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He almost called me baby. I try to swallow the knot in my throat, but it feels like an immovable boulder.
“Okay,” I say, my voice husky. “Like that?”
“Yeah, baby,” he says, as he moves his hands over mine and leans closer. This time I don’t protest. “Like that.”
Our breaths mingle. I can almost hear my heart beating.
“I’m ready,” I tell him, my voice harsh and angry. “Let’s go.”
I pull away.
I can’t let myself fall for him. Not again. He’ll only break my heart.
He nods. “Yeah. Let’s go. We’re going into the main entrance where we’ll scope our surroundings. I’ll see if there’s anything amiss, and you tell me if you see anything. We’ll find Santo.” His voice goes hard. “Then we’ll question him.”
I nod, though I don’t think there’s any “we” in the second part of that plan.
“We’re two people who like each other,” Tavi says as we head into the airport. “Remember that.”
“Of course, sweetheart,” I say as coldly as I can. It doesn’t feel as nice as I thought it would, dammit. Turns out, I don’t like being angry with him.
If only he’d say he was sorry.
If only he’d show even an ounce of remorse for what he did.
If only…
But I can’t focus on that now. We’re here on a mission, and finding Santo has to happen now.
The airport’s busy today, busier than I ever remember it being before. A tour bus pulls up at the curb for drop-off, and we have to stand by and wait as an entire soccer team gets off. Tavi curses under his breath at the delay, but I use this time to observe everything I can.
To our right, a gray-haired woman with glasses holds a baby, and a much younger woman beside her kneels to help a toddler tie his shoelaces.
Behind them, two well-dressed businessmen in suits carry briefcases. They’re dressed impeccably, but they don’t look like anyone who might be involved with Santo. Looks can be deceiving, though. I watch them until they hit the security gate.
Regular passengers enter to the left, but to the right is the entrance to the private terminal where private flights take off. That area’s far less crowded. Still, I watch one couple walk up to security, and as their bags are checked, a second couple goes by. I blink in surprise when the entire soccer team heads that way, too.
“Quickly, Tavi,” I whisper to him. “Now’s our chance.”
He gives me a short nod, grabs my hand, and holds it tightly.
I hate that I still like holding his hand.
I hate that it still feels like we’re a couple.
The tight squeeze of his hand on mine makes my wedding ring dig slightly into my finger. My wedding band. It felt so nice when he slipped it on yesterday.
The team exits to the left where a small group of security guards wait to check and escort them. They seem a little starstruck as they ask for autographs. Tavi and I sidle up to the same security gate, when Tavi’s phone rings.
He slips a comm device into his ear casually and taps it.
“Mmm?”
Whatever he hears makes him dart his gaze to the far right, where small cameras swivel to face us, then pan back to the crowd.
“Got it. Thank you.” He smiles at me. “Give me your bag, baby.”
I feel as if we’re in slow motion, like even the beating of my heart has a slower, steady tempo. I turn to hand him my bag, as security comes our way. My pulse spikes when I remember we’re both carrying weapons.
Tavi, however, is unbothered.
Tavi smiles and casually lifts his sleeve before he turns his arm upright. I watch the security guard’s eyes widen when he sees the Rossi family rose. His trump card.
“Welcome, sir,” he says quietly, while Tavi takes out the stack of bills I saw earlier and peels off several hundred euros.
“Thank you,” he says, still smiling. “You’ll let us through, won’t you?”
The guard eyes the money, but I think it’s the knowledge he’s dealing with a Rossi that he finds even more convincing.
“Of course, sir,” he says in a low voice. “Follow my lead, please.” When we draw nearer, he says in a whisper, “Please tell me we won’t have trouble here today.”
“If you let me go through, I’ll do my best to make sure that’s the case,” Tavi says, still smiling, then louder, “Rodriguez killed it with his last goal, didn’t he?”
The guard smiles and nods, and both of them start talking in Italian about all things soccer. When a second guard heads over to us, the first waves him off and tells him he’s got us.
He pulls out the metal detector, waves it over us, and when it beeps, he shakes his head like it’s malfunctioned. “Stupid thing,” he mutters in Italian. “Happens all the time.” Pushing a button, he gestures for us to go through.
