by Ava Claire
I stopped myself, because I could see that none of these facts, and the gravity of our current situation, escaped Jacob. His face stormed with emotions ranging from anger and frustration to gut wrenching sorrow that we'd ended up in this place. That the ripples created by Cole and Brittany and all the choices that followed were still knocking us on our ass. That a man who hurt women and children and left nothing but blood and pain in his wake had perverted something so beautiful: the celebration of our new baby.
The only sound that filled my ears was the pounding of my heart. The stress that set my nerves on edge and tore away any sense of calm and safety that Jacob and I were building. I grasped at straws when I looked to my husband, who was already retreating behind the wall I'd thought we'd obliterated together. I wanted to call him on it, take his face in my hands and demand that he let me in, but we were both too raw, too dialed up, too worried about the game Eichmann was playing.
I took comfort in the fact that Jacob wasn't on his phone, sequestered in the bedroom, putting a literal wall between us while he waged a private war. Turned me into some damsel in distress who needed saving instead of his partner. I wanted my own horse, my own sword to chop the head off this thing before it incinerated us.
But he hadn't abandoned me, reverting to bad habits of titrating what I needed to know. Eichmann had made his first strike and Jacob was with me. Silent and brooding, but I'd take that over the alternative—feeling like an outsider in my own marriage. Watching this fight from the sidelines while the man I loved put himself in grave danger.
That dancing, the beautiful movement inside me pulled me from my angst and reminded me that there was something bigger than all of us. Something worth fighting for. Something we had to protect.
Shying away from a fight wasn't in my nature, but I could hear my OB chastising me for taking on stress and burdens that were unnecessary.
I steadied my breath as I put the pan on the stove, adjusting the flame and turning back to the mixing bowl.
I had to figure out a way to be helpful and supportive and not antagonistic. Firing off questions and demanding answers would just make him raise his own defenses and lead to an argument. We needed to be united, now more than ever.
I cycled through ways to check the pulse of our response. How we'd stay safe and ensure we were never this vulnerable, this taken by surprise, again.
What are you doing to protect us? made me cringe. Eichmann is a dangerous mofo with us in his sights only stated the obvious. I'm terrified would just break his heart in two.
But I was.
Because all the money in the world was no match for a man who was just as wealthy—and built his empire on blood, crime and a distinct lack of the one weapon we had an abundance of: love.
As lucky as I felt that I was surrounded by love, that I felt it coming off Jacob in waves, that I knew my family and friends would stand tall beside us through all of this, it felt woefully inadequate in the face of someone who had no problem sacrificing as many men and dollars that it would take to ruin us.
To...
Kill us.
The thought cut through my mind like a knife. It was a word I'd shied away from, though Jacob's retelling of the events in Paris only confirmed that it would be a foolish move to underestimate Eichmann's ruthlessness.
He'd end us all and wouldn't shed a single tear or feel an ounce of remorse. Heck, he'd enjoy it and trumpet his actions as proof of what happens when you crossed him. Setting fire to everything I knew and loved would feel like a righting of some grievous wrong to that man.
And he'd dance in our ashes.
I felt Jacob watching me, likely with questions of his own spinning wildly in his head.
Somehow, I knew exactly what I needed to ask.
"What do we do next?" I said softly, pouring the egg mixture in the pan and watching it bubble. I scraped the bottom with the spatula, like I was trying to dig out the ugliness. Focus on a plan. Focus on assessing the risk and taking down this man before his pranks turned deadly.
I didn't turn from the eggs, determined to control this one thing. I wouldn't scorch the pan. I wouldn't over cook the eggs to the point of turning them to rubber.
I did take a brief break from my culinary mission when I felt Jacob move behind me. Massaging my shoulders. Pressing a gentle kiss on my neck that told me it would be okay. That it had to be okay.
"I am increasing my surveillance on Eichmann," he answered, bringing me to the inner circle. Letting me into his head. "I'm also going to work with Marcus to find out how he got close enough to send us a care package." He stilled his hands, resting them on my shoulders like he was about to unload something that could make me crumble. “And I am exploring more permanent options."
Permanent options.
A chill rushed through me and I gripped the counter top, my nails curling with a fury of my own. It had been a long time since I felt hatred in my heart. Since I wished mortal harm on someone.
All I could see was red. I felt genuine elation at the image of my fingers wrapping around Eichmann's throat as I choked the life out of him.
This darkness, this act, would change us in irreversible ways.
We were gonna have to kill him, before he killed us.
~
"Where's your attack dog?"
I didn't even look up from my computer screen. It wasn't enough that I'd extended an olive branch, inviting Angelique to my home. This very meeting flew in the face of my OB's recent order that I take a step back. She'd discovered that my blood pressure was through the roof and asked for the cause. I'd blamed it on work and baby prep stress. I figured that a white lie was probably wiser than divulging that a known murderer, sex trafficker, and all around asshole was stalking my family.
That being said, I was seriously considering the wisdom of folding a meeting with Angelique into my otherwise zen morning, adding in even more stress. The difference was that this time, it was 100% voluntary.
