Proctor pushes: “We want to protect you, Lucy. But you need to help us.”
“You want me to rat on him.”
Enzo puts a calming hand on my wrist. “My client is not here to discuss Mr. Morrone’s private life, as she is neither employeenor co-conspirator. She is simply Mr. Morrone’s girlfriend. That is not a crime in the state of New York, no matter how many RICO statutes you stack on top.”
There’s a beat of silence. Matthews says, “Lucy, don’t waste your future. You can’t abandon your family and expect us to help you when you inevitably destroy your life.”
I manage a thin smile. "I appreciate your concern." Then I turn and follow Enzo through the doorway, feeling the weight lift from my lungs with each step away from my father's disappointed stare. Fortunately for me, I’m used to it.
CHAPTER SEVENTEEN
ALESSIO
Istand by the car, jaw clenched so tight my molars might crack, knuckles white against the sleek metal of the door. My rage feels alive, hot and real, the kind that makes your blood burn. The tremor in my hands isn't weakness; it's violence I can barely hold back. I could rip the wheel from its column, crush metal like paper. Instead, I force myself to stare at the federal building's entrance, counting each heartbeat, each second until she comes out of those glass doors that have kept her too long.
Federal Plaza is all glass and teeth, high windows so clean they slice the sky into blue fragments. A block away, my guys linger: two in a dented van, one across the street, pretending to read the sports page on a bench. None of them move unless I say, but they watch the doors the same as me.
Enzo comes out first, phone to his ear. He sees me and nods once, and then she's right behind him. No handcuffs, no agents chasing her, just Lucy's wild hair and eyes so blue they almost knock me over. The bruise on her throat is fresh and clear, like someone pressed a thumb there and didn't let go. I want to break something. Preferably her father, but I'll take the first man who gets in my way.
I open the back door. She runs toward me, her heels clicking on the concrete, her body aimed right at my chest. When she hits me, the impact almost knocks the breath out of me. My arms wrap around her without thinking, a habit that survived every second we were apart. No matter how far she goes, these arms will always be here for her.
Her lips brush my throat, words hot against my skin. "I was starting to think you wouldn't come." A pause, then softer still: "Tell me you brought a gun."
There’s a moment—always, with us—when she looks me dead in the face and dares me to lie. But I don’t. “Two,” I say, and she rewards me with a smile, teeth and all.
I pick her up easily and carry her across the sidewalk, settling her into the car with a gentleness that takes all my strength. Enzo steps forward and closes the partition, giving us a bit of privacy I haven't earned.
I don’t waste time. I pull her into my lap, bringing her close enough to breathe me in. Her hair is a mess, half in her eyes, and I brush it away with a thumb that still trembles at the sight of her.
“Talk,” I say, low and even.
She grins, voice thick with relief. “They said I was a victim. That you’d eat me alive if I weren’t careful.”
“They’re right,” I say, tracing my hand up her thigh, feeling for injuries that aren’t visible.
She laughs, and it feels like my wounds are stitched shut. “But they forgot to mention I’d want to be devoured.”
That’s all it takes. I kiss her, and she tastes bitter and tired, hungry for anything that isn’t cold and suspicious. When I let go, she’s panting, mouth open, wanting more.
The car hums around us as the city goes by, and I can’t help myself. I bury my face in her neck, breathing her in. Under the perfume, I smell blood, sweat, and fear. All of it is my fault.
“I thought I was done for,” she says. “My father was there. He offered me Paris, money, whatever I wanted as long as it wasn’t you.”
“What did you say?”
She presses herself closer, mouth at my ear. “Told him you had a bigger future.” She bites me, just enough to mark. “And a bigger present.”
I want to laugh, but the anger is still coiled in my gut, a snake waiting for a reason. “Did they touch you?” I ask. “Your wrists?—”
Her hands float up, wrists bared, thin red lines where the cuffs were too tight. I kiss each one, slow and deliberate. Bruises heal, but not if I let them.
“I’m okay,” she whispers. “But I don’t want to go home.”
“Then we won’t.”
She settles into me, knees on either side of my thighs, her body shaking from the shock of being free. I give her a minute, holding her like something I almost lost.
Enzo clears his throat from the front, voice muffled through the glass. “FDR or the tunnel, boss?”