<b>97 </b>


    GIANNI


    “You can tell summer’s winding down.”


    I look up from the spreadsheet Roger insisted wepile–always organized<b>, </b>which I suppose I should be grateful for even <b>if </b><b>a </b>Friday evening spent poring over spreadsheets isn’t my idea of a good time. “What do you mean?”


    <b>“</b>It’s already starting to get dark, and it’s barely past seven o’clock


    Sure enough, a look out the window confirms this. “I wonder how long the girls will be out.”


    “You know how it gets sometimes. Crack open a bottle of wine or two, and time melts.”


    “I don’t think they’ll be doing that tonight.” When he lifts an eyebrow, I break the news I’ve been waiting all week to share. ” This stays between us, but Caterina is pregnant.”


    Now both brows lift. “Oh. I… congrattions?”


    I can’t help but grin. “Yes, congrattions are in order.”


    “And she’s happy about it?”


    “You know. Things are stillplicated.” I’m trying to be kind toward Charles for her sake, but I can’t pretend his bias against me isn’t a real pain in the ass at a time like this. My little bird should feel free to enjoy this monumental event<b>, </b>something that should bring her joy. Instead, she’s too concerned about what he’ll think. She thinks I don’t notice how she sometimes drifts off, frowning, chewing her lip while absentmindedly stroking her belly. If only I could snap my fingers and take it all away.


    “I’m happy for you.” Though concern does touch his features before he asks, “How does Tatiana feel about it? I assume she knows.”


    “It seems she’sing around. This dinner is a good sign.‘


    Like magic, his worry lines smooth out. “Good. Nobody needs her throwing tantrums around the house. No offense.”


    “None taken. I don’t like it when she loses her shit any more than you do.” Clearing my throat, I turn my attention back to the list of names, every member of our crew. They’re broken down by the shifts they usually take, then grouped into three’s. Three seemed to be a manageable number.


    Beside them are the stories we came up with. Moving to Europe, selling the property, getting married, and so on. I can already imagine Amalia blowing her top over each one.


    “What about the pregnancy? We could use that as a lure. It’ll drive her up a wall.‘


    I shake my head. “No such luck. She already knows.”


    ”


    “Of course she does. She’s a goddamn spider, sitting in the center of her web, waiting to strike.‘


    <b>“</b>I’ve never heard it put so sinctly.”


    By the time we have everything in ce, the clock now reads eight fifteen. I check my phone, expecting something from Caterina, <b>except </b>there’s nothing other than the text telling me they were going to dinner in the first ce.


    Me: Everything alright? Did you decide to make it a long night?


    <b>No</b>, eight o’clock isn’t exactly long, but it is when they had met up at five. Roger’s right. Time can melt away, and I doubt Tatiana would refrain from cracking open a bottle of wine just because Caterina can’t drink. Still<b>, </b>three hours seents a little excessive without a heads–up that they’re doing something else.


    “I’m going to the kitchen to get something to eat. Do you want anything?”


    I’m tempted to say yes, but I stretch and rise from my desk instead “I should at least take the trouble to walk down the hall.”


    Otherwise, I’ll sit and stare at my phone, willing Caterina to text me back.


    We <b>pass </b>a window, and I see two of my men standing guard. I hate the way it feels necessary to y a game and act like nothing’s out of order. All the while, I question their respectful treatment, willing myself to pretend the way at least one <b>of </b>them is. <b>I </b>can only hope there isn’t more than one, or this n with Roger will fall to pieces if Amalia gets conflicting reports from two


    different sources.


    I force myself to push the concerns away while the two of us fix sandwiches using cold cuts from the refrigerator. Looking outside, I find myself admiting the effect the pool lights have on the patio, casting ripples over the concrete, the chairs, and the tables. Merely months ago, my little bird caught me out there with woman whose name I can’t remember. That night set me on the path I now walk.


    And I want nothing more than to be in that pool with her, preferably naked, preferably sunk deep in her tight heat. She needs to get home soon, before the heaviness in my balls kills me.


    The idea of her swelling soon, getting round and full thanks to the life I put inside her, only heightens my craving for her. She has no idea what she’s in for as the months go on. I’m going to be insatiable.


    We stand at the counter while we eat roast beef sandwiches, talking about nothing too significant for once. “I can’t wait until football season starts,” Roger mumbles around his food. “I miss having something to do on Sunday afternoon.”


    “You could always get a hobby,” I point out.


    He snorts. “Right. Since when do I have time for hobbies? I think you have me confused with somebody who doesn’t work morning, noon, and night.”


    I’m about to suggest he take a little time for himself once the Amalia situation is settled when his phone goes off. An instantter, mine does the same.


    It’s almost shameful how quickly I pull the device from my pocket, my heart skipping a beat in anticipation of Caterina’s reply.


    That isn’t what I find, though. “What the hell?” Roger mutters, reading his own message.


    “Fuck around and find out,” I mumble, dazed by the text message “There’s a crate waiting for you at your 8th Street warehouse.”


    “Mine says the same,” Roger confirms. We look up from our phones, staring at each other for one breathless beat. Fuck. The inky feeling of dread consumes me.


    I’m out of the room the next second, with Roger on my heels. His sharp whistle catches the attention of three men patrolling the halls, all of whom jog to catch up. “8th Street warehouse,” he barks, directing them to their cars once we’re outside. Meanwhile, I call Caterina and listen as her phone rings and rings. Pick up. Pick up, damn it.


    Once her voicemail picks up, I have to wait for her cheerful greeting to end before being as careful as I can to not scare her if she is, in fact, sitting in a restaurant with Tatiana. “Call me as soon as you get this,” I speak softly while Roger gets behind the wheel with me in the passenger seat. “It’s very important. Just please, let me know you’re alright.”


    I call Tatiana as we race down the driveway. Once again, I’m greeted by a voicemail recording. “Call me right away.” It all feels so pointless. There’s no way of knowing for sure the girls are involved, but instinct won’t let me dismiss the idea.


    Roger tears through the night, ignoring the speed limit, flying down residential streets <b>at </b>a speed that would curdle my blood under any other circumstances. Now? “Faster,” I mutter, returning to that original text. Fuck around and find out.


    Who the hell could this be?