Page 22 of Married to the Enemy

Freddy’s gaze wandered—not at him, but back toward the house. His lips pinched. “Got it. But…” His eyes dimmed. “The other kids… they’re still hungry.”

Raffe scrubbed a hand down his beard, jaw flexing. The kid wasn’t thinking of just himself. Dammit, Freddy had a heart too big for his own good.

“Yeah, well,” Raffe said gruffly, “I’ve got some connections. Jenny can run more surprise checks. If the foster mom is starving kids, her license will be taken.”

As he said it, he looked up.

Mia was waiting by the stairs, one hand resting lightly on the railing as she turned to watch him. Her eyes flicked to him, quick, hesitant—as if she wasn’t sure if she wanted him to see that she was watching.

That glance hit him harder than it should have. Subtle. Barely there. But real.

And he wanted more.

He cursed silently to himself. He didn’t deserve her glances. Not when she was the daughter of Vito Calvino. Not when his entire mission was to bring her father down and drag every last one of his cockroaches into the light. He had to keep his mission front and center.

But when she looked again—so brief, so unsure—it sent something fierce and unwanted through his chest.

He turned back to Freddy. It was safer there.

“Surprise inspections are a great idea.” Freddy’s voice was quiet and thoughtful. “Would your connections take suggestions? I know the best times to stop in so that the social worker can really see what they’re doing.”

“That’s a brilliant idea,” Raffe grunted. “But back to the stealing issue—it’s never the solution.”

Freddy’s jaw tightened as he stared blindly through the windshield. His eyes were hard, older than a boy’s should ever be. “It is when we’re all hungry and haven’t been allowed to eat all day.”

Raffe opened his mouth to respond, but another voice cut in sharply.

“All day?”

He and Freddy turned. Mia stood at the open driver’s-side window, eyes flashing. Behind her, Evangeline leaned heavily on Mia’s shoulder, still clutching the fried chicken box.

Raffe swore under his breath. The wheelchairs were still strapped down in the bed of his truck. He’d been so focused on Freddy that he hadn’t noticed Mia was trying to get her grandmother to walk the distance.

He shoved open the door and jumped out, circling around quickly to help. “Damn it—I should’ve brought the chairs out first.” He yanked the tailgate down and began tugging at the straps.

Mia shot him a scathing look, though her lips twitched with something like humor. “That would have been helpful.”

Evangeline, however, wasn’t in the mood for humor. Her eyes were stormy, her frail frame trembling with fury—but not at Raffe.

“We had a lot of chores,” Freddy explained quickly, guilt written all over his face. “And because of this—” he tapped the arm of his wheelchair as Raffe lowered him into it—“I’m pretty slow.”

“Why were you assigned chores at all?” Mia demanded.

Freddy looked up, shifting his weight slightly to better settle into the wheelchair. “My foster mom said—”

“Former foster mom,” Mia corrected immediately, as she bent to help him shift his feet into the footrests.

Evangeline nodded firmly in agreement, holding onto Raffe’s arm as he lowered her into her wheelchair, eyes blazing with fury.

Freddy swallowed, his gaze dropping. “She said just because I was in a wheelchair, it didn’t mean I couldn’t do chores. She said the world wasn’t going to accommodate a cripple, so I might as well figure out how to get on in the world now.”

“She’s wrong!” Evangeline spat, her elderly face twisting with righteous rage. “My husband, Barney, was just like that, dear. I’d started to lose hope while married to that cruel bastard. Then he up and died, finally giving me freedom and happiness.” She smiled gently at the boy. “I guarantee there are kind, generous people in this world.” She leaned forward, patting Freddy’s knee with surprising gentleness. “You’re with us now. And you’ll never go without food again.”

Freddy smiled faintly, but Raffe felt the kid’s wariness like a weight in the air. He’d been let down too many times—by the system, by strangers, by the person who had killed his mother.

Raffe set a firm hand on Freddy’s shoulder. It wasn’t much. It wasn’t enough. But maybe the steady pressure said more than words could.

Still, it felt inadequate.