Page 8 of Erik

“I know that nothing I say can help what you feel, Natasha, but you can always steal her back. Just like I told Valerie, I will never, ever try to get between you. That being said . . . this is your only freebie, Natasha. I don’t give second chances.” And he left with that as silently as he’d arrived, standing by the door to gaze at me in pity and, hopefully, some guilt. Sniffling hard, I pulled my comforter over my shivering body to mourn in loneliness. This was what I’d been reduced to, and there was no way to put my pieces back together— no glue strong enough. Curling up tighter, I rubbed my face into the blanket under me as my throat closed completely.

Erik . . . this was his fault.The working part of my brain knew it wasn’t entirely his fault, but he was the straw that broke my back. He, a complete stranger, did something so atrocious, so unfathomably disgusting, and it didn’t have to be me. Itshouldn’thave been me. I was a pawn to people I didn’t even know— for Carlyle, for my mom. I wasn’t Valerie’s knight in shining armor anymore. I couldn’t take her pain to fuel my determination because she didn’t have any more pain.

“Just for tonight . . . I’ll be really pathetic.” My voice scratched my raw throat, barely squeezing through, and I pushed myself up onto weak elbows to sniffled hard. Pain riddled up my nose and into my brain, and my body moved sluggishly to throw my legs over the side of the bed.

Shuffling out of my room and down the hall, I shivered when my toes touched the cold tiles on the kitchen floor. Leaving the light off, I barely lifted my feet as I trudged to the oven, and the much duller overhead pierced my eyes. Wincing slightly, my shoulders curled in as I ducked my head, and I ground my teeth hard.

Throwing open the refrigerator, a cold sweat broke out on my skin as I pulled everything off the shelves and set it on the table. There wasn’t enough room, so I used the counter— and when that space was gone, I used the chairs. The food in the refrigerator was all fresh, and I panted by the time I got it all out and displayed in front of me.

I could make anything I wanted— chicken, steak, and seafood sat on the table, and I glanced between them warily. Rocking back on my heels, I rubbed my face absently as a huge, tired sigh built up against my ribs.

“I’ll just make everything.” My mumble was loud in the empty kitchen, and it bounced off the hard surfaces to follow me on my way to the small pantry. Snatching the onions, potatoes, and breadcrumbs, I left the collapsing door open as I set my armfuls on the stovetop. Reaching into the lower cabinet, I pulled out all the bowls and the cake pans— just because I could. Moving automatically, I had no plan on what I wanted to make. I just . . . needed to stave off this hopelessness and hurt.

A soft knock on the front door barely entered my attention, and I clapped my palms against my cheeks. Sniffling hard, I glanced at myself in the mirror between the hallway and the kitchen, and I rushed my fingers through my hair a few times. Cracking open the door, relief sloshed in my chest when Illya stood on the other side, and she held up a bottle of tequila to shake it enticingly.

“Wanna get wrecked?” Ducking my head in a nod, I stepped to the side, and Illya smiled as she passed. “How are you doin’, Natasha?”

“You know how to cook?” Her slender face scrunched up in uncertainty, and I shut the door behind us before shaking my head. “It doesn’t matter. You can cut stuff up pretty even, right?”

“Uh, yeah?” That was good enough for me, and I gestured her to follow me around the corner into the kitchen. Illya paused in surprise, and I grabbed the bag of potatoes to set it on the edge of the table. “What are we making?”

“I dunno, what do you want to eat? Where’s Theo? He can eat a lot, right?” She nodded dumbly, and I hauled all the chicken to the stove as my mind started puttering into action. “I’ll text Fred and Marshal, too.”

“Okay. Why not make chicken parm? Or chicken and potatoes?” I had legs, wings, two packages of breasts, and two-quarter pieces, and I nodded dumbly as Illya spewed out options. “Wings, fried chicken, chicken, and swiss casserole . . . ”

“Let’s make it all. I know how to do all that.” When I glanced over, Illya’s brows were high, and I frowned as mine drew together. “What? All you have to do is chop stuff up. It won’t be too hard.”

“Nothing— nothing. Just give me a knife and tell me how big you want these pieces.” Gathering up her long, orange hair, Illya nodded with determination, and a slick smile stretched her face wide. “I should probably cut up everything before I start drinking, though.”

