Page 19 of Cold Mercy

I raise a brow, feigning mild surprise. Yeah, that's not exactly breaking news. Mercer was knee-deep in the mud, playing an already lost game. The idiot probably thought he was smarter than everyone.

“Sophia loved him with this...unconditional love from the beginning…always looking at him with such pride, supporting in everything.”

I listen, my mind working behind the face of polite interest. Supported him? Yes, with running a dirty empire. If they were as close as everyone claims, so deeply in love, there's no way they had secrets of that kind between them. I can't convince myself of the scenario, where you share a life, a bed, a future with someone, claiming to love them more than everything, and yet remain completely oblivious to the fact that they are laundering millions and working for the biggest crime syndicate in NY.

“I loved him too, really," James says, shaking his head. “But after almost two years…I have doubts.”

Even James, the loyal friend, has his suspicions. And if he can see the cracks, then Moreau, living in the very heart of it, must have known.

My cover here depends on James and Elizabeth remaining my unwitting connection to Sophia. I need to avoid direct, uncomfortable questions that might raise suspicious, so that's the end of ‘big breaking news’ for today.

“Don’t worry. I won’t say anything to Elizabeth.” I keep my face neutral.

James forces a small laugh.

“Sophia deserves better in all of this, I guess.”

“She does,” I say, keeping my voice steady while my mind finishes the sentence with the truth. She deserves a cold, dark cell where the only thing she commands is the silence. That is the only ‘better’ I plan to give her.

He waves a hand, trying to lighten the air.

“Honestly? My personal theory is that he laundered money, she didn’t know, and someone eventually shot him because he pissed off the wrong people.” He laughs.

I stare at him, wondering how someone so smart can be so willfully blind. ‘She didn’t know.’ It is almost charming how much he wants to believe that.

James notices my expression and winces, mistaking my silence for judgment of him rather than her.

“She paid for half of our wedding without blinking… so I guess I shouldn’t have said that. Forget it, I'm sorry.”

I nod once.

“Let’s just survive today,” I say. “Enjoying it feels too ambitious.”

“Right,” he says with a grin. “Time to let half a dozen women touch every inch of us and pretend it’s normal.”

“Weddings are a scam,” I mutter. “Suits cost the same as used cars.”

James snorts.

Yet, after all this time, James treats me not just as a colleague from his company, but as someone close, that close he chose me as his best man, and here I am. His easy presence and the normalcy of our interactions undeniably make this work less tedious and isolating. I can share a beer with him, watch a game, or have a straightforward conversation without having to constantly manage the dynamics. He's a decent guy. Maybewho you would call a friend at these times, I don't know.

By the time we’re done, I’m one bad measurement away from committing a felony. Hours of being poked, prodded, pinned, and adjusted. All by very sweet, very determined older ladies, but still, I’m ready to crawl out a window. I’d rather run a ten-hour hostage rescue with no water than go through that again.

But apparently I have to find out what color the maid of honor’s dress is, to get a matching pocket square. I almost smile. It is a stupid civilian detail, but it gives me a tactical opening. A valid reason to contact her that doesn't scream federal investigation. I can play the annoyed groomsman trying to check a box off his list. It makes me look harmless.

Except I have something better. Her jacket. It has been sitting in my back seat for weeks, and I am surprised she hasn’t kicked down my door demanding it back by now. Or maybe she hasn't even noticed it's gone. To a woman moving that kind of capital, a jacket is probably like a lost pen.

It is the perfect excuse to breach her perimeter without raising alarms. I don't need a warrant to return lost property.

We are about to split when I turn to James.

“Hey, give me Sophia’s number. She left her jacket in my car, so I figured I'd drop it off tomorrow.”

James makes a face like he just bit a lemon.

“Tomorrow? Uh… I doubt that’s the best idea, man.”

I raise a brow, but he keeps talking before I can ask.