"Okay, I'm out of here," I say. "Please, be good."
"Have fun!" They chorus as I head down the stairs.
My cell rings and it's Larry, sounding distinctly peevish. "It's not like I don't want you to be safe," he says. "But when are you coming back? Can you do it if you bring bodyguards or something? Running this place on my own iskillingme and the city is coming in for a safety review next week. I don't know what the hell we need to do."
"I'm sorry!" Guilt is twisting her sharp nails into my heart. I hear Larry's exhaustion. "Let me talk to Roman, there's got to be something we can do."
"Please," he groans. "Do you know what those little shits did? The tenth-grade study crew tried to sneak in last night and throw a rave. There's still glowsticks scattered everywhere. I found a bottle of 'punch' that was so flammable it's a miracle they didn't set the place on fire."
"Let me see if I can stretch the budget for an overnight security guard." I rub my forehead, feeling the headache creeping in. "I'm sure I can come back soon. It looks like Jack disappeared. Poppy hasn't called me once in over a week, so maybe they ran off together."
"At this point, I don't know if I'm more pissed off at Jack for trying to sell the three of you, or atyoufor forcing me to handle the shelter alone," Larry says plaintively. "I swear if I find him, I'll drop him in the East River. There's not a jury in this state who would convict me."
"I hear you," I agree fervently. I can't tell him that I'm hoping that Jack succumbed to his injuries after all, and Roman just hasn't found him yet. "Look, I've got to go. Roman's taking me out somewhere, he thinks he has some information about The Chads that might help us."
"The sooner the better," Larry says.
"What does your t-shirt say today?" I'm worried that he still sounds so miserable.
"I don't know if you deserve to know what my t-shirt says." Yeah, he's pissed.
"Pleeease?"
"Fine. It says,You're not paranoid if everyone really is out to get you," he says.
"Excellent!" I wedge my phone under my chin so I can clap for him.
"Bye, Violet."
Searching the downstairs, I find Roman standing in the open door to the basement, speaking quietly with Ivan. I angle myneck, trying to look around him, there's nothing but a staircase. No racks of bazookas or piles of grenades. Roman catches my eager look and chuckles.
"Are you ready?" he says, his broad shoulders blocking my view of the downstairs. Unless I want to jump up and down in an ungainly fashion, I'm not getting a glimpse over his shoulder.
"Sure," I say ungraciously.
Roman helps me into his Bugatti, leaning over and matter-of-factly clicking my seatbelt shut for me before closing the door. I press my knuckles against my chest, there's an ache there. There is something so simple about him doing that for me, a concern for my safety. Caring for me. When was the last time I felt this way? Have I ever felt this way?
Damnit!I think.He's spoiling me. This is terrible!
I can't let this pampering continue. I'll be useless by the time the girls and I have to leave. That thought is so depressing that I shove it out of my mind. I'm going to enjoy this for as long as I have it.
He pulls out onto the street, a mom is walking a baby in a $2,500 McLaren stroller on the sidewalk, she waves at Roman and he waves back with an affable, 'hey we're just all neighbors here,' sort of way. Two men dressed in their Wall Street best are listlessly exchanging conversation, coffee cups in hand, briefcases in the other, gearing up for another day as Alpha Males and Titans of Industry.
"That must be incredibly exhausting," I say.
Roman glances over to them quickly, then back to me. "What specifically?"
"They have their big expensive suits on, holding their briefcases like a weapon, ready to charge into battle. The day just started and they already look beat to hell."
He puts his hand onto my thigh, his thumb absently smoothing over my dress. "Hmm." Just hmm.
"Do you ever feel like that?" I ask, watching his expression. "You always seem so sure of yourself. But you're only twenty-nine. You didn't get that usual decade that the rest of us do for being stupid and making mistakes."
His hand tightens just slightly as we stop for a light, a surge of commuters flooding the crosswalk. "There's no room for stupidity in the Brava," he says slowly. "I was namedVorwhen I was twenty-one. I have a responsibility to my family. Mistakes are deadly."
"So..." I'm floundering here. This is so out of my realm of experience that I'm groping for some sort of analogy to real-world humans. "This isn't like not getting the quarterly report in on time and getting demoted from senior finance bro to junior finance bro."
His expression doesn't change, but a shadow darkens his face in a way that is distinctly unsettling. "If I make a mistake, people die," he says calmly. "My brother perhaps, or my cousin, one of our lieutenants, even the lowest Brigadier is my responsibility. I'm here to track threats to my family before they become a problem."
