Page 95 of Built for Mercy

I ended the call, tossing the phone aside as if it were the source of all my troubles. I closed my eyes, attempting to reclaim the peace from a moment ago. A single thought clawed its way through the fog of my fatigue:

What the fuck does Dean need to discuss so urgently?

And with that seed of dread firmly planted, the restful sleep I’d yearned for slipped away.

43

Maverick

Two days after Sophie’s departure, and I’d barely stepped off the plane before my fingers were flying over my phone, tracking Sophie’s expenditures like a man possessed. There she was, splashed across my screen in digital breadcrumbs—right here in New York City, practically begging me to come to her. She could’ve gone home, but she didn’t. She chose a hotel less than a mile from my club.

Well, two could play at this game, and I had a few things to handle before I dragged her back to me by her ankles.

Metaphorically speaking, of course.

The knowledge of her proximity gnawed at me as I wrapped up my Vegas dealings with terse words and clipped nods, Duane and Paulie’s ribbing bouncing off the cold resolve that had settled in my chest. They had tried to pry into my silence, but their words were just background noise to the deafening sound of my own thoughts. Of what was coming next.

I stopped at the deli on the corner on my way home, the scent of pastrami and rye a familiar comfort. Yet I knew that I wouldn’t feel whole again until I was with Sophie. While I waited in line, my phone rang.

“I’ve been away from you for less than an hour,” I answered.

“I know. Turns out Chavez was an easy target to catch,” Paulie responded, and I heard muffled shouting in the background. “He was at his place, and get this, had a bathtub full of cash. I know damn well we don’t pay him that well.”

I hummed. “So, Rico’s story continues to check out. Good. Keep him there. We need to make him sweat.”

“Already on it. D’s securing him in the basement. Wanted to call and report that in no time, he’s all yours. Well, Sophie’s, I guess.”

“Thanks.” I hung up and ordered a sandwich—pastrami on rye. Extra mustard. Swiss. No mayo. Toasted. While I waited, I contemplated, because apparently that was all I did these days.

When I stepped back out of the deli, I paused as a small black cat with piercing blue eyes and a white patch on its chest materialized from the shadows of an alley. Its gaze was locked onto my sandwich, as if it was accustomed to people giving it morsels of food.

Not a single time in my life did I give strays a second of my attention, but something about its scrappy demeanor reminded me of Sophie’s stubborn streak.

“Guess you’re hungry, huh?” I muttered, crouching to offer a cautious stroke along its back. The cat leaned into my touch, and a reluctant smile tugged at my lips. Everything was shit right now, and yet something so small brightened a piece of my soul. Sophie once told me she wanted a cat, said something about them being independent enough to handle her hectic life—if only she had the time.

“Come on, then,” I sighed, scooping up the little furball. It immediately curled into my chest, licking my hand with a tongue that felt like sandpaper.

Pets weren’t really my thing, and I could only imagine how ridiculous I looked holding a kitten in a five thousand dollar suit.

Whatever.

My place felt more hollow than usual, the silence echoing around me as I stepped inside. I used to find comfort in the quiet, but now with touches of Sophie throughout, it didn’t feel like a home without her.

I placed the cat on the kitchen counter and began researching how to care for the unexpected addition to my life, as if I didn’t have other things to do. This felt important, though. As though Sophie would appreciate the gesture. This mangy creature could be a start—a messed-up olive branch.

I quickly became fixated on the damn thing—a female, as I discovered when I held her up to the light—and how to care for it. DoorDash came through with the necessities, my order growing ridiculously large as if I was setting up a nursery. It didn’t take long before I found myself watching the cat’s antics—batting at an invisible enemy, launching herself sideways like she had been personally offended by the rug, then pausing mid-sprint to lick her paw like none of it ever happened. Amusement tugged at my heartstrings, but beneath it, something deeper twisted in my chest—an aching sort of feeling.

Because for all its psycho energy, the little thing had it easy. It was safe. Taken care of.

Watching the cat explore her new domain, I found myself talking to her, telling her about the woman who’d also brought chaos into my meticulously ordered life.

“Bet you’re gonna love Sophie,” I said, scratching behind her ears as she purred. She was so skinny, and I now felt responsiblefor nursing this little creature back to health. “She’s one hell of a firecracker. Kinda like you.”

By the end of the day, I had a mobile vet coming to get Wednesday caught up on her shots and treatments. Yes, I named her after Wednesday Addams, because she was black as night, unpredictable as hell, and had a knack for creating insanity wherever she went. Seemed fitting.

I kneeled in my living room, attempting to set up a cat tree. Maybe it was overkill—I mean, really, I was less than six hours into cat ownership and my penthouse looked like I should own five of the damn things.

It wasn’t so bad, though. She kept me company, and she liked to roll around playing with a fake mouse or to lick her paws while blinking slowly at me. I was pretty sure she and I were kindred spirits.