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Lucas punches his brother lightly on the arm as they trade verbal jabs back and forth. It kind of cracks me up, honestly. They’re both so laid-back in some ways, but obviously not in all ways.
I chuckle, glancing down at the list of things we still need to get. “I’ll go get the pasta. I think I can handle that.”
Leaving the cart with them, I duck down a separate aisle in search of angel hair pasta. My gaze scans the shelves, looking for the particular brand they want, and I’m not watching where I’m going—until I run smack into a solid form.
“Oh my God, I’m so—”
“It’s fine. It’s fine.”
The man I bumped into is an older guy with a dark complexion and salt-and-pepper hair. He grasps my upper arms to steady me. Then, so quickly and smoothly I don’t even realize what he’s doing until it’s done, he slides one hand down and presses something into my palm.
“Don’t worry about it,” he says, giving me an affable smile before stepping around me and continuing down the aisle.
Heart racing, my hand clenches around the small object he just placed in it. It’s a piece of paper, and my mind immediately jumps to the last note I received.
Is he working for Camilla?
My stomach seems to drop into my shoes, dread pumping through my veins. But when I open the crumpled paper with shaking hands, I realize it’s not on the same expensive card stock as Camilla’s message. The handwriting isn’t her flowing script. Instead, it’s a hastily scribbled message on a piece of paper that looks like it was torn out of a small notebook.
FBI. I can help you. I know you’ve been taken prisoner.
14
Grace
I stare down at the note in shock.
FBI?
Shit.
I didn’t realize things were this big. The FBI got involved in the search for me? Brian was just in the city police force, but somehow I’m certain he wasn’t sharing tips about my location with the FBI. Not if he was working with Leland and Camilla on the side.
So how does this agent know who I am? How did he find out I’m in Chicago?
My first impulse as the shock fades is to go find Zaid and Lucas, to grab them both and get the fuck out of here.
But what if there are other FBI agents in the store? If we run, would there be a shootout? Each of the twins would die trying to protect me, I have no doubt about that. They wouldn’t let the FBI drag me away.
My heart crawls into my throat at the thought, and I shove down my rising panic. Zaid and Lucas are both trained mafia warriors. I can’t fucking risk them putting their lives in danger to protect me, not if there’s any other way of eliminating the threat.
I have to go talk to that man. Explain to him that I don’t need rescuing. Find out what the fuck he wants.
Hardly breathing, hardly even seeing where I’m going, I move in the direction the older man went, rounding the corner and heading down another aisle.
The FBI agent is lingering at the end of the aisle, looking at the array of ice cream set out neatly on shelves behind the glass doors. When he sees that I’ve followed him, he nods, his gaze catching mine for just a second before he turns and heads toward the back of the store, his stride relaxed and easy. I try to keep mine the same, darting a quick glance around as my pulse thunders in my ears.
A moment later, he pushes open a door marked Employees Only and ducks inside. I follow him.
“Thank you, Grace,” he says, turning to face me and keeping his voice low. “You made the right choice. We don’t have much time, so I’ll speak quickly.”
A chill washes over my skin. I don’t like the way he calls me Grace, as if we’re old friends who’ve known each other for years. I’m sure it’s part of his training, a tactic to try to build trust and familiarity, but it sets my nerves on edge. And if there’s one thing I’ve learned through the course of all this insanity, it’s that I can’t trust anyone.
“What do you want?” I ask, licking my suddenly dry lips.
“My name is Agent Miles Brady.” He flashes me his badge quickly as proof. “I know about your past with the Novak syndicate—your father’s involvement in the organization. I also know about your present position as well, and I think I can help you, if you help me. Do you think you can do that?”
I’m silent. I’m not agreeing to anything until I read the fucking fine print. The woman I was a few months ago, the one who was so dead set on building the perfect all-American, suburban life in Washington? She would’ve jumped at the chance to return to that life. But now I don’t ever want to go back.
