“If they found you, I need to assume the location is compromised until I know otherwise.” His voice is controlled. “I’m taking you to a hotel. Neutral location. Somewhere secure.”
“Saul.”
“This isn’t a discussion.” He looks at me. And I see both things in his eyes. The hurt man and the marshal doing his job. “I’m angry. I’m hurt. And yes, I need space to think. But I’m not leaving you alone when I don’t know if you’re safe. So pack a bag. Now.”
The drive to the hotel is silent.
Forty minutes of thick, suffocating quiet. His hands tight on the wheel. My hands twisted in my lap.
The hotel’s nice. Nicer than it needs to be. He checks us in under a fake name. Pays cash. Walks me to the room on the third floor.
“Don’t answer the door for anyone but me,” he says. Standing in the doorway. Not coming in. “Don’t leave. Order room service if you need food. Keep your phone on.”
“Where are you going?”
“To think.” He won’t quite look at me. “And to figure out what the fuck I’m walking into tomorrow.”
“Tomorrow?”
“I’m going to see them. Dario and Enzo.” His jaw tightens. “I need to know what the situation is with the family. If you’re actually safe here or if we need to relocate you again.”
My heart does something painful. “You’re going to see them.”
“I’m doing my job.” His voice is flat. “Making sure my witness is secure. That’s all this is.”
But we both know that’s not all it is.
“Saul.”
“Get some sleep if you can.” He’s already backing away. “I’ll be back in the morning.”
“Please don’t go. Not like this.”
He stops. Looks at me. And for a second I see everything he’s feeling. The love he’s trying to protect by building walls.
“I have to,” he says quietly. “Because if I stay right now, I’m going to say things I’ll regret. And you deserve better than that.”
He leaves. The door closes. And I’m alone in a hotel room with a bag full of clothes and a heart full of guilt.
I don’t sleep.
I lie in a generic hotel bed staring at a generic hotel ceiling and trying to figure out how I managed to fuck up everything.
Saul’s out there somewhere. Processing. Hurting. Deciding if I’m worth the complication.
And tomorrow he’s going to walk into Dario’s world and I have no idea what’s going to happen.
My phone sits on the nightstand. Silent.
I check it approximately four thousand times anyway.
Nothing.
I count ceiling tiles. Seventeen. Then carpet patterns. Then the ways I’ve fucked up my life in the past six months.
That list is longer. Significantly.
The hotel room smells like industrial cleaner and other people’s bad decisions. Fitting. I’m currently marinating in my own.