I closed my laptop, wondering if I had it in me to grin my way through this meeting. I said a silent prayer that I wouldn't be dodging snide comments and jabs for the duration.
Angelique sauntered to the dining room table. I’d transformed it into my makeshift office since the home office had been transformed into the control center for all things related to Eichmann.
She headed for the chair on the opposite end of the table, passing on several that were closer and still at a respectable distance. From the tilt of her chin, her nose so high that I saw the inner workings of her brain, it was clear that she was trying to illustrate that we were not on the same level. She held all the cards, all the power, and the smirk on her lips told me that she was delighting in that fact.
I tucked my curls behind my ear and raised my chin too. I could snipe back, or even make a joke to try and alleviate some of the tension, but I chose door number three. Sniping back would snatch me down to her level and I was in no mood to race to the bottom. Making a joke would send the wrong message, that this was some social call. Friends catching up over coffee. This was a business meeting, called to order by me because I refused to live in limbo.
"Hello, Angelique. Thank you for agreeing to meet with me."
"Well, I couldn't resist an invite to the infamous Whitmore loft." The flash in her blue eyes told me that she'd contemplated doing just that, and decided against it.
Since she already had a bird's eye view from way up there on her high horse, she took a moment to give herself a quick tour. "It's more beautiful in person: the crown molding, the clean lines, the original art pieces-" She planted her hands on the table, palms facing down. "I bet he even found some bearded artisan who handcrafted this beautiful mahogany table." She vaulted to her fingertips, stroking it like it was a living thing, purring with delight. "It's all a bit..." She twitched her lips to the side like she was searching for the right word. "Cold, don't you think?"
I bristled, scooting closer to the table—and closer to telling her I'd made a mistake inviting
her here. "Angelique-"
"Oh, I don't mean it like that," she snorted, dismissing that notion with a flick of her wrist. Like it was absurd for me to even think such a thing, despite her attitude and tone painting a very clear picture: she was pissed, and she was going to take every ounce of that out on me.
I lifted my eyebrows in a personification of the 'riiiight' that flitted through my mind and she rushed to clarify herself.
"Before I met you, when you were just a secretary, personal assistant, whatever, to Jacob Whitmore, there was a warmth to you. An authenticity that I'd never seen with any other woman draped on his arm."
The compliment took me by surprise and I blushed, tracing the apple shaped logo after I closed my laptop. I wasn't sure whether to thank her for the compliment or to ask what the catch was, so I said nothing.
Angelique combed her slender fingers through her hair, a sadness rippling beneath her usual facade.
Facade. Funny, because she was the first client since Cade that disarmed me. That seemed like the real deal and not caught up in the public persona bullshit. Right now, I was struggling to not slip back into old habits of calling her Ang or giving her the benefit of the doubt. I was already blurring lines by inviting her to my home, even if that was a result of circumstance. Jacob and I had agreed that until we could get a handle on the Eichmann situation, controlled environments were best. Even with the baby present, home was the most secure place I could think of. The place where I had damn near 100% control and knew what I was doing.
Angelique was calling even that into question, making me wonder if I'd judged her too harshly. If I'd been too scarred by entitled, pain in the ass clients. We all wore masks, and maybe hers was that anytime she felt like she was being challenged or seen as weak, she lashed out. Shut down. Maybe, despite her biting entrance, she was regretting our current predicament too. From the start, we had a rhythm that was offbeat now, the silence unsettling and profound. Me going on the defensive would only exacerbate the situation. That being said, I had zero interest in pretending that she hadn't stormed out of our last meeting, leaving me to wonder if we'd just lost a client.
"The warmth is here," I said, addressing her observation. "You just have to know where to look."
The tiniest smile peeked out from the clouds. "You sure about that? Because apparently you're back to calling me Angelique."
"Well, I'm wondering if I need to do one better and call you 'Ms. Entoine' because you're giving the company the boot." I infused the comment with some playfulness, trying to minimize the sting of the actual question beneath. Where do we go from here? Do you still want me to represent you?
I clearly wasn't nearly as sly as I thought I was because she covered her mouth like I'd just said the most horrific thing she'd ever heard. "Leila, if you think I'm firing you, let me put that to rest. I am doing no such thing."
All the tight and defensive lines in my body immediately relaxed, but I knew that to exhale, whoop with delight or leap to my feet in joy would be ill advised. Even if she wasn't kicking us to the curb, the fact remained that a client who wouldn't go deeper, who wouldn't peel back the layers and respond to criticism and critique, was a recipe for a long, blow up filled drama fest that would only lead us right back to this point.
Even in my Whitmore and Creighton polo and leggings, I sat up tall like I was in a pantsuit at the front of the conference room, commanding attention and laying out how it was gonna be. "I am thrilled to hear that you still want to be represented by us, but there are some things we need to be aligned on if we move forward."
I put an emphasis on the ‘if’ and from the tightening of her jaw, she didn't miss it.
She was the one in the suit, ultimately the one who could make or break this thing, but she shrank an inch in her seat and cleared her throat. "I'm all ears."
Confident that she was listening and would be receptive, I pushed out of my seat and moved to the center of the table. There was a carafe of freshly brewed coffee, hot water and tea bags, and a trio of sparkling water. "Would you like something to drink?"
