by J. Kenner
Tamra frowns. “Logistically? That’s tight. I can manage. But Devlin, do you think that’s wise? If you want to make a statement, you could go to any television station. You hardly have to throw a party.”
Penn makes a scoffing noise. “What she means to say is, are you fucking insane?”
“I couldn’t have said it better,” I add. “Have we not been talking nonstop about the target on your back ever since that press bomb dropped?”
“An extremely limited guest list. Keep it under seventy-five. Reporters we’ve worked with over the years. Foundation supporters we know personally. Tight security. Metal detectors at the doors. There are things I want to say, and I need a worldwide audience to say them to. I’ve never given a formal press conference from the foundation without it being in conjunction with an event, even a small one, and I don’t intend to let Joseph Blackstone—or whoever—force me into changing that tradition entirely. And I sure as hell don’t want it to look like I’m altering my pattern because I’m running scared.”
He pauses, then looks at each of us in turn. “I’m not going into hiding,” he says. “But at the same time, this is low risk. Controlled. And the reward outweighs the risk.”
“Are you sure?” I ask.
“Absolutely.”
I nod. “All right. Not that I have a say, but if you’re sure, I’m okay with it.”
“Thank you,” he says. “And you’re wrong. They don’t have a say,” he says, looking at the other three in the room. “You do.”
“Thanks a lot,” Claire says, easing the moment considerably.
“I’ll get on it right away and send you a draft,” Tamra assures him. “You’ll send me any additional thoughts you have and your edits? And some language for the press release and invitation? Also, your presentation to the staff is set for fifteen minutes from now.”
“Perfect. I’ll take care of all of that today. Anything that needs tweaking we can handle while I’m in the air tomorrow morning.”
“The air?” I mentally play back the conversation, wondering what I missed.
“I have someone to visit tomorrow,” he tells. “You and I are heading to Idaho.”
Chapter Seventeen
I watch as the Idaho countryside passes by the window of our pick-up truck. We’d come in one of Devlin’s private charter jets, leaving early this morning, and landing about lunchtime at an emergency strip about three hours from our ultimate destination. Apparently Devlin knows the sheriff, and he authorized the landing and also lent us his personal truck.
Despite curling up in Devlin’s arms last night, I didn’t sleep well. How could I with so much uncertainty stirring around us? So of course I fell asleep on the six-hour flight, and waking up to the Idaho landscape was a bit surreal. That, and the fact that I still don’t know why we’re here. Devlin’s been so busy talking to team members around the world and fielding calls from concerned contributors to the DSF that I didn’t press when Devlin promised to fill me in on the details during the trip. All I know right now is that we’re on our way to meet with an old friend.
“Right,” Devlin says into his earpiece. He’s on a call with the manager of a hotel he owns in London. Or, no. He ended that call. I have no idea who he’s talking to now. “Well, I appreciate that. Yes, it makes a hell of a story. Exactly. I’ll see you at the board meeting.”
He reaches up and taps the single earpiece. The truck doesn’t have Bluetooth, and he couldn’t hear the calls on speaker. Since there’s no one else for miles, driving with a single earpiece in didn’t seem particularly risky. Especially not compared to Devlin’s daily life.
“You need to stop taking calls,” I tell him. “I get that you have business partners who need reassurance that you’re not Satan reborn, but you’re allowed some me time, too. And by me time, I mean me. Ellie. Your girlfriend wants a piece of you, too.”
“Believe me, I want a piece of her as well. And you’re right. That’s it for today. Tamra can stack ‘em and rack ‘em for tomorrow.”
“Is it that bad?” Now I feel guilty pulling him away from crisis management.
“Honestly, no. There’ve been a few who need hand holding, but most are genuinely sympathetic. My biggest challenge is to satisfy their curiosity without losing an entire day to a primer on what life was like growing up with The Wolf.”
“I’m sorry.” I slide closer, enjoying the benefits of a bench seat, and rest my hand on his thigh. “So tell me about this friend we’re visiting.”
