Page 67 of Disarming Caine

“What are you planning?”

“You’ve told me much about the good your Samantha’s done, from catching stolen paintings to tracking down this Eva in Napoli. And it has me thinking…” He sat up straighter, resolve streaming off him. “We have contacts and resources at our disposal. Perhaps we should invest in a company that does that sort of thing. Maybe Samantha can help me choose where to spend that money or come up with some recommendations?”

Were she not destined to return to her position in the FBI Art Crimes Team—no matter how much she shrugged Elliot’s pursuit off—I would have suggested he hire her. “I think she’d like that.”

“I haven’t decided, so don’t say anything yet.” He patted my knee and stood. “Now let’s go rescue her from your mother before she pins her down and force-feeds her.”

Chapter 23

Samantha

Iboltedupfrommy pillow.

One. Observe.

Dark room. I was naked.

Two. Orient.

Where the fuck was I?

Heart racing. Why wasn’t I in my hotel room?

Antonio had been shot. I needed to—

I gulped in air as my eyes adjusted to the darkness. It was Antonio’s bedroom. No noise but his soft, rhythmic breathing. I rubbed my chest, clearing the sweat from between my breasts, breath coming too quickly.

Just a dream. Just a dream.

He lay on his back, one arm behind his head, the other outstretched, sheets at his waist. Christmas Eve with his family had been overwhelming, but wonderful, the entire evening full of laughs and amazing food. We were still together. He was safe.

I was safe.

There was space to snuggle against him, listen to his steady heartbeat, and relax. Go back to sleep. But that might wake him. It was only—I tapped my phone to wake the screen—two in the morning. He said jet lag didn’t bother him, but he’d barely slept since he got home.

I eased out of the bed, shaking, and draped his silk robe around me, slipping my phone into the pocket. I held the collar up to inhale his lingering scent and tiptoed to the kitchen.

Every time I closed my eyes, we were at the hotel. Instead of running into the table, he’d kept walking, and the first bullet had been a direct hit. We’d fallen, the same as Tuesday evening, but he was dead. Half his head blown to pieces. Blood all over the floor.

I wandered toward the windows that lined the wall, staring out at the sleeping city, clutching the diamond at my neck. The shooter had been on the balcony, not in the trees at the edge of the parking lot. I’d seen him—the thug from Naples who’d slammed my face into the floor and somehow ended up unconscious next to me—lift the gun and fire. Paralyzed with fear, I hadn’t warned Antonio.

I closed my eyes and leaned my head against the door, its smooth, cool surface calming me. No sounds came through the insulated glass, but in my head, the screaming continued. I’d run after the shooter, out onto the balcony, and found nothing but the bullet casing. The thug had vanished.

When I’d come back in, the police were there. I knelt by Antonio’s lifeless body and cradled him next to me. The scene shifted, and we were all on the sidewalk in front of Mason’s. Harry was there, examining the bullet casing I’d found, humming and hawing the way he did. ‘That’s interesting,’ he’d said.

“Interesting?” My eye flashed open. What was interesting? Something about the casings.

My stomach flipped and I raced to the foyer, to my jacket. Both sets of bullets and casings were still in the interior pocket. Grabbing them, I tore up the steps to Antonio’s studio two at a time. I took a piece of paper from the printer and slammed it down by the microscope. Drawing a line down the middle, I wroteMason’sto the left,Hotelto the right.

I placed the evidence on the sheet and swiveled the microscope into place, turning it on as I moved it. The bullets were easy to distinguish from each other, both misshapen from impacting the brick and the damage I’d done with the pliers.

But the casings were very similar. They’d both been ejected onto smooth surfaces and were pristine. Under low magnification, I could see them clearly, eyes flicking back and forth between them. Every marking—from the impact of the firing pin, the breech face, and the ejector—was identical.

A tingle ran up my spine, and I braced against the desk. They were identical. Either two different people had access to this gun or the same man who fired at Rhonda was firing at me and Antonio on Tuesday.

Bullet casings could be a match and be from different guns. Right? Was I drawing big conclusions from little coincidences? Did I suddenly believe in coincidences at all?

It was barely three in the morning. Who could I talk to about this?