Page 97 of Disarming Caine

“C’mon.” The officer pulled at Cam-ron’s elbow.

Husband again. Same thing his father said. That must have come from Felicia. “We’re fine. Why did you—”

“We were going for lunch. He saw you two in your car and totally lost it! Turned the car around and followed you. I tried to stop him! I didn’t know he had a gun! He said you two ruined his life! I couldn’t—”

His lawyer shot him a look, shushing him, while the officer pulled more forcefully.

“I was so worried!” Cam-ron stumbled behind the officer, craning his neck to look back at me. “Thanks for everything you did! You turned my life around!”

All I did for Cam-ron was leave midway through the worst blind date of my life and threaten him with legal repercussions for forging the Chagall—even though it was a copy, not a forgery. Scared straight, maybe?

They disappeared around a corner at the same time Jimmy rounded it.

Jimmy watched in the direction Cam-ron headed, stifling a laugh. “I think you got more words out of the Johnsons than anyone here has. Let’s go get your statement taken care of so you can get out of here.”

The faster the better. I needed to talk to Antonio about this uncle of his. A smuggler? I was making life changes for this man. Wore his diamonds on my finger and around my neck. Planned on giving up my life on the road for him.

And his family was what I wanted to fight against most in this world?

Chapter 33

Antonio

WithParkerincustody,I chose to work at the office instead of remaining at home. Soft stringed music floated from the speakers in the ceiling, just loud enough to cover the heavy metal pounding from Zander’s headphones at the back of the studio. Alice had taken the day off to be with Frank while Papa was working on a design in his office. The store next to us was going up for sale, and he was already commissioning blueprints for expansion before his purchase was complete.

“Happy you came home?” Sofia leaned a hip on my worktable. “Not quite what you expected, is it?”

“Too many close calls, Frank in the hospital, Samantha off at work.” I maintained focus on the painting in front of me, scraping the swollen layer of rabbit skin glue from the back of the canvas. The scalpel slid easily through it, my wrist and forearm working through muscle memory, fighting against the pain from the injury across my shoulder. The rhythmic whisper of a scalpel across the fabric was akin to a meditation, sadly not strong enough to distract me from what happened. “But if I hadn’t been here?”

She rested a hand on my forearm. “Frank’s fine. He’s being released in a couple of days.”

I paused, wiping the sticky curls of glue to the side.

She squeezed my arm. “And Samantha—”

“Could I be wrong about her?”

“About what?” She settled her hands on her hips, frowning at me. Sofia knew what I meant, but always made me say it out loud.

“I love being with her, but she’s so… infuriating. Like I’m banging my head against a wall.” I swiveled my high work stool to face her. “What if I’m wasting my time and she’s not—”

“Oddio!” Her gaze shot heavenward. “Did you see the look in her eyes when she found you here yesterday? Or were you too busy being angry that she caught the shooter to notice?”

“Sofia!” called Papa from his office. “I need your help.”

“You can’t control a woman like her, little brother.” She patted my arm before going to see Papa. “Don’t bother trying.”

She was right. Always right when it came to women, especially Samantha.

Before I could resume scraping, my phone buzzed. I pulled it out from the chest pocket of my apron, and my heart swelled, a smile creeping up my face. Doubts and worries aside, Samantha’s name on the caller ID invariably did this to me.

“Ciao, bella.” I stood and made my way to my office, next to Papa’s. “How’s your day going so far?”

“Good.” Her voice was strained, serious. “You at home?”

“No, at the office.” I closed the door behind me and took a seat in the closest chair. “Alice is still off with Frank, so Papa needed some help. I’m finishing up some—”

“Good. I want to stop by.” Something was not right. We’d argued early in the morning, from little more than stress, but had made up. “I need to talk to you.”