officer. Sure seems like a lot of questions for a routine traffic stop.”
He drags his tongue over his teeth. “You need to get a state license if you live here now. I’m going to have to write you a fine.”
“Go right ahead,” I drawl.
He goes back to his car to write me a fucking ticket while I text Sandro I’m running late.
When he comes back, he hands me the ticket. “We’re a tight-knit community here, Mr. Miller, and we protect our own. You might do well to remember that.”
I give him and his cryptic message a two-finger salute. “Thanks for that. You have a good day now.”
The fucker watches me drive off, a scowl on his face.
So Blake’s ex has some bite to go along with all that bark. Too bad for him that his cop buddies won’t find anything if they run Rowan Miller through the system.
If they looked up Nero De Luca on the other hand…Ex-consigliere of one of the most powerful families in the Cosa Nostra. Nicknamed Angel of Death.
If Brett saw my rap sheet, he’d bolt out of this town with his tail tucked between his legs.
Sandro and the architect are waiting for me with the client when I arrive. We spend more than three hours going over our proposal, break for lunch, and then get back to it.
It’s not until we wrap it up in the late afternoon that I finally get Sandro alone.
“Let’s grab a beer. I’ve got something to talk to you about.”
“All good?”
“Yeah.” I stop by my truck and swipe my knuckle under my nose. “Had an interesting incident this morning. Tell you about it at The Junction?” It’s a local bar that doesn’t get busy until after dinner, so it’ll be quiet enough for us to have a conversation without being overheard.
