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An array of meats and vegetables are brought out, and as the alcohol flows, the conversation becomes almost boisterous. Darcy allows Felton some of her attention, letting him feed her, and Michael doesn’t seem bothered by her bouncing between him and his son.

“You ride bikes,” Michael says as he cuts into his steak. I nod in response, eating as if I’m not counting down the minutes until this fucker is in cuffs. “Don’t get quiet on me now.”

I fork some more beef onto my plate. “Yes, I do.”

Michael watches me as he chews. “Is it something you’ve always done or picked up later in life?”

“Always.”

“I bet your parents weren’t too pleased about that.”

I slow my chewing and meet his eye. “No, they weren’t.”

“But the ladies loved it?”

Michael doesn’t seem like the kind of man who enjoys small talk, which means these questions have a purpose. He’s either finding out more about me, or he already knows the answers and he’s testing my honesty. Either way, it’s pissing me off.

“It’s been a long time, I wouldn’t remember.”

Michael chuffs a laugh. “A good-looking kid like yourself? I’m surprised you don’t remember every pussy you’ve filled. I hope he’s been treating you right, Sunday. If not, I’m sure one of our other guests would gladly make sure your needs are met.”

Sunday takes a deep, steadying breath and continues pushing her food around her plate. She wants to bite back, I can almost feel the sparks of adrenaline rushing through her, but she stays silent.

This is all we have to do. Appease the fuckers for another hour and thirty minutes.

“Condolences about your father, Sunday.”

Shit.

She looks up from her plate. “Excuse me?”

Michael’s brows raise in mock surprise. “You didn’t know? He was put down by one of my men just before you arrived here. You didn’t tell her, Cage?”

Lies. More fucking lies. I hate that I didn’t tell her, but I knew it would break her in two, and I needed to focus on getting her out.

“Is that true?” Sunday whispers, and when I look at her, her eyes are glassy.

I grit my teeth. “I’m sorry.”

She shakes her head, a tear falling down her cheek. “How could you … how—” Her voice trembles and she looks away, focusing on her plate.

I try to take her hand, but she snatches it away from me. “I’m sorry, Sunday.”

Guilt swarms me like bees in my heart and mind. The incessant buzzing of my conscience has me struggling with how to fix this, especially without giving away what we are to each other.

Michael tuts. “You were right, Sunday. He is getting really good at apologizing.” The buzzing stops. My mind falls quiet. My heart might even stall in my chest. As my attention snaps to Michael, he tilts his head. “But it really doesn’t mean a thing if you don’t change, Cole.”

The use of my name starts a ringing in my ears. Training tells me that once my cover is blown, I should go through with the arrest or get the fuck out. Neither of those options are available, and even if they were, my priority is getting Sunday out.

But how the fuck do I do that?

“Sunday,” Michael says, his tone mockingly kind. “You can’t blame Cole for not telling you. I don’t think he was exactly upset when he heard the news.” No, no, this isn’t fucking happening. He looks between Sunday and me, the tension ramping up between us. “Is this something else you’ve hidden from her?”

“You’re a fucker,” I whisper through gritted teeth.

His smirk is slow. “Sunday, look at me.” She does, her eyes shining. “Cole’s parents are dead because of your father, Sunday.” She’s quiet, her chest rising and falling with rapid breaths. “Apparently, your dad got in with the wrong people, and Cole’s parents paid the price.”

“You’re lying,” Sunday says, her voice cracking. “My dad wouldn’t do that.”