“I’m not dying anytime soon.” Was that the problem? He was injured again and it must be bringing up all sorts of traumatic memories for her. Car accident. Terrance. Almost dying.
“You say that now,” she laughed, blinking away tears. “In the van…” She shook her head. “When Modelli shot you, I nearly died from fright. I think my heart did stop. I can’t do that again, Charlie. I lost Terrance—”
“We lost Terrance.”
She nodded. “I can’t lose you.”
Now that was a problem he could live with. Charlie sighed, quite happy, as he dropped his cane, balanced on one leg, and wrapped her in his arms. “I’m here, and I love you,” he said. “We can’t change the past, but the future is ours. And Cynthia? I feel so incredibly lucky to spend it with you.” He knew she was holding him tightly, in part to help him balance on one leg, and it hit him as funny. He blamed the meds. But the feeling of happiness that was filling all the nooks and crannies of his heart was all Cynthia.
He kissed her as the sting of the past died, and in its place was born a wonder and excitement for their future. He and Cynthia had a second chance, and this time he wouldn’t screw it up. This time, he knew what he wanted from her, and he knew what he’d get.
Everything.
Epilogue
Three months later, Cynthia donned her favorite casual dress, a rose and pink Dolce and Gabbana number that never failed to make her husband smile, and stepped out onto the back porch of Charlie’s house. Though, technically, it was their house now. They’d rejected his parents’ demands for a redo on the wedding ceremony, and instead opted for a BBQ in lieu of a reception. Charlie’s contribution to the event were the invitations, a photograph of Charlie on bended knee on the sidewalk outside of the crime scene. Somehow, the photographer captured a moment of surprise and delight on Cynthia’s face, though she only remembered being embarrassed and horrified. It was a great picture.
The weather couldn’t have been more sublime, and the company was perfect. The whole gang was there. Charlie’s parents, Delia and Paul, were assembling a fruit trifle on the table on the porch, while Charlie manned the grill, turning steaks, wearing an apron with the graphic design of a tuxedo on it. Benton and his pregnant wife, Hannah, admired their baby daughter, Ellen, who sat on the grass, clapping her hands. Gilroy was feeding Vivian O’Grady crudités dipped in ranch dressing by the picnic table on the lawn, and Modena was sipping beer, staring longingly into the eyes of Charlotte, aka Avery Toner Coppola, an engineering student from the University of Massachusetts. Charlotte’s sister, Brittany, aka, Millie Toner, a blond, beautiful teen, was looking bored as she scrolled on her iPhone while sitting on the porch’s back stairs.
“Everyone grab a beer,” Cynthia said. “It’s time for a toast.”
“Not you,” Charlotte said to Brittany, who rolled her eyes and then went back to scrolling on her phone. “If you’re thirsty, I’ll get you a cup of punch.”
“Is it that time?” Charlie pulled the steaks off the grill and put down the tongs.
“I think so,” Cynthia said. It had been hard enough keeping the secret this long, she couldn’t wait another moment longer. “If you’re grabbing a punch for Brittany, could you get me one too, Charlotte?” She saw Charlotte’s eyes widen, and Hannah started laughing, resting her palms on her pregnant belly.
“We have an announcement.” Charlie stepped to her side, taking a beer from Gilroy, who delivered open bottles to all without a drink, then he slipped his arm around Cynthia’s waist, giving her a “Go for it” wink.
“I’m pregnant!” Cynthia shouted, throwing her hands in the air. Everyone applauded and stepped forward, throwing questions at them. Then Charlie’s parents took turns hugging them, and wiping Cynthia’s happy tears.
“Do you have any names chosen?” Delia said. Her husband put his arm around her waist, smiling.
“Yes, mom.” Charlie gave Cynthia a squeeze. “Terrance,” he said.
“If it’s a boy,” Cynthia said. “And Terry if it’s a girl.”
“He brought us together. It’s only fitting,” Charlie said, catching Cynthia’s gaze. “I owe him so much.” He gave her a squeeze, dropping a kiss on her lips. “I love you, Cynthia,” he whispered.
There’d been a time where Cynthia would have dreaded hearing Charlie say things like “owe” and “debt.” They were words that felt like shackles she’d never escape. Now, she understood, and appreciated what Charlie had been trying to tell her all these years.
“I love you, too,” she whispered back.
Terrance’s death was a tragedy. It wasn’t fair that he’d died and Charlie lived, that he didn’t get a tomorrow. Sure, life wasn’t fair, but it was important to acknowledge what Terrance lost, and what they’d gained. From their shared deadly past, a love grew, a debt was owed, and she’d happily pay it every day by honoring her brother’s memory.
