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Wheeler made a contemplative sound, which was not the correct response.
Saint didn’t like his own proximity to the bikers, but he didn’t mind being a buffer. But that went to shit if Wheeler got involved anyway.
Wheeler opened his mouth, and Saint cut him off. “No.”
“You don’t even know what I was going to ask.”
“I said no, Wheeler.”
“Ah, fine. Well, if you need the excitement, let me know. I can always find a place for you.”
“We’ve discussed this. I’m not babysitting security detail for politicians and drug dealers.”
“Training. You don’t even have to babysit—come on, you know you want to,” Wheeler drawled.
“Train them yourself. Or hire better people.”
“Let me know when you’re done being retired.” Wheeler’s laugh boomed right in his ear. “Night-night, Saint.”
“You’re welcome.”
Saint ended the call and let out the breath he’d been holding. He’d done his part. His people were informed, if not entirely safe.
But who was?
He checked his screen for the notifications he’d missed earlier.
Unknown number: Uh, well, here goes nothing. It’s Riley from the park and no, Cookie is not missing, but I wondered if you wanted to get a coffee or something if you don’t that’s fine too. It won’t be weird. Even if Cookie does go missing I’ll still help look for him
Unknown number: did you know you can’t edit text messages after they send? Only iMessages
Unknown number: So yeah, coffee. let me know.
Unknown number: or don’t.
Unknown number: this is embarrassing
Fucking finally.
Saint wove through the empty streets and past abandoned warehouses as satisfaction smouldered in his chest. He didn’t even get mad when he was forced to slow to a crawl to avoid the sprawl of drunk ravers in the middle of the street. A group of women turned to watch as he went by, hooting and hollering in obvious inebriation.
He didn’t bother looking. It didn’t matter.
She’d finally texted.
He could be patient.
Chapter 6
Riley
The weekend had left dark circles under Riley’s eyes, and the lights felt offensive. The glitter along her hairline wouldn’t rub off. The bathroom door banged open, and the pink hand soap shot past her palm as she jumped.
“Hey, you.”
Riley’s eyes jerked up at the man’s voice. Fuck. Giovanni Ricci had not met a rule he couldn’t talk around or push his way through, and the women’s washroom sign on the door was no exception. He wasn’t supposed to be back from Italy yet. Nico wasn’t.
“Why are you here?” She didn’t take her eyes off him through the mirror, turning on the faucet with her fingertips. “You have your own washroom down the hall,” she reminded him, as if he’d simply made a mistake.
