Page 42 of Revere: A Legacy Novel

For him.

For more.

To come one more time.

Cross had found heaven again. He’d been living in hell for far too long.

The bed was colder than it should have been. That was how Cross knew he was alone. Still, he gave Catherine the benefit of the doubt that she hadn’t taken off before he could even wake up. Blinking fully awake, he noted the empty side of the bed where Catherine had crawled in beside him the night before.

The pillow was untouched, as she had tucked into his side. The blankets were crumpled.

His dick was half hard.

It had not been a dream.

Cross still gave her the benefit of the doubt that she was somewhere inside his goddamn penthouse even as he pushed out of the bed with tired muscles. Despite heading to the gym four times a week for two and three hour sessions, fucking Catherine was a workout.

One he liked a whole lot.

The attached master bath was empty as he relieved himself and washed his hands. He shrugged on a pair of sweats from the walk-in closet, and headed out of the bedroom. Still, he gave her the benefit of the doubt.

Yet, his penthouse was empty.

That just left Cross pissed.

On the counter, he found a small note Catherine had written on a piece of mail.

Sorry. –C, it read.

Nothing more.

Because she knew he would be pissed she up and left without as much as a goodbye. Regardless of what Catherine tried to play off between them the night before, it had not just been fucking. It could never be just fucking with them.

So she ran.

Like a scared little deer.

Cross wanted to be surprised, but he wasn’t. He scrubbed a hand over his stubble as he looked over her hastily written note once more. Pretty, delicate handwriting that hadn’t changed in all her years, yet still showed shakiness in the curves from her nerves.

He tossed the note aside with a heavy, “Fuck.”

Cross had news for Catherine. He asked around, and knew exactly where she lived. He certainly didn’t mind playing a game with her, as long as he got a heads up about what kind of game she planned to play.

She owed him a conversation.

At least.

The conversation would have to wait, unfortunately. The ring of his cell phone on the counter—a ringtone he saved just for his new brother-in-law and people down in Chicago—told him business was coming.

Cross found he was right when he picked up the call. “Donati here.”

“The Canadian’s guns are in, man,” came a familiar voice on the other end.

Theo DeLuca.

“I thought they were supposed to be another two weeks or so?”

“Well, they weren’t. Early drop means extra cash from Guzzi. I mean, you can chill for a bit if you want, but I would prefer you get these guns over the New Brunswick border within a week.”