Charlie’s arm tugged her close as he looked at the smiling faces surrounding them at their wedding reception BBQ. Today, life was good, and she’d learned to grab those days when they came. Charlie was hers, she had his baby in her belly, and she had hope that happiness would be their new normal. She sniffed, feeling weepy.
“You okay?” Charlie said, ignoring all the congratulatory chatter around them and focusing on her.
She nodded. She was. “I’m happy.” Then she kissed him to prove it.
And knew he was convinced.
If you enjoyed Deadly Past
by Kris Rafferty,
make sure you read the first book
in the
Secret Agents series:
CAUGHT BY YOU
available at your favorite e-tailer
Turn the page for a quick peek!
Chapter 1
“Deming? Are you insane?” Special Agent Vincent Modena was in the back of the FBI’s surveillance van, kneeling knee to knee with Special Agent Cynthia Deming, the task force’s profiler. It wasn’t Deming who was the problem; it was the five-pound flounder she held by the gills. It was staring at him, and smelled hideous.
“Your cover is a week-long fishing trip. You’re too clean.” Deming narrowed her blue eyes, and then slapped the fish against Vincent’s chest.
“Stop!” He grabbed her wrist, processing the moment. Rich, blond, gorgeous Cynthia Deming, in a black Dolce & Gabbana suit and heels, was on her knees swinging a fish. Nope. He was living it and still didn’t believe his eyes. Meanwhile, the flounder hung limp in the air between them. “I’m supposed to keep Avery Coppola in the diner, Deming. Hit me with that again, and the smell will chase her out.” She broke his grip, seemingly teetering between agreeing and having another go at him with the fish.
Special Agent Jack Benton, FBI task force team leader, jumped from the van’s passenger seat into the back. “What the hell?” He grimaced, glaring at the profiler and Vincent, as if Vincent had anything to do with the fish. He didn’t.
“Exactly,” Vincent said. “What the hell, Deming?”
“What’s with the fish?” Benton’s black hair hung in his face, obscuring the intensity in his blue-eyed gaze. His year-long deep embed with Dante Coppola’s syndicate crashed and burned yesterday, requiring the task force to extract him. His split lip hinted at the bruises and abrasions hidden beneath his conservative black suit and tie, but it was the banked rage that made his team nervous. Benton hadn’t taken time off to shake his role of gunrunner, and some deep embeds needed more recovery time than others, but he’d escaped with a lead, so Benton wasn’t going anywhere. The lead was, Coppola hired contract killers to find and kill his ex-wife and her little sister. Rumor had it, when she’d divorced him three years ago, the ex-wife left with incriminating files. Now, Coppola knew where the ex-wife was, and so did Benton. It appeared as if the task force lucked out and got here first.
“The fish is necessary for authenticity,�
� Deming said. “Modena’s too…” She waved a hand at him. “Handsome.”
“Hey, Benton.” Vincent held Deming gaze and then winked. “Deming thinks I’m handsome.”
She shook her head, barely paying attention to Vincent. “Maybe clean is a better word. After a week of backcountry camping, he wouldn’t be this clean.” She used the back of her wrist to nudge a blond lock off her cheek. “No one sleeps outside for a week, lives off fresh catch of the day, and doesn’t suffer from puffy face and bad hair. Avery’s clever and distrustful. She’s had to be to escape detection for three years with a sister in tow. With contract killers on her scent, she’ll smell a rat if Modena doesn’t commit to his backstory.”
“She’ll smell something.” Special Agent Harris Gilroy was the task force’s official driver. Blond hair cropped to his head, brown eyes, mid-thirties, he looked like an Irish bare-knuckle fighter, crooked nose and all.
“His backpack is enough of a prop,” Benton said. “Get rid of the fish, Deming.”
“Fine.” She tossed it into a Styrofoam cooler, and then stripped off her latex gloves, throwing them inside, too. She seemed on edge. Yesterday’s violent extraction of Benton had notably rattled her, rattled them all, as did the dead bodies the team left behind. And when Deming was rattled, she distracted herself with details—like Vincent’s backstory and a fish—so Vincent tried not to take the fish assault personally.
“Our warrant is to surveil Avery Coppola’s apartment,” Benton said. “Unfortunately, I couldn’t convince the judge that rumored files containing alleged evidence is grounds for a search warrant, so we watch and wait for Coppola’s men to make their move. If the files are in her apartment, she either surrenders them, or we need probable cause to take them. If Coppola’s men find her, maybe make a move on her at the apartment, we’ve got them and our probable cause, so cross your fingers. Modena, you keep an eye on her at the diner while we set up the cameras outside of her apartment. I want any potential attack on video. Let a judge and jury see who these monsters are, and if we’re forced to bust into her apartment to save her, and happen to find evidence, they’ll be forced to make our findings admissible in court. Time is short, folks. We have no idea when Coppola’s men will show, but this isn’t rocket science. If she has files, which my contact assured me she does, it’s probably hidden in her apartment. Coppola’s men have to know that.”
