Silence.
Then, sharper, “He’s still my son, Hunter.”
I grind my teeth. “Yeah. And you left him.”
More silence.
Then she switches, it’s quieter but defensive, “I didn’t leave him.”
I laugh bitterly. “You walked out on both of us, Ashley. Don’t rewrite history now.”
Another pause.
“Look,” she says finally. “Just come pick the presents up tonight. Save us both the argument.”
I exhale through my nose, irritation simmering. “What time?”
“Anytime after seven.”
I check the road ahead, already mentally rearranging my evening. “I’ll come after Wyatt’s asleep.”
“Fine,” she says. “See you tonight.”
The call ends. Perfect.
Spend the day thinkin’ about Lola. Spend the night dealin’ with the woman who blew my life apart. The woman who made me close my heart off. And somewhere in between, try not to lose my damn mind while I tell the Greek mafia to fuck off before we put any more of their men in my graveyard.
Enzo has given the green light for a meeting, so I invited the Kourakos brothers to Sterling Ranch to try to settle this before it escalates into something bigger than it needs to be.
And after helping Enzo’s associates in Pennsylvania deal with some cult group, the last thing I need is a war on my doorstep.
I’ve seen the mess they made, and I don’t want that here. Dad wouldn'ta wanted that either.
Sterling Ranch is our safe space. And we protect that with our lives.
I shake my head and press the gas. Because whether I like it or not, life keeps moving. Even when a firefly’s already crawled under your skin.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
LOLA
Song- Passenger,Boston Manor
The bell above the coffee shop door jingles as I step inside, scanning the room until I find Reese already seated at the corner.
Of course, he’s early. Of course, he’s wearing a suit.
Everyone else in here is in boots, caps, dusty jeans, hands wrapped around mugs before heading out to work, and there he is—perfectly pressed, expensive watch, polished shoes, like he’s about to walk into a courtroom instead of drink coffee in a small cafe.
He spots me and stands immediately, smiling. “Lola. You look beautiful.”
His eyes drag over me in a way that feels less like admiration and more like assessment. Like he’s checking something off a list.
“Thanks,” I say, forcing a polite smile.
His hand lands on the small of my back as I sit, guiding me into the chair. It lingers a second too long.
“I already ordered for you,” he says, sliding a latte across the table.