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I sigh. “I’ll think about it.”
He studies me for a few seconds, then nods and straightens. “Good night.”
My mouth opens.
Stay, sits at the tip of my tongue.
I don’t want to be alone right now. Specifically, I want to be with him. I want sex and snuggles and the intimacy I’ve only ever experienced with Nick.
This is our last night. My last chance.
“Good night.”
He half smiles. “Let me know if you want more wine.”
I see it so clearly—what staying here would be like. How easy it would be. But then I hear the clank of the gun hitting the floor in Dmitriy’s apartment. I feel the terror of being tied up on that couch with my son next to me.
I never want to be in that situation again. I never want Leo to be in that situation again.
And I don’t want Nick to ever have to make that choice again. He was ready to die to save us, and I’m not sure I would be standing upright if he had. I’d be in a fetal position on the floor, falling apart.
Nick left Philadelphia nine years ago to protect me.
This is me leaving to protect him. And Leo.
“I’m just going to pack and go to sleep.”
His half smile dies a hasty death as soon as I say the wordpack.
“Sounds good,” he says.
Then, he leaves.
CHAPTERTHIRTY-ONE
NICK
Bianchi calls just after five a.m. I’m sitting in my office, sipping on vodka.
I never went to sleep. My eyes feel gritty and dry, but I’m not tired.
For a while, I thought there was a chance Lyla might appear. Hoped she might show up the same way she did that first night we slept together. But I know it’s for the best she never did. Letting her go is going to be hard enough as it is. I don’t need fresh memories.
“What?”
“You’re awake. Excellent.”
I sigh. “What is it, Bianchi? I’m in the middle of something.”
There’s a pause.
“You and Callahan have an agreement?”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
Bianchi chuckles. “Of course not. It’s quite an accomplishment, you know. The Irish are notoriously temperamental. Your old man would be proud.”
“Once again, I don’t know what you’re talking about.”
