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“You don't know that.” It never occurred to me that he would see things that way. “The best place for you was to be at Tatum's side.”
“I understand that, but you could've died. Does that not make any bells go off in your head?”
“Of course it does, yet there wasn't any other option. If it makes you feel better, you can help change my bandages.” I smirk to lighten the mood.
“Sorry, the window of opportunity is closed.” At least he's grinning when he looks my way. “I haven't wanted to bring it up since there were more important things to discuss—Bianca and Tatum and all that, but what are our next steps?”
“To find and kill Jack, and his son.” The answer is simple. Jack and his son will pay for fucking with what is mine.
“He's gone deep into hiding. I've been checking with my contacts around the clock, and nobody's seen or heard from him. I even checked local hospitals—if she sank that knife as deep into him as you said, I'm sure he needed more assistance than some paid under-the-table doctor.”
“It's almost poetic,” I sigh. “Though it would have been better if she'd stabbed him in the balls, that prick. She might've spared the world the possibility of there being another Moroni one day.”
“If we take him out, and I mean soon, we'll eliminate that possibility as well.”
“That means we have to flush him out somehow—both of them. Any ideas on how to do that?”
“Nothing aside from the usual. I haven't been thinking strategically, let's put it that way.” That makes two of us. “Set one of his warehouses on fire, burn his house down, find his men, and send him photos of their torture, that kind of thing. I'm not sure that would do it, either. Not if he's that determined to stay hidden.”
The temptation to go along with the idea is almost too strong to resist. I would love to bask in the warmth of a fire if it was Jack Moroni's life burning to cinders. My pulse races, my fists tighten, and I want to find the nearest book of matches.
“That will be what he expects,” I point out, not gladly. “Nobody wants to destroy his existence more than I do, but we have to play it smart. We can't rush out, guns blazing. We could end up walking into a trap or miss our chance, and who knows if we'll get another. We've got one opportunity.” I watch as he absorbs my words, and I notice his shoulders rising, the tension in every muscle. “Romero. I need you with me on this. I can't have you going rogue.”
“I have no intention of going rogue. I'll do whatever you think is best. You're the boss.”
“I don't like it any more than you do,” I assure him. “I probably hate it a hell of a lot more. I want him to pay more than anything, but acting without thought isn't going to get us what we want. The snake has to poke his head out eventually. We'll get him the moment he does.”
“Right.” He turns away from the window, and if I didn't know better, I would think the snarl he wears was directed at me. The sky behind him grows darker by the moment. It's been several long days, and we all need a minute to catch our breath and get our shit together.
“I was thinking of reaching out to Costello,” he suggests. “But I wanted to check with you first. Since the relationship is still somewhat new, I wasn't sure if that would be the right move.”
“I think it's a great idea. He won't be looking for anything from Sebastian.” As far as I know, Costello is unaware of our dealings. “Yes, we'll reach out to him. He seemed eager enough to be of help when Bianca was missing.”
“Not that he was accommodating in the end,” he retorts, a little sour.
“As it turns out, we didn't need him to be. We had everything we needed. It was only a matter of time before we put the pieces together.” Too much time. Time Bianca should have been with me, not trapped in some stinking hellhole. Yes, it could have been worse, but she didn't deserve to experience a moment of what she did.
“I'll reach out to him and set up a time for a meeting.” I don't bother trying to hide the way I look him up and down. “As for you, why don't you go home, get some rest in your own bed, and get your head on straight. We'll dive back into this tomorrow.”
“But—”
Ultimately, there's no option but to let him see my frustration. I've been trying to hide it, reminding myself how difficult it's been for him, how little sleep he's gotten, and how he's beaten himself up more than once. First, it was blaming himself for leaving Tatum unprotected, and now he blames himself for my getting shot. I can't have him falling apart, not when I rely so heavily on him.
“Nobuts,” I snarl. “That was a fucking order. Go to bed. Get some sleep. You'll be able to think better in the morning. You're no use to me as you are now.”
His jaw clenches, though he's smart enough to keep his thoughts to himself before stalking from the room, jamming his fists into his pockets. His footsteps echo like gunshots down the hall until they fade to silence with the closing of the front door.
Slowly, I rise from my chair, groaning as I do. I consider going upstairs to the bedroom, but instead, my feet lead me to the door separating the main house from Tatum's wing. It's closed—not unusual—but I have to ask myself whether or not to open it. I can't shake the feeling that somewhere deep down inside, Tatum blames me for all of this. It could very well be my guilt manifesting itself in projection, and at the end of the day, it was her mother who set this up, not me, but we don't think rationally when we are in a crisis, and what she's going through qualifies as that. I grip the door handle and twist the knob opening the door, only to find Bianca on her way out of Tatum's bedroom. The way she moves—tiptoeing, holding a finger to her lips when she spots me—tells me Tatum must be asleep.
She confirms this in a whisper once she draws closer. “She went straight to bed. I know how she feels. It's impossible to get a good night's sleep in a hospital.”
“Then let's get you to bed, too.” I have to laugh at the raised brow of suspicion she gives me. “I'm grateful for your confidence in my abilities, but that's the last thing on my mind for once.”
She frowns, “You must really be in bad shape, then.”
“Not in bad shape. Just extremely sore and not in the mood to tear my stitches.”
“I don't want that, either.” She slides an arm around my waist, her touch gentle, careful, and I drape an arm across her shoulders. There is something incredibly right about this, the two of us ambling toward the stairs, together. When I think of how close I came to never having this again… It's a pain intense enough to eclipse anything I've experienced until now.