“You really don’t know how to cook?” She shrugged as I sauntered over to tear the tape off the cap of the tequila, and my frown deepened. “Why not? Everyone should know how to at least make mac ‘n’ cheese or eggs.”

“I can’t get close to heat. It irritates my chest.” My lips formed an ‘o,’ and discomfort wiggled deep into my chest as I took a huge swig of burning alcohol. The warmth surged down my throat, and I hoovered up a shallow breath as I shook my head viciously. Illya’s chest wasn’t something I’d make the mistake of asking about again, and I set the bottle on the table as she ripped open the bag of potatoes. “I like helping, so it’ll be fine.”

8

Erik

“Morning, Captain.” I could hear in my own voice how tired I was, and Donald cast me an unreadable glance as I sat down across his desk. “Let me guess, this is about Carlyle Santino?”

“Of course, it is. You had orders to be discreet, at the very least, about investigating the bombing. What the Hell happened, Erik?” My brows rose in surprise, and I scowled darkly as understanding flickered across my superior’s face. Propping his stubbled chin on laced fingers, Donald shot me a hard glance as this wild goose chase suddenly wasn’t so damn wild anymore. “Remmy tried to overshoot, didn’t he? I thought I warned you about his conspiracy theories and obsession with the Syndicate.”

“Obviously, I didn’t listen hard enough.” Grumbling my reply, I knew it wouldn’t fly, but it was all I had. No wonder that old bastard’s story didn’t exactly line up. Rubbing my jaw and neck, I sat back a little as I caught my commander’s gaze. “What’s his whole deal, anyway? Why does he think Carlyle Santino is connected to the Syndicate?”

“He was involved in a case some twenty years ago with George Santino, Carlyle’s father, but couldn’t get enough evidence to convict. Ever since then, he’s been convinced that they’re evil. I’m sure it doesn’t help that they make hefty donations to local businesses and the city, so they pretty much run the place. The point is, Erik, why did you go along with something so stupid as to try to bug the guy’s girlfriend’s sister? That’s a huge stretch, even for Remmy.”

“The bomb was sent to their shared apartment, Cap. I couldn’t sleep last night, and I found out through public records that the girls’ mom was heavily involved in Baron Ninety-Nine. Don’t you think it’s weird how they all started dropping like flies right after this girlfriend almost gets blown up?” Donald frowned, his brows wiggling thoughtfully, and I rolled my eyes at how ‘coincidental’ it all sounded. “This all happened way too fast.”

“Erik . . . Carlyle is off-limits. Unless you visibly witness him shooting someone and shoot the whole thing in Four-K HD, you don’t go near him.” I couldn’t do anything other than nod in agreement, and some of the tension eased in my gut. Donald’s grey hair flashed, and his wrinkles deepened as he frowned, his dull eyes narrowed on me. “I’m serious. Don’t make this worse, or you’ll lose your job over the guy, and he’s not worth it.”

“I beg your pardon.“ Twisting to find the very man staring at me, I tensed as the hairs on the back of my neck stood straight up. “I’m very much worth it, thank you.”

“Mr. Santino, I wasn’t expecting you. I would’ve broken out the ‘okay’ coffee instead of the shit we normally serve.” Donald stood up, rounding his desk to shake Carlyle’s hand firmly, and I followed suit as my boss introduced us. “Erik Shaffer, Mr. Carlyle Santino.”

“I know who he is. Three years in the Navy before applying for the SEALs and spending a decade there before voluntarily discharging after a mission gone bad in Syria. It’s impressive. You’d think you’d know better than to try to do something as stupid as bug a person who routinely sweeps for bugs.” Gazing at me even though he held Donald’s hand, Carlyle’s eyes narrowed into tight slits as discomfort slithered up and down my spine. “I wanted to see you for myself. More importantly, I’m here to accept your partner’s resignation.”

Surprise struck my chest, but Carlyle didn’t bat an eyelash as he released Donald’s hand. His expression never wavered, and my boss sighed heavily.

“Yeah, it was decided yesterday by the higher powers that sign our paychecks. I tried calling you, but you were on your little internet crusade about Baron Ninety-Nine.” Carlyle’s expression finally changed, and I bristled as his lip twitched up in the makings of a snarl. “He’s gonna get pushed into retirement a little earlier than planned, that’s all.”