Chapter 7 - The House With Too Many Locks
Wesley took me to his house that night.
Not because he ordered me there.
Because I chose it.
That distinction mattered enough that I said it aloud in the car.
“I’m going because Mrs. Callahan needs somewhere secure and Father Brennan’s rectory now has strangers watching it.”
“Understood.”
“I’m not moving in.”
“Understood.”
“I’m not your guest forever.”
“Cora.”
“What?”
“You’ve made the point.”
Rowan, driving, hid another smile.
Wesley’s home sat outside the city behind stone walls and enough security cameras to make paranoia look architectural. I expected gold. Marble. Maybe a tiger.
Instead, the house was dark wood, old books, clean lines, and almost no personal photographs.
Mrs. Callahan approved immediately.
“Good kitchen,” she announced.
Within twenty minutes she had frightened a security guard into finding her tea.
I was given a bedroom overlooking winter trees.
I did not sleep.
At two in the morning, I wandered downstairs and found Wesley in the library.
No suit jacket.
Sleeves rolled up.
A glass of whiskey untouched beside him.
My mother’s reservation book lay open on the desk.
“You shouldn’t have that without me.”
He closed it immediately.
“You’re right.”
That stopped me.
Most men I had known treated apology like amputation.
Wesley seemed to dislike it, but he could do it.
I sat across from him.
“Tell me about Ronan.”
He leaned back.
“My father’s younger brother. Brilliant. Charming. Never satisfied being second.”
“Why is he still near you if your father suspected a traitor?”
“He didn’t suspect Ronan.”
“My father did.”
“Yes.”
“You believe him?”
Wesley stared at the cold fireplace.
“I believe numbers more than family stories.”
I understood that answer too well.
“Did Ronan know you were watching me?”
“No.”
“You’re sure?”
“I told Rowan and no one else.”
“Why were you really watching me?”
He looked at me.
There it was.
The question we had both avoided.
“At first, because your name appeared in an old file I inherited after my father died.”
“At first.”
His jaw tightened.
“Then because Mercer began following you after work.”
“You could have warned me.”
“Yes.”
“You didn’t.”
“No.”
“Why?”
“I thought if I approached you, whoever was watching Mercer might realize I had connected you to Patrick.”
“That’s the strategic answer.”
His eyes held mine.
“You want the other one?”
“Yes.”
He was silent long enough that I wished I had not asked.
“Thursday became the only night of my week I didn’t hate.”
My heart did something stupid.
I ignored it.
“You barely spoke to me.”
“I know.”
“You ordered the same wine every week.”
“I hate that wine.”
I stared.
“What?”
“It was the first thing you recommended.”
Despite myself, I laughed.
A real laugh.
It startled both of us.
Then the house alarm sounded.
Every softness vanished.
Wesley stood.
Rowan entered seconds later with a gun low at his side.
“East perimeter.”
Mrs. Callahan appeared in the hallway wearing slippers and holding a fireplace poker.
“I knew this house was too quiet.”
“Back upstairs,” Wesley said.
She ignored him.
Security lights came on beyond the windows.
A man had been found near the fence.
Alive.
Injured.
Carrying no weapon.
He asked for me by name.
We met him in the secure garage because Rowan refused to bring him farther inside.
I recognized him immediately.
Presley.
The young kitchen assistant from Il Farro.
Blood stained one sleeve.
“What happened?”
He looked terrified.
“I followed Thaddius.”
I stared at him.
“Why?”
“Because I stood there and did nothing when he hit you.”
His voice broke.
“I hated myself for it.”
“You could have been killed.”
“I know.”
“What did you see?”
He swallowed.
“Thaddius met somebody after he left the restaurant. A black SUV. I took pictures.”
He handed Rowan his phone.
The images were blurry.
But the man stepping out of the SUV was unmistakable once Wesley saw him.
Ronan Cain.
My skin went cold.
Presley continued.
“They argued. Then Ronan’s men took Mercer. I followed them to a warehouse. Someone saw me.”
That explained the blood.
A graze along his upper arm.
Lucky.
Too lucky.
Wesley looked at Rowan.
“Which warehouse?”
Presley gave the address.
Rowan’s expression changed.
“That property belongs to Cain Maritime.”
Wesley’s company.
I looked at Wesley.
He looked like a man watching his family tree catch fire.
Then Presley said something worse.
“I heard them mention tomorrow night.”
“What about it?” I asked.
He looked at me.
“They said you’d be at the Founders Gala.”
“I’m not going to any gala.”
Wesley’s face darkened.
“You were never supposed to.”
Presley shook his head.
“They think you will. They said Ronan has something that will make sure of it.”
My phone vibrated in my pocket.
Unknown number.
I opened the message.
A photograph filled the screen.
Papa G tied to a chair in the Il Farro kitchen.
Beneath it were seven words.
COME TO THE GALA OR HE DIES.
Before I went upstairs that night, I walked through Wesley’s kitchen and noticed a framed photograph tucked beside the pantry door. It was the only family picture I had seen in the entire house. Wesley at maybe fourteen, too thin for his suit, standing beside Lorenzo Cain and a younger Ronan at a summer picnic. Lorenzo had one hand on Wesley’s shoulder. Ronan had both hands in his pockets and a smile too polished for a family snapshot.
Wesley found me looking at it.
“Why keep this one?” I asked.
“My mother took it.”
“You never talk about her.”
“She died when I was nineteen.”
“I’m sorry.”
He nodded.
I studied the boy in the photograph. He did not look dangerous. He looked lonely.
“Did she know what your family was?”
“She knew exactly.”
“And stayed?”
“For me, I think.”
That answer stayed with me. People were always more complicated than the roles we assigned them—victim, criminal, savior, coward. Maybe that was why I had survived Thaddius. I had learned early that a person could make you breakfast and still terrify you by dinner.
Wesley took the photograph from the counter, wiped dust from its edge, and returned it carefully.
“If Ronan is behind this,” he said, “tomorrow changes everything.”
“For you?”
“For both of us.”
I shook my head.
“No. Tomorrow changes what we know. What I do with my life after that is still mine.”
He looked at me for a long moment.
May you like
Then he nodded.
That was when I realized he was learning my language too.
