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“Ah.” She nodded slowly. “I see. So I’m guessing that someone got wind of it. Someone who shouldn’t have ever known it existed.”
“You got it,” I said grimly. “My brother and I were the only ones who knew the code to open it, and how to use it. So, when it was stolen, Shane was stolen, too.”
Her eyes widened. “Oh, no,” she said. “When did that happen?”
“It happened eight months ago. Three other men died that day. Colleagues of Shane. Friends of mine.” It still made my gut ache and my throat clench, talking about it. “Since then, other bad things have happened. Disasters, very nearly averted. My sister and her husband almost died, too. SmokeScreen is out there on the dark web, but it’s locked up tight. Frey and I are the only ones who can open it, now that Shane’s gone. Which is how we want it to stay. But because of that, we’re targets now.”
“I see,” she said.
“That’s why I’m doing this to you,” I said. “That’s also why I turned down your offer to have coffee. You will never know what that cost me.”
“I’m sorry about your brother,” she offered.
I nodded in acknowledgement. “So that’s it,” I said. “That’s my explanation. Some really powerful and well-funded assholes want to pry open my brain by any means necessary and get the key to SmokeScreen. They almost killed my sister and Jed to do it. The two of them stayed alive by the skin of their teeth.”
“And your sister and her husband are in Seattle, you said?”
“Yes, with Holly, our niece. Shane’s daughter. She divides her time between Freya and me. She’s nine. The best kid who ever existed. She’s a target, too. And it makes me crazy with anxiety.”
Kat nodded. “I see. Your protective instincts were activated, on my behalf. That is very nice of you. I appreciate that you give a shit. But this is the thing. I don’t know if you noticed, but I have invested a great deal of time and energy in learning to defend myself. In fact, it’s kind of a thing, with me.”
“I noticed,” I assured her.
“I run a martial arts school for women and girls,” she said. “I’m due there tomorrow evening. I have three classes to teach. The beginners, the intermediates, and the adults. They paid me to teach them, and I will not let them down.”
“Excuse me, people!” Angela marched in with a sizzling platter of fragranttagliata.“I just wanted to leave this with you. The fruit plate and lemon profiterole are on the counter. I’ll just get myself out of the way, and go back to the service floor. I hope medium rare works for you. I didn’t want to interrupt your conversation to ask.”
“It’s great,” Kat said warmly. “Thanks so much.” She waited for Angela to leave. “Sheesh,” she murmured. “The service floor? What is this, Downton Abbey?”
“That’s what she calls it,” I said. “That’s where I have quarters for all my staff.”
She prodded at the steak, letting out a murmur of approval at how juicy it was. “You should have warned me. I would have left more room,” she complained.
“Knowing Angela, it’s worth overeating,” I said. “Do you like to cook?”
She shook her head. “I can make a decent sandwich,” she said. “I try to sometimes consume a vegetable. That’s about it. After my usual diet of cold cereal and toast, something like this is extremely nice. Almost worth getting shot at by evil goons.”
I winced. “About that. What I said, about them knowing your name by now—”
“Not. Your. Problem.” She looked me in the eye, a stony, uncompromising gaze. “You can’t protect me by locking me up. I’d have to kill you. Please, don’t make me.”
Wow. The woman did not hold back. “Let’s hold off on the death threats until after dessert, okay?”
That earned me a furtive smile, quickly squelched. Small conquests like that made my spirits soar, in spite of Kat’s promise of violence.
Progress.
CHAPTER8
Kat
He was so handsome, it was ridiculous. I was in a state of total sensory overload. Perched on top of the world in his luxury lair, eating kickass Italian food, and I still remembered the way my mother used to make it, just as her own mother back in the old country. The mozzarella had to be just so, the tomatoes had to be fragrant and sweet and salty, and the oil had to be extra-extra-extra virgin, so new and peppery fresh, it burned your throat. She died before I could pick up the knack, and Raffi and Gabri and I were all so sad for so long afterward, we hardly ate at all. We forgot all about food. It was canned soup or toast, if we ate at all.
But this stuff was the real deal. Thepenne alla vodkawas tangy and amazing, with real melt-in-your-mouth fresh grated pecorino. Thetagliatamelted in my mouth. I would never have described myself as a foodie, since I could never afford to be. I cared more about getting Charlotte a pair of glasses than I did about real Parma ham from Italy, or balsamic vinegar from Modena. But serve me a meal like this, and I was converted instantly into the hopeless food snob I was born to be.
I ate more than I had ever dreamed I could, but I didn’t feel stuffed. It felt more like I was shoveling coal into a raging furnace. I just couldn’t shovel fast enough.
I guess I had been hungry for a while, but too nervous to know it or feel it. I was also not used to eating in company, but I was enjoying the food too much to feel self-conscious. Ethan went into the adjacent kitchen and brought back a tray of fruit, and a dish heaped with plump profiterole drowning in creamy lemon goop.