“His name’s Giatti. Marco Giatti. He’s old now, and he keeps a low profile, but that means his ear’s close to the ground.”
“He’s a source.”
Devlin nods, then glances down at the map on his phone. He makes a sharp turn on an unmarked road.
“You think he knows the situation with Blackstone?”
“I don’t know,” Devlin says. “Hopefully he knows something.” He turns to face me as our borrowed truck bounces over the rutted dirt road. “I brought you because I want you with me, always. But information has consequences. And depending on what I learn today—and what Claire and Penn and the rest of the team learn—it won’t go well for Blackstone.”
“Won’t go well for him? Since when did you start dancing around the truth with euphemisms?”
“Fine. As soon as I’ve confirmed to my satisfaction that Blackstone either killed Tracy himself or hired the flunky who did, I’m going to take the bastard out. Do you like that better?”
“Yes,” I say, my heart pounding as I say the words. “Yes, I’m fine with that. The way you phrased it and what it means.”
His hands are at ten and two on the steering wheel, and I see his knuckles go white as he tightens his grip, then relaxes it. Slowly, he turns to look at me. Our eyes lock, and right then I think neither one of us would have even noticed if the truck went over a cliff, and we tumbled off into space. It’s just the two of us and this huge revelation.
“Does this mean—” He drums his fingers on the steering wheel. “Does that mean you’re okay with Saint’s Angels now? I know we talked in New York, but I thought you were just rationalizing that we’re serving justice. Finding a way in your heart to let you and me be together. But … well, are you telling me now that you’re genuinely okay with all of it?”
“No,” I say automatically, but I’m not certain that answer is one hundred percent truthful.
“No,” he repeats as I start to slide back to my side of the bench. He reaches out and puts a firm hand on my leg. “Then why?”
“Because it’s you, okay? Because you’re the one he’s really after. And because I know your code. Your boundaries. But most of all, because there isn’t a rule I wouldn’t break where your safety is involved.”
I expect him to call me out for hypocrisy, but all he does is silently take my hand, then quietly ask, “You’re sure?”
“I am. I can’t cross that line with you. But despite the life I’ve lived—or, I don’t know, maybe because of it—I’m willing to let you go there.”
A moment passes, then another. Then the truck hits a huge pothole, and we bounce. I cry out, just a little, and when the truck steadies again, I realize that he’s taken my hand. I look down at our twined fingers, then up at his face.
He smiles. Just a tiny smile, but it says everything.
It says, I love you.
“Well, I guess you kept your promise.” The man in the front porch rocker has sun-weathered skin, gray-white hair, and deep-set eyes so brown they look almost black. He watches as we climb the farmhouse’s wooden porch steps, his eyes never leaving Devlin’s face. An ashtray sits on the table beside him, a thin stream of smoke rising from a cigar.
“Did I?” Devlin asks, which doesn’t give me a clue as to what promise the old man is talking about.
The man grunts, then lifts his chin, hooking it a bit so that he’s pointing at me, almost as if his chin is another hand.
“Ellie,” Devlin said. “She’s with me.”
&n
bsp; “Seen your picture with him,” he says. “You’re Elsa Holmes. The Cinderella reporter swept off her feet by the billionaire philanthropist. You’ve given your competition some pretty nice sound bites.”
“Always ready to help a colleague,” I say dryly.
The man’s mouth splits into a wide grin, showing off a set of blinding-white teeth. “I like her.”
“So do I,” Devlin says.
There’s quiet after that, as if each is unsure what to say. So I figure what the hell and try to fill the yawning gorge of silence. “You have an advantage over me,” I tell him. “Devlin hasn’t told me anything but your name. And that you’re an old friend.”
His eyes cut to Devlin. “Is that what I am? Heh. Good to know. But then I have to wonder whose friend? Devlin, Alex, Alejandro. So hard to keep straight.”
I glance sideways at Devlin, the pieces falling together. “You used to work for The Wolf.”
“Clever woman.”
“Not clever enough to read minds,” I counter.
“Sorry,” Devlin said. “I assumed you realized that.”
