“I want you to have a chance to relax.”
“It’s fine. I like cooking. It might have been better to do that at your place, though.”
“What makes you say that?”
“My apartment is… I don’t know. Just don’t expect much when you come over.”
“Are you worried that it isn’t posh enough?” He shrugged and looked away, so I said, “Remember what I told you about how I grew up? Our tiny apartment was in a building so old, it was literally crumbling. Besides, compared to this soulless corporate flat, your place will be a breath of fresh air.”
He murmured, “I hope so.”
“I’ll let you go, but promise me you’ll eat something tonight.”
He picked up his phone and smirked at me. “You’re a bit of a mother hen, Tory.”
“Just promise me.”
“Fine. I promise.”
After we ended the call, I dropped back against the couch cushions and sighed. Trying to take care of someone that stubborn was an uphill battle.
Sometime later, the sound of a buzzer jolted me out of the book I was reading. I went into the foyer and pushed a button for the intercom to the lobby. The security guard told me I had a delivery, so I asked him to sign for it. But someone in the background called, “No can do, dude. Dante told me I had to hand this to you in person.”
I muttered, “Hang on,” and texted my cousin. Once he confirmed he’d sent me something, I grabbed my keys and headed for the elevator.
When I reached the lobby, the courier ran his gaze down my body and said, “Well, hello there, Hunky McHotterson.” He looked like he was probably a surfer with his long hair, board shorts, and flip flops.
He handed me a package, which was about the size of a shoebox and fairly heavy. Instead of a mailing address, the only thing written on the outside of it was ‘Sal’ which made me ask, “Did you bring this all the way from San Francisco?”
“Yup.” He leaned in and flashed me a flirty smile. “I can be part of your special delivery too, if you want. Not that Dante’spimping me out or anything. I just think you’re sexy. My name’s Bowen, but you can call me Bunny. All my friends do, and I’d like it if you and I could beverygood friends.” He wiggled his brows suggestively, just in case his meaning wasn’t blatantly obvious.
“I’m flattered,” I said, “but I’m seeing someone.”
He seemed surprised. Someone that pretty probably didn’t get turned down very often. But he stepped back and said, “Lucky them.”
I shifted the box and tipped him with all the cash I had on me. It was almost two hundred dollars, which didn’t seem like nearly enough for a thousand-mile round trip. But knowing Dante, Bowen was probably being well-compensated for this errand.
Once I was back in my flat, I carried the package into the kitchen. After I cut the tape with a chef’s knife, I plucked out a wad of bubble wrap and whispered, “Bloody hell.”
I gingerly removed a sleek, black handgun from the box, checked that the safety was on, and placed it on the counter, along with a box of bullets. I’d been able to push it to the back of my mind, but just like that, the fear of being on the run came rushing back to me.
I exhaled slowly and went back to unpacking the box. It also contained two thick stacks of cash, a padded envelope, and a decorative floral tin, which turned out to be full of sugar cookies. I fished one out and raised a brow. It looked like a chubby cock and balls.
After I ate the cookie, I raised the flap on the envelope and slid a passport, credit card, and driver’s license onto the counter, along with a note from Dante. It said:Hi cousin, thought I’d send you a little care package along with your new IDs. The Ruger’s totally untraceable, just FYI. If you need anything else, don’t hesitate to ask. P.S. The cookies are from Nana.Apparently they were meant to be palm trees in honor of your move to California, but they puffed up while they were baking.
I muttered, “If you say so,” and called Dante. When he answered, I said, “Thank you. I appreciate the care package, but I don’t want the gun.”
“Are you sure? I thought it might provide you with some peace of mind.”
“It’s doing the exact opposite.”
“Okay, no problem. Put it back in the box, and I’ll have Bunny swing by and pick it up.”
“Thanks.”
There was a smile in his voice when he asked, “How do you like your new IDs?”
“I haven’t looked at them yet.” I folded back the cover of the Italian passport and saw he’d gone with the name Mikael Romano. “You named me Mike from Rome. Funny.”