Page 43 of Black Jack (Advantage Play 5)

“Hello?”

“Hello, Connelly.”

I brace myself against the bathroom counter and hang my head. I recognize that voice. I just don’t know why Wallace Embry would bother to contact me unless he’s checking up on me, which means I’m still on his radar. And that’s the last place I want to be.

“Uh, hello, sir,” I return, my knuckles white as I grip the edge of the granite surface.

“How are you doing?”

“I’m fine.”

Why the hell are you calling me?

“Good. I assume you’re acclimating to the new apartment?”

Cocking my head to the side, I take in the white cabinets, black accents, and mirror that’s still fogged from my shower. My stunned expression would be laughable if the situation weren’t so insane. “How did you––”

“I stopped by your old place to say hello and meet your fiancée. The landlord informed me that you’ve moved.”

“Oh.” My hand that isn’t holding my phone digs into the back of my neck. “I apologize for not passing along our new address. I just figured…since I’m on probation––”

“You’re not on probation, Connelly. You’re simply taking a leave of absence until Reed’s case is closed.”

“Of course.”

“I, however, haven’t moved,” he informs me.

“Pardon?”

“I’ve yet to see your wedding invitation, Connelly,” he explains. “Why is that, exactly?”

“Oh. Well, uh––”

“We’d like to have you over for dinner. Say, this Friday? My wife makes an excellent spaghetti and meatball dish that I’m sure your fiancée would love to try.”

Spaghetti and meatballs? Being fed to an Italian mob princess? That sounds promising.

“Yeah, of course,” I reply. “I’m sure she’d love to exchange recipes.”

“Perfect. I’ll let my wife know.” Embry’s nonchalance makes my blood boil, but I bite my tongue to keep from lashing out. The bastard knows exactly what he’s doing. I just can’t decide if it’s because he’s an honest man and wants to confirm my loyalty, or if he’s working for Reed and is searching for my weaknesses.

I shift my phone to my other ear. “Sounds good. We’ll see you then.”

“Perfect. And Connelly?”

“Yeah?”

“Don’t forget to deliver that invitation. We wouldn’t miss it for the world.”

“Of course not. Goodbye, sir.”

“Goodbye.”

Fuck.

What the hell am I supposed to do now? Asking Bianca to tag along to my boss’s house so that she can pretend to be a doting future wife while beneath a damn microscope sounds worse than waking up during a colonoscopy. And the odds of her accepting the challenge after all the shit I’ve put her through are less than zero, regardless of how many times I’ve tried to extend the olive branch.

I’m screwed.