“It’s okay,” I assure him, then turn back to Mr. Giatti. “You said Devlin kept his promise. What promise?”
The old man chuckles. “Alejandro swore he’d avenge his stepmother. I’d say he’s come through on that promise. Didn’t realize you were still alive after taking care of that. Glad to see you turned out to be a slippery eel instead of a dumbfuck kid with eyes bigger than his stomach.” He grins again. “I was always rooting for you. Glad to see you won.”
“Won?” Devlin asks. “It’s hard to know. She’s still dead. So are a lot of women by his hand who deserved a hell of a lot better. Men, too. Good people who just wanted a life out from under The Wolf’s thumb.”
“And did you come out here to clip me, too?”
I feel the increased pressure of Devlin’s hand on my back, but that’s his only reaction. “No,” he says. The word is calm. Easy. And I realize that I’ve never witnessed Devlin like this before. He’s walking a tricky line, playing it cool like he is. I trust Devlin’s instincts, but for all we know, the guy could press a call button and a van full of armed commandoes could swoop in, demanding Devlin return what they lost and he gained when The Wolf died.
It’s not a scenario I want to play out, and I study the man’s face, looking for any sign that the affection for Devlin I hear in his voice reflects reality.
The man picks up the cigar, then takes a long puff, his eyes never leaving Devlin. He blows out the smoke slowly, then finally speaks. “Then why did you come? Helluva long way from your neck of the woods. And it sure don’t look like you’re selling Girl Scout Cookies”
Devlin removes his hand from my back, then twines his fingers with mine. “I came to tell you I’m sorry.”
“For killing your old man? I’m not someone you need to be apologizing to. Would have done it myself if I’d had the cajones.”
“Who says I killed the bastard?”
The corner of Mr. Giatti’s mouth curls up. “Well, I guess it ain’t you saying it, huh? I’m not wired. You should know me better than that.”
“I know you. That’s why I wanted to see you. You were one of the good ones. You’re still one of the good ones.”
“And you’re the one that got away,” Mr. Giatti says. “Disappeared right off the map. Turned into someone else.”
“I’m still me.”
The old man looks at Devlin’s eyes. “Yeah. Guess you are at that. You don’t have to apologize for leaving. Hell, I woulda bloodied your nose if you risked staying even a minute longer just for the sentimental crap. Don’t you dare be sorry.” He draws a breath, then licks dry, cracked lips. “You want to apologize, you do it for making me shed tears. I thought you were dead, boy.”
“Sorry to disappoint.” I see the grin twitch at the corner of Devlin’s mouth.
“Ah, hell.” The older man starts to laugh, but it turns into a phlegmy stutter. “Well, anyway, apology accepted. Now you want to tell me why you’re really here?”
“Gossip,” Devlin says flatly. “I hear things. And one thing I hear is that you’re still paying attention. I want to know how much blowback I’m looking at.”
“For being The Wolf’s son, come back from the dead like a filthy rich Lazarus? Or for killing Anna Lindstrom?
Devlin grimaces. There’d never been any suggestion in the press coverage that Devlin Saint had done anything that night other than save the life of his girlfriend. Namely, me. But now that everyone knows that the blood of The Wolf flows in those veins, are folks going to try to rewrite history? Maybe suggest that there was something more nefarious going on than unrequited love and Anna’s attempt to get rid of the competition.
It’s a real possibility, and I listen eagerly for what Giatti has to say.
“Could be either,” Mr. Giatti says. “But a lot of folks know Anna wasn’t so stable where men were concerned. Never was as a girl, anyway. Can’t imagine she changed much after moving off the compound.”
“What about her father? Is he going to be sniffing around?”
Devlin and I have talked a lot about Anna since that night, and I know that her father and The Wolf were close. If he’s still alive, he might well be inclined to search out and punish Devlin. Probably by killing me.
An eye for eye. As far as I’m concerned, that seems to be the theme of everyone who walks in this world.
Mr. Giatti looks directly at me as he answers Devlin. “He’s not a threat. Cancer got him. He’s on his yacht with a nurse and an IV of morphine. You got no trouble from that direction.”
