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Winters.
Only sheer force of will had kept her rooted in her chair through the rest of the meal. That, and the fact that the conversation between Caleb and his grandfather had grown deeply personal and tense, shifting the spotlight away from her.
“We need to talk.” His voice came from behind her, low and tight.
And beneath it…betrayal.
She steeled herself and turned. The eyes that had stared at her earlier—dark, hungry—were now flat and cold.
His stare cut through her. “Or should I say, Abigail?”
Her breath caught. The lightness in her chest turned jagged, pressing against her ribs like glass.
Abigail? I don’t know who you’re talking about.The lie hovered, instinctive.
But it was too late for that.
“You’ve been researching me.” She barely heard her own words over the rush in her ears.
“Yes.”
Of course he had. She’d given away too much—Vincente’s name. Miami. All it would take was one image search on the Internet.
A weary sigh hissed from her lungs. Defeat. “What do you want to know?”
Caleb stood rigid, arms crossed, his jaw flexing with restrained fury. “Everything.”
She needed something for her hands to do while she considered what to say.
Giving him her back, she walked past the dining table—past the brightly colored flowers he’d brought. False hope that her evening would be a memory to cherish instead of the nightmare it was becoming. In the kitchen, she pulled the coffee can from the fridge and held it up in silent question.
He gave a curt nod.
She filled the glass carafe with unsteady hands, spooned in the grounds, and started the brew cycle. The machine hissed, dark brown liquid entering the carafe in a slow, steady stream.
How much could she tell him? How much did he already know?
When the coffee was ready, she poured two mugs, passed him one, and curled up on the couch, her grip on the mug a lifeline.
Caleb set a dining room chair across from her—not too close. His mug sat untouched.
She couldn’t tell him everything, but she could be truthful about herself. “Gianna Barone is my real name,” she said. “I grew up in Brooklyn. My father was a hitman. When I was fifteen, he went to prison for murder.” A sour film coated the inside of her mouth. “Murders. Plural. My mother divorced him and quickly picked up a new husband. One with a wandering eye.”
Gia paused. Took a sip of coffee to calm her nerves. “Unfortunately, it wandered in my direction.”
Caleb’s low growl cut through the quiet.
She gave him a grateful smile. He might be angry, but his protective instincts ran deep. That mattered.
“When I turned eighteen, I leaned on some of my father’s old connections to create a new identity.”
“To escape your family.” Caleb nodded as if he understood.
Given what she now knew of his family history, maybe he did.
“Escape my family. My lower-class, criminal existence.” She took another sip. “I worked, went to college, studied everything about my classmates who came from money—how they spoke, behaved, their hobbies, where they ate—everything. When I graduated from medical school, IwasAbigail Winters from the Upper East Side of Manhattan.”
He leaned forward, elbows on his knees. “You put yourself through school and became a doctor. That’s something.”