I don’t finish the thought.
Three blocks from her place, I park. Walk the rest. Dusk is good cover. Just another guy heading home from work.
I’m almost to her building when I see the car.
Two spaces from hers. Silver sedan. Government plates.
I know that car.
Her Marshal. Saul fucking Bennett.
Something twists in my chest. Not jealousy, I don’t have the right to be jealous, but something. Awareness. The knowledge that he’s in there with her, in her space, being steady and kind and all the things I don’t know how to be.
I find a spot in the shadows between buildings. Watch her window.
Lights on inside. Two figures moving. Her and him.
Then she passes by the window and my whole body goes tight.
She’s wearing a grey shirt. Too big. Falling off one shoulder. Men’s shirt. Dario’s shirt. She’s wearing Dario’s fucking shirt while her U.S. Marshal sits in her living room.
My hands curl into fists.
What is she thinking?
I watch them. Can’t hear anything but I can see, easy body language, comfortable, domestic. He’s on the couch. She brings him something. Coffee probably.
They’re just talking. Normal.
And she’s wearing evidence of fucking a crime boss she’s supposed to be hiding from visible through the goddamn window.
I need to get in there. Need to warn her about Sal.
So I wait.
Twenty minutes feels like twenty hours.
Finally, he stands. Heads to the door. She walks him out. They talk on the threshold. Too long, too close.
I don’t like the way he looks at her.
Not your business. Not your place.
He leaves. She closes the door.
I count to thirty. Make sure he’s gone.
Then I climb the stairs, cross to her door and knock. Hard.
She opens it. Hair messy. Face soft. Looking comfortable and warm and completely unaware that her world is about to collapse.
“Enzo?” She blinks. “What are you?”
I push past her. Into the apartment. Close the door.
“What the fuck are you thinking?”
She steps back. Startled. “What?”
