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“Nah. That’s not it.” He takes another bite, a corner of his American cheese nearly falling from his lips. Yamila’s now the one looking sallow. “I think he needs to get laid. Or maybe a steak. Usually, for me, it’s a steak.”

Fuck’s sake.

Yamila, having had enough, takes her chances by grabbing Frank’s arm and yanking him out of her office. I’m placing bets on how long it takes before she breaks out the hand sanitizer.

“Max, you look like hell, bro,” Frank blurts as he barges in to my office.

“Thanks, man. I can always count on you to pick me up when I’m stressed.”

“What’re friends for?” He plops down into the chair facing my desk. “What gives?”

I push my fingers through my hair. Hell, I need a trim. “Dad called. I need to go visit him and Mom.”

Frank lowers his food. “Shit, Max. You want me to come with?”

“Nah. I appreciate it, but no sense putting both of us through it.” The predictable dread of what I’ll find is already making my chest feel tight. It’s no mystery to my friend. He’s seen it all before.

“I’d offer to take you out for a beer after, but last time that didn’t work out too well.” He shakes his head.

He’s right. I’ve never had difficulty holding my liquor, but this situation with my family has made it nearly impossible to handle without some sort of sedative. If it isn’t alcohol, it’s usually a night of meaningless sex.

I’ve been far too distant lately. Loretta, Yamila, and Bauer, and to some degree, Frank, have kept this place running while I’ve been chasing ghosts on the dark web. And now, I’m having trouble looking them in the eye. It’s clear I’m spiraling again. I haven’t slept. Not since I went back into the chatter rooms, looking for new intel. I try to keep my visits there limited to the pro bono projects I’m researching. To stay away from my own personal demons. At least, I had.

Until the night I kissed Cassidy.

Finding her in the arms of that man right after I’d let my control rip in two was the kick in the pants I needed. It wasn’t about jealousy or possessiveness. Not anymore. I need to put a stop to this.

There are too many secrets with this girl. And I have enough of my own. I’m not in the right headspace to let a woman in.

I’d gone to that coffee shop to fuel up before meeting Gianni, Anthony, and Matteo. There’s been new chatter about Matteo’s father sending plants to the US to target Luca and Matteo, and I needed to warn them the threats seemed credible. That they should take extra precautions to protect the ones they love. The last thing I expected when I dragged my exhausted ass into that cafe was Cassidy.

Much less with a kid. Was that her son?

The thought is a jagged pill to swallow. If she has a child, I have even more reason to stay far away. I can’t risk bringing my world down on their heads. But one fact becomes clearer each day. Whether I’m doing the right thing or not.

I miss being near her.

Several days later, I’m back at the club, hunched over a laptop, and practically pulling my hair out. Probably don’t need that trim after all at this rate. I swore I was going to stay away, but now I’ve hit a brick wall with these phone records. At least that’s the excuse I’m giving myself.

The client continues to insist he’s a pedophile. Sure, this could be her attempt to secure a bigger windfall. Yet my radar for divorce-court ploys is pretty sharp. Everything about this situation feels ominous.

The pictures she provided look like they were printed on a cheap home printer, not at a professional shop. So these images are stored somewhere. His laptop? His desktop? His phone? If I could just find the discrepancy in the data stream, the whole house of cards might tumble.

I keep thinking if anyone could spot the glitch, it would be her. In the cases I’ve given Cassidy already, she’s identified suspicious activity before I’ve even finished my first coffee. But am I just using the case as an excuse to see her?

Yes, dumbass. Yes, you are. Just face it.

I spot Cassidy across the room. She doesn’t come over. Why would she? I brushed her off after that kiss like it was no big deal. As if women are as disposable to me as they are to Devon Sly and Becket Ryan. But they’re not. I am careful to only hook up with women who know the score, so no one gets hurt. Until this.

I’m an asshole, and I know it.

I finally approach her, my voice clipped. “Cassidy. Are you willing to look at something? I’m struggling with a set of phone records.”

“I doubt I could offer anything new,” she replies, her voice flat. “I reviewed those with you before and came up empty.” She continues to wipe down a table that looks as if it was already spotless, refusing to make eye contact with me. Fuck.

“I think we’re both missing something.”

She lets out a resigned exhale before walking over to deposit her rag behind the bar. I wait with bated breath to see if she’ll follow me back over to where I’ve been seated or walk away, ignoring me. I deserve the latter.