“Yeah, about that, Benton,” Deming said. “I think I should go in the diner instead of Modena. Look at him. He looks dangerous. She’ll think he’s a contract killer, maybe run, and ruin the whole operation. We can think of a different backstory for me.”
“Deming, you’d be walking into a backwoods diner wearing Dolce & Gabbana,” Vincent said. “Do you really think you’ll get anywhere near her without making her suspicious? And Benton knows I have advantages you don’t have.” He allowed a slow smile to crack his lips. “Leave the ex-wife to me.”
She shook her head, still not convinced. “But—”
“I know. I know. I’m handsome, clean, and dangerous.” Vincent winked, trying not to enjoy Deming’s annoyance too much. Being on the sidelines was twisting her in knots. She wanted in on the action, and he didn’t blame her, but he’d waited too long to meet Avery Coppola to just give this moment away. “I think you’re crushing on me.”
“Blow me, Modena.” She turned toward Benton, waiting for his decision.
“We stick with the plan,” Benton said. “Modena, go.”
Gilroy reached into a console between the two front seats and produced a bottle of Febreze. He aimed it into the back of the van and sprayed with no concern for whom he doused. Between the fish smell, and being gassed by Gilroy, Vincent found it a relief to spill out into the parking lot, backpack slung over his shoulder.
As the task force sped off in the van, heading down the street toward Avery Coppola’s apartment, Vincent walked toward the diner, passing a multitude of beat up SUVs and trucks, listening to his hiking boots crunch gravel underfoot. The chirping of birds, the breezes rustling through maple and oak leaves, it was a nice change from the city. August in the North Country of New Hampshire, mountainous. Vincent was enjoying himself, and the diner’s aromas wafting through the air. His stomach growled as he approached the door, but his thoughts were all on the woman inside.
Avery Coppola. Damn. Her name had been popping up in the Coppola case for a year now, but Vincent had only actively studied her for the last few months. He was a little ashamed to be this excited about meeting her…Dante Coppola’s one vulnerability. Avery was the crime lord’s ex-wife, so probably poison, without conscience. Totally his type. Vincent’s ex-wife taught him a thing or two about women like that. On his second tour in Afghanistan, she’d sent him a Dear John letter paper clipped to divorce papers. It had a way of changing a man’s paradigm real quick. It certainly forced Vincent to see things more clearly. Women were mercurial at best, self-serving at worst. It was weird to know he had something in common with a murderous crime lord. Both he and Coppola married women who’d betrayed them.
He’d memorized Avery’s pictures. She had the look of an innocent, red-headed imp, and seemed younger than her years. She certainly didn’t look like someone who could inspired an ex-husband to hire contract killers to off her. Not a sterling personal recommendation, and yet, the contradiction tickled Vincent’s curiosity. What would she be like? Or rather, how best to bend her to his will?
Benton wanted to try and flip her, see if they could convince her to give up the goods on her ex, rather than make the Feds slog for the evidence, but they didn’t have enough intel to know how best to approach her. Deming, the task force’s profiler, suggested they feel her out with some casual conversation. Benton had tapped Vincent, and he’d report back to the team after they’d finished installing security cameras around her apartment.
Just meeting her would probably answer most of the questions his team had. Then, if all went as planned, they’d find the leverage they needed to flip her, and she’d help break open the task force’s RICO case against her ex-husband. If that went south, she’d either face jail time or risk a bullet between the eyes. Dante Coppola wasn’t pulling his hit on her anytime soon, and now that he knew where she was, she had a target on her back. The FBI would offer her protection, if she was willing to deal, but they couldn’t make her accept their help. No, that would take persuasion. And that was where Vincent came in.
He smiled as he opened the diner’s door. A bell chimed overhead, announcing his arrival. It was old-fashioned and kitschy, and he liked it. As he stepped inside, he finally admitted to himself that he’d been anticipating this meeting with Avery Coppola since he’d first seen her photo nearly a year ago. He was excited, and when his gaze zeroed in on her behind the diner’s counter, his chest tightened because he knew… This was going to be fun. Lots and lots of fun.
About the Author
Kris Rafferty was born in Cambridge, Massachusetts. After earning a Bachelor’s in Arts from the University of Massachusetts/Boston, she married her college sweetheart, traveled the country and wrote books. Three children and a Pomeranian/Shih Tzu mutt later, she spends her days devoting her life to her family and her craft.
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