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Owen turns back to the window, stony and silent. I don’t know whether he’s annoyed at me for calling him on his bullshit, or whether it’s a self-reflection thing. Either way, I have to do my best not to care.
CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE
Owen
One week later...
ICAN’TEVENcount the number of screw-ups in my life. They range from stupid things, like putting my foot in my mouth when dealing with a client, to bigger things, like assuming the most important thing about a potential accidental pregnancy is the money.
It’s the easiest aspect to tackle because money is black and white. It’s unemotional and removed. Which is exactly why Hannah is pissed. It’s not the conversation we should have been having, but every time I imagine her pregnant my brain shuts down.
I don’t have it in me to be a dad or a husband. Because I’d wrap my child and my wife in bubble wrap, stifling them with my fear. I have to stop myself doing it now, as Hannah and I step out of the taxi next to an alleyway that’s black as midnight. She looks like a million bucks wearing a little black dress that hugs every mouth-watering line of her body, a sparkling clutch bag, my mother’s topaz ring and the earrings that Matt gave to Celina.
I didn’t want her to wear them. It will be a flashing red cape to Serge. But the higher-ups are getting antsy, and they want more information. So we’re taking the provocative approach.
In the past week, we’ve confirmed a few things. Number one: Serge is, in fact, Sergio Benedetti. He’s been back in Australia for two years, mostly laying low and building his network. He runs the monthly poker game, along with the goon who’d had his hands on Hannah the day of the alley incident. But word is that he’s a loose cannon and isn’t playing by the Romanos’ rules. So we might be able to get something out of him.
Number two: according to building records, five apartments at 21 Love Street have residents who moved in less than six months ago. We suspect the reason this building was chosen by the Romanos was due to its proximity to several “old money” suburbs. In addition, residential buildings are not only subject to higher privacy restrictions but they also attract a hell of a lot of attention when it comes to police activity.
Which is why my old team had struggled to get information prior to our undercover op.
Hannah walks into the alley without waiting to see if I’m following. The past week has been like this between us—tense, quiet. Her forging ahead while I overanalyse everything.
“Hannah.” I catch up to her, encircling her wrist in my hand. “Stop for a minute.”
“What?” She keeps her beautiful face neutral and looks up at me between sooty lashes. Her makeup is dark and smudgy, sexy as hell. Her lips are glossy and have tiny flecks of glitter on them. God, I want to kiss her right now. Every night when I go to bed alone, I wake reaching for her.
“We’re a team. We play this together, okay?”
She nods. “I know.”
“That means no flying solo.”
Her eyes search my face. “Are you worried I’m going to lose all your money, dear husband?”
There are footsteps behind us. I feel like we need to get on the same page, but we’re out in the open now. And at home—in our “marital” apartment—she treats me like a stranger.
“I trust you.” I pull her toward me and she doesn’t resist.
The footsteps get closer and I lower my head to hers, fully expecting her to turn away. But instead she opens, her lips parting and her chin tilting up, and she readily accepts my kiss. Her lips taste like vanilla and she smells like fruity heaven. Her arms wind around my neck and she rises up on her toes, brushing her incredible body against mine.
I wish we were back home, so this kiss could go somewhere. My hands find her back and the sweet, gentle curve at the nape of her neck.
The footsteps continue right past us. The second they’re out of earshot, she pulls away and smooths her hands over the bottom of her dress. Her eyes look a little wild.
“Come on.” She reaches for my hand and tugs me forward. “We’re late.”
In truth, I have no idea of the etiquette of an underground, illegal high-stakes poker game. But I can’t imagine they’re sticklers for punctuality.
The instructions I’ve been given were vague—a red door down this alley. How far down? I have no idea. But everything is in place. Matt suggested us to Serge and his crew, planting the idea that we’re dumb and rich and looking for a thrill.
“Is that it?” Hannah slows as we come close to a door that looks like it could be red if it wasn’t entirely hidden in shadows. “It looks deserted.”
“On purpose, maybe?” The door is set slightly back, with a single step raising it from the ground. We’re about twenty metres from the main road to our right, and to our left the alley continues on in semi-darkness. “Let’s see what happens.”
We knock once on the door—a loud, single rap that feels like a gunshot in this quiet place—as we’ve been instructed. I count to five and then knock again, twice this time. The door immediately swings open and we’re greeted by a giant hulk of a man. He’s built like a house, with tatts and a dark, thick goatee.
“Who invited you?” he asks.