“Then what direction should I be looking?”
“That’s a hard question, Alejandro, and you damn well know it. You didn’t take over Daddy-O’s business, but you’re living off his money.”
“No. I’m not.”
“Eh. Maybe. Maybe not. But it’s still money they couldn’t lay their hands on. But there’s the man who killed their boss profiting off patricide, or at least it looks that way. Not a way to win friends. I’d have to say a lot of them would be pissed off.”
Mr. Giatti shrugs. “Then again, a lot of them are dead. The ones who went on and tried to build up their own little fiefdoms? They all seem to be getting picked off. Either by in-fighting or hush-hush government operations, or by I don’t know what.”
He narrows his eyes at Devlin. “Don’t suppose you know anything about that.”
“I hear gossip. I read the news. But if you’re asking what I think you’re asking, then the answer is that I run a charitable foundation. I’m not in the business of hunting down criminals.”
I force myself not to react, and wonder if Mr. Giatti also noticed the way Devlin sidestepped that question.
“Good news for me then,” Mr. Giatti says, his expression as flat as his tone, and both unreadable.
“You really think someone is picking them off?”
“Yes. No. I don’t know.” He takes a sip from a beer can sitting beside the ashtray. “The ones still working … well, it’s a dangerous gig, isn’t it? I’ve heard rumors about a few hits following some nasty operations. Brutal competition, pissed off law enforcement, man with a grudge. Who the hell knows?”
“It’s impossible to tell,” Devlin agrees. “You live that life, you piss off people.”
“Did you?”
Devlin frowns. “What makes you think that’s my life? You know I never wanted it.”
“No, you never did. No matter what your daddy wanted, you stayed your own man. Saw that in you even when you were young.” His eyes dart to me again before returning too Devlin. “Also saw a fire in you—you’ll protect what’s yours.”
“Without the slightest hesitation,” he agrees.
Now, Mr. Giatti turns his full attention on me. “So, Elsa Holmes, what’s your agenda?”
I move closer to Devlin as his arm goes around my waist. “I don’t have any agenda except Devlin.”
Mr. Giatti nods, then s
hifts in his rocker until he can pull out his wallet. He opens it, takes out a photo, and hands it to Devlin, who steps away long enough to take it, then moves back to my side. It’s a picture of a beautiful young woman with hair that looks to be from the seventies. “My Maria. Do you remember her? That picture’s from before you were born, but she never looked a day older in her life.”
“I remember.”
“A good woman. Kept me steady.” He reaches for the photo, and Devlin hands it back to him. Mr. Giatti takes it gently, as if it’s both precious and fragile. To him, of course, it is.
“It’s good to have a compass,” he continues. “Your father never did. Thought a woman was nothing but a slash—pardon my French,” he adds to me.
“My father was dead wrong about that.”
“Yeah, he was.” Mr. Giatti turns to look me straight in the eyes. “You make sure our Mr. Saint treats you right.”
“He does. He always has.”
“Always,” he repeats, his mouth curving down into a frown. “You’ve known him awhile, then?”
I glance sideways at Devlin, but he’s no help, so I just shrug and say, “Yeah. You could say that.”
His eyes narrow. “Good God,” he finally says. “Holmes. You’re Peter’s niece. Must be getting old not to have made that connection before. That man … well, he thought you were the cat’s whiskers.”
My chest tightens with the words. My Uncle Peter did so many things wrong, but he took care of me, and he loved me. And it’s nice to know that I’m not the only one who saw that. “Thank you,” I whisper.
He narrows his eyes and cocks his head toward Devlin. “You two look good together. Like maybe between the two of you, you can find that compass and stay on the path.”
“We can,” I say. “We will.”
Beside me, Devlin’s fingers tighten their grip on mine. “And what about my question? You hear anything about anyone making me—making us—a target?”
“You’ve got at least one enemy for sure, boy. But all in all, I think there are less folks aiming for your head than you might have feared. That’s good news,” he says with a thin smile. “Gives you better odds. Then again, I never was much of a gambling man.”