Her eyes didn't leave my face. "Even if I was comfortable with someone in your condition waiting on me, there's no way I'm going to focus on my thirst when I'm on the edge of my seat."
I nodded and swiped a sparkling water for myself. "Fair enough." A part of me regretted her answer because it would give me a few moments to run through my spiel before I laid it out. I pretty much had one chance to tell her how it was and how it needed to be, if we were going to make this thing work. I truly thought she was talented, and would benefit greatly by being represented by us. It made me crack my bottle of water and take a few swigs to steady my nerves when I realized a lot was riding on what I said next.
I remained standing, locking onto her gaze, searching for a sign that she was listening and not just prepared to respond and explain herself. There was no pretense, no steely glare in the eyes that stared back at me behind thick lashes.
"You've made your thoughts on the past clear." I recalled our lunch in the secret restaurant, her tenacious retelling of her youth and her father's words of advice. "And I don't want to discount any of that because it helped create the woman you are today. You're strong, capable and talented and I'm sure a great deal of that is because you keep your eyes trained on the future and meeting your goals." She beamed a little at that, and I knew I'd made the right choice in giving her the good before I went in on what she had to work on. "That being said, putting caution tape on the past, locking away the uncomfortable, painful things that we've done and have been done to us is not a healthy approach. It doesn't prepare you for the inevitable question when some enterprising reporter digs something up about your past."
She held a hand up. "Isn't that where a 'no comment' would come in handy?"
"That's actually equivalent to blood in the water. It can be helpful if you don't want to incriminate yourself, but you are essentially confirming that there's more to the story, you're just opting not to share it," I told her, striding back to my seat. "That's why we need to bust down that door, get down and dirty and look all the uncomfortable things in your past, every skeleton in the closet, right in the eye. Because it disempowers the past. Any ammunition reporters or writers or anyone else believes they have, any power to ruffle your feathers or dictate what your story is, evaporates. You control the narrative."
She was struggling with that, twisting in her seat like she legitimately couldn't stand looking in the rear view mirror. It was that vulnerability, that fear, that I spoke to.
"You're not alone, Angelique." I almost said 'I can help you', but I stopped myself. "We can help you, if you're willing to let us."
She didn't look convinced, or ready to let go of her strict no looking back policy and I worried that I was going to have to chalk this up to a difference of philosophies and wish her well. If my time at Whitmore and Creighton had taught me anything, it was that sometimes, you just had to let it go. You had to know when to walk away.
She sucked in all of the air in the room, and exhaled, her whole body shuddering. I prepared myself for the breakup. It's not you, it's me, we're not a good fit, or any other excuse that she would give to make the firing easier to swallow.
"Okay, Leila," she said, shrugging off her blazer, giving me a wary, but determined look. "Let's get to work.”
Chapter Seventeen
I paused in the doorway, my heart swelling in my chest. Jacob was out cold, his chin propped on his palm, somehow maintaining his balance despite the fact that he was a hundred miles away. His face, devastatingly handsome, was usually so guarded. The angles had edges that basically erected a fence that scared off most. I tiptoed into the room, unable to resist leaning in to peck his right cheek. That cute place where I knew a dimple would wink back at me if he was in the mood to spare a smile.
He didn’t stir and I took that as a go-ahead to brush the dark waves that spilled onto his forehead. I clicked off the desk lamp, not wanting to push my luck. Wanting him
to get some rest because I’d been sleeping lightly myself and I felt him tossing and turning through the night. Running from some nightmare.
My eyes glazed over his desk to a sea of receipts and black and white photos of the man who stoked hate in my heart. Eichmann, jogging in the park with a full security detail. Those men weren’t just bulky and terse, like Pascal. After all, he hired these men to be noticed. To be feared. Their bulging biceps were covered with tattoos, their heads shaved in a manner that made me wonder if they were ex-Special Forces.
Wanting to tear my eyes away but not able to, I kept shuffling. Eichmann was at a cafe in the next picture, a big, toothy grin on his harsh face. In another, he was mid bite, devouring some baked good. Then there was Eichmann striding into a boutique and walking out with salespeople loaded with his purchases. Was he shopping for his wife? Mistress? The women he enslaved and forced into prostitution? I clenched my teeth and my fists followed suit. He took away everything from people he decided were nothing more than commodities. He didn’t deserve a wife, a side piece, or to breathe the free air.
I had a brief moment of wanting to call the cops and make an anonymous tip, but the picture on the edge of the desk confirmed that would be a waste of time, just like Jacob said originally. My eyes fell on a picture of the man at a bar, rubbing shoulders with the very cops I wanted to alert. I needed to believe that they didn’t know who he was. Maybe they thought he was just a generous tourist, befriending the most powerful people in the room (after himself, of course). Optimism or no, there was no way to be certain.
I’d walked into the office with hearts in my eyes and I was leaving it with guns blazing—and I wanted every one pointed at that man. Sure my negative energy would rouse Jacob from his slumber, I maneuvered around the desk, casting a final look at the comings and goings of our stalker. My stomach dropped to the floor when I saw a familiar sign in one of the cafe shots.