Page 195 of Sinful Like Us

“Yeah, pretty much.”

“Then we shouldn’t worry.” Her confidence is palpable.

But unsaid sentiments still claw at the fucking air. Two more months of Tony Ramella is sixty days too long.

40

THATCHER MORETTI

The townhouse smellsof garlic and tomato sauce, a familiar aroma that should be comforting. On any other night—maybe.

But it’s the first night we’ve been home.

Hours ago, I learned about the break-in from my brother. I just stared at him for a long…long time, and I shook my head. I should’ve been here in Philly.

He should’ve been in Scotland. But I remember what Oscar said—and I know we were right where we were supposed to be. If I confronted the target, he’d be dead.

“You pistol-whipped him?” I asked for confirmation.

“Lightly,” he clarified and saw my concern. “I’m fine.” He’d been alone and had to wait for half the team to arrive.

That’s what gnaws at me.

I moved in closer, and we brought each other in a hug. My brother will always have my soul. Twenty-eight-years together does that.

A tough part came next.

I had to deliver the gut-wrenching news to Jane and Maximoff. After I finished, I thought it would have dissuaded them from staying in the townhouse. Hell, I’d grab a one-way ticket to anywhere but here.

Instead, they feelsafer.

The intruder has been caught. He admitted to breaking in once prior and paying some tech friend to disable our security alarms. He was charged with a slew of crimes including two-counts of trespassing and violating his restraining order. So now he’s in jail, awaiting sentencing from a judge, but there’s not a chance he’ll skate by without at least a year.

Targetofficiallyneutralized.

It’s nice being back in my own clothes: red flannel over a gray tee, gold horns around my neck. But too much barbed wire lies ahead to relax.

And I have to let Jane crawl through and be torn up. I can’t move aside the painful parts anymore.

My muscles tense as I use a wooden spoon to stir thick, red sauce in a decent-sized pot, where meat has been simmering for hours. Cooking dinner for Jane is just one of the many things I love doing for her—but tonight’s dinner is going to have a side dish of hard truths.

She has a vague concept of what happened. She has no fucking clue that Banks caught a middle-aged man with his dick exposed, jacking off over her bed—or even that this bastard masturbated in his car rightoutsidethe house.

Providing the briefest, nondescript image and skimming over the full picture—that has always been our dynamic. I’ve been saving Jane from visualizing the disