“We’ve talked about this. You’re blocking something to avoid a trauma.”
“There can’t be anything left to protect me from.” My lips tighten. “The chocolate shop has to be the answer.” I consider this for a moment, images fluttering in my mind, as do facts. “I hid it there. In a planter by the downstairs bathroom. I was sure I’d be followed, so I went to several other places, and walked a good mile before I called Neuville for help.”
“But?”
“But that still doesn’t feel right, even though I’m saying it and I even remember doing it. I had to have moved it.”
He presses his hands on the counter and leans closer. “You’ll remember.”
He’s right; I know I will. But if my mind is blocking me, what else is coming? What nightmare has yet to be exposed?
We go to bed with the confirmation that Blake is now with Chris and Sara, as are Kayden’s men. Apparently Chris Merit is not happy, which is good news to me. He cares; he loves her. He is not another Neuville. And with Kayden wrapped around me, I sleep remarkably soundly, but I dream. Of dancing. Of my mother’s laughter and the smell of her chocolate chip cookies, but even better, my father is there, and this time, he doesn’t die. There is more laughter. There is love. There is a tomorrow.
I wake when Kayden shifts beside me, realizing that his phone is ringing. He rolls over and grabs it from the nightstand, pushing himself up to rest against the massive wooden headboard.
I roll to my stomach, watching his unreadable face, trying to make out the conversation despite it being in Italian, to no avail, but it’s short and sweet anyway. “It’s done,” he announces, ending the call. “Niccolo’s second is dead.”
No tomorrow for him, I think, the news creating a pinch in my chest I know as respect for life lost, but not guilt. I’ve understood killing for necessity ever since the afternoon when chocolate chip cookies ended with me shooting my father’s murderers. “Now what?”
“I’ll take you to one of my favorite restaurants. It makes us look like we have nothing to hide, and I want you to try it anyway. Dress warmly. The outdoor seating is the best.”
An hour later, we’ve driven one of Kayden’s four Jags, the silver F-TYPE, to a spot near the Spanish Steps. The restaurant is on top of the building, and our little checked-tablecloth-covered table is on a balcony, where we sit side by side. “The view is amazing,” I say, scanning the multicolored stucco rooftops, thankful for the heat lamp near our table. “But I’m glad I wore a turtleneck. It’s chilly.” I eye his thin, long-sleeved black T-shirt. “Aren’t you cold?”
“Hot blooded,” he teases. “It’s your fault.”
I laugh, and his phone rings for about the tenth time. “Sorry, sweetheart,” he says. “We’ll come back when it can be a real enjoyment.” He answers his phone, and the waitress sets cups of coffee in front of us. I give her my best Italian grazie and sip the outrageously strong beverage. “Gallo decided to stay in Milan for a few extra days,” he tells me.
“Why do I get the idea that you aren’t pleased? Isn’t that good? He can’t get into the middle of everything we have going on, right?”
“Something about it doesn’t feel right.”
“No. Something doesn’t feel right,” Niccolo says.
I have all of two seconds to stiffen at the sound of his voice behind us before he sits down in front of us, and for once he has color in his face and sharpness in his eyes.
“So nice of you to join us for lunch, Niccolo,” Kayden says, eyeing his heavy coat. “Take off your coat and stay a while.”
Niccolo taps the table and stares at Kayden before cutting his gaze to me. “My second is dead,” he announces, obviously looking for a reaction, not knowing what a damn good actor I am.
“Oh God,” I say, my hand going to my neck. “I’m so sorry. I didn’t even know you were married.”
“What?” Niccolo asks, grimacing. “I’m not married. Where did that come from?”
I give him an equally baffled look. “I thought . . . I . . . isn’t a second the translation for spouse?”
Irritation flashes in his eyes and he looks at Kayden. “What do you know about this?”
“I’ve never heard that translation, and I had no idea you were married,” Kayden says, and it’s all I can do not to laugh.
Niccolo is not amused. “Do not test me, Hawk.”
“You’re wasting my time,” Kayden says. “I have no interest in your second. Maybe your third got word that you’re dying and decided to make a path for himself.”
His eyes dilate to almost black. “No one knows about my”—he seems to reach for a word—“situation but you. And if they find out, I’m coming back to you.”
“Well then, I guess I should delete you from the cancer treatment center’s database,” Kayden replies. “That way you won’t go blaming me when someone else finds your record.”