Page 23 of Until You Can't

I wasn’t sure what to make of that information. I was relieved, sure. And yet, why did that also have me worried?

Before I could share my thoughts, Owen added, “My people did some digging, and it wasn’t hard to figure out the guy who bought up Anthony’s gambling debt is a hardcore hockey fan. He’s probably treating your brother with kid gloves because of it, which is Anthony’s saving grace. But that doesn’t mean he won’t pull the trigger if you don’t pay.”

“Copy that,” I remarked, my stomach dropping at the idea my brother could die if I didn’t follow through with my plan.

“You sure you don’t want us to extract your brother instead?”

I considered his words and what that option might mean. “No, if my brother owes money, then he needs to square up, or this shit will keep following him. And we can’t kill these guys just for being asshole debt collectors that threaten violence, can we?” I mean . . . can we? Could I wade in that morally gray area for a bit? Could I be that guy?

“Samantha would prefer I don’t kill anyone unless I have to,” Owen shared, sounding a little disappointed. He was still upset the men had pointed a pistol at his wife and tranquilized his dog. He wanted some payback, and I didn’t blame him. But Owen wasn’t some cold-blooded killer. “So, I guess I’ll just have my guys sit tight and monitor the situation while you’re dealing with the money side of things.”

“Yeah,” I agreed, knowing that was probably the best option for now. “Thank you.”

“Did you talk to your uncle?”

I thought back to that conversation, surprised things had gone as smoothly as they had. I’d been prepared to offer Uncle Maurizio much more of a sales pitch than I’d needed to. Maybe my uncle had softened in his older age? “He agreed to the ten percent advance as long as I propose to my girlfriend in front of him in Italy. I have to fly out there a week from tomorrow.”

“Shit. Who’s the lucky woman?” I knew he was doing his best not to laugh at the absurd idea of all this fake dating nonsense.

“I’m still working on the girlfriend part, but I’ll figure something out.”

I faced the window again, catching sight of Natalia’s room. Only about fifteen paces separated our homes, and with her blinds partially open, I could see her walking around her bedroom.

Feeling like some peeping Tom, I tore my gaze away.

“If you change your mind and want the money, I’ll find a way to help you, you know that,” Owen reminded me. “In the meantime, I have to spin up with Bravo for a quick op. My guy in Ibiza will be your point of contact while I’m out of town. He’s got your number and will touch base later today.”

“Bravo? An op?” I laughed. “Sounds to me like you’re still running missions for the Teams—not working private security.”

Owen cleared his throat, realizing his slip-up. “I, uh, gotta run, bro. But if anything urgent comes up, just reach out to Noah Dalton. He’s your point guy over there.”

“Whoa, hold up. Dalton? I thought he was running an architectural firm in New York now that he remarried. He’s doing side jobs for Scott and Scott?”

“Yeah, he’s a Teamguy, what can I say?” He paused. “‘Never out of the fight,’” he repeated one of the common SEAL mottos.

Unless you’re forbidden to fight. My shoulders fell with disappointment. “Until you can’t . . .” I whispered, not meaning for Owen to overhear me.

“Hey, just because you can’t operate doesn’t mean you’re out—”

“It does, actually,” I responded, bitter all over again. “Anyways, looks like we’re bringing the old gang back together,” I deflected.

Noah Dalton had been in my BUD/S class. It really was becoming a blast from the past, but my brother getting himself in trouble wasn’t how I wanted to have this reunion.

“Don’t worry. We’ve got your six,” Owen remarked.

After exchanging a few more words, we hung up, and I chucked the phone on the bed a little harder than necessary. I looked over at the window, needing to close the blinds before I let go of my towel. But then I spotted Natalia peeling off her top in her bedroom.

When I turned to avoid the sight, I tripped over my damn shoes and nearly slammed my head against the thirty-year-old oak dresser while falling to my knees.

For a former Tier One guy, I’d already lost my stealth-mode setting.

Wouldn’t that be my luck? Quit operating to protect my head only to have my childhood dresser take me out.

And while I’d saved my head from another blow, my shoulder wasn’t so lucky. The force knocked loose one of the frames, and I shot my arm out, catching it just before the picture connected with the hardwood floor.

I sat back on my heels and stared at the photo, feeling like I could reach out and touch the moment from when we’d lived in Toronto. Anthony was geared up for his first hockey game. Dad was standing between us, and I had a comic book under my arm. I’d been obsessed with the comic Watchmen back then—a group of fallen superheroes trying to navigate failures and civilian life.

Doing my best to shut down thoughts of parallels between my own life and that comic, I stood and returned the frame to its rightful place. I peered at the other photos. Only one had Mom in it. She never liked her photo taken, something she regretted after Dad passed.

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