Page 19 of Protecting Peyton

“I understand.” I might not want March underfoot, but Grace had mentioned that negotiating with Lucas was like dealing with a rock—no matter what you said, the rock didn’t budge.

“You got some of her things back,” Lucas said, returning his attention to March. “Do you know who was involved?”

“I got names,” March said, “but they’re in the wind now. The cops didn’t think Peyton could provide enough detail to pursue the case.”

He thankfully didn’t tell Lucas his suspicion that I was lying about my memory.

“We need to know if they’re related to Marku or Russo.”

“I’ll check tomorrow and let you know,” March replied.

“Take care of our girl,” Lucas said before ending the call.

We were nearing my building, and I asked the question I wasn’t sure I wanted the answer to. “You think it might be mob-related and not random?”

The Russo and Marku organized crime families had just weeks ago put my boss, Grace, through hell with multiple attacks and kidnapping attempts, all on account of her worthless cousin, Elliot.

March shrugged. “I doubt it, but it’s possible.”

“I thought that business ended when Elliot blew himself up.”

“Me too, but we messed up a deal they had cooking, and it’s possible they’re not over it.”

As March parked, a shiver ran through me. I would have rather had him insist it had to be random.

Zane

HoldingPeyton’s hand after learning of her boyfriend’s death had calmed her. After all that had happened tonight, starting with the game of pool and bull riding, she needed some comforting.

“Thanks for the lift,” she said.

I grabbed my go-bag from the car. I was new to this, but had been warned to have toiletries and a change or two of clothes in the vehicle in case I got sent out of town or on a stakeout without any notice.

Peyton shivered against the evening chill. Taking off my coat, I draped it over her shoulders.

“Uh, thank you.”

It was a small victory to have her accept something from me.

We walked up to a multi-story condo building, which was very nice—nicer than I would have expected on a personal assistant’s salary. The elevator ride was fast and quiet. But I understood. What she had been through tonight would be a shock to most anyone.

“How long have you had this place?” I asked as she unlocked the door.

“Four months now. It’s not mine. I’m housesitting.” She swung the door open.

I pulled her back, then took out my weapon. “Behind me.” I caught her sigh.

“You expect somebody to be here?” she asked.

“Better safe than sorry.” As I cleared the condominium, I could see this was an older couple’s home, a couple with two grown children from the looks of the family photographs. It was neat and elegant, except for the office, which was mad-scientist kind of messy and cluttered.

“It’s clear,” I announced when I finished. “How are you feeling?”

“Nervous.”

“My job is to be cautious. This is a nice place.”

“Very nice. I was lucky to find it.” She moved toward the kitchen. “I think I’m going to take some aspirin for this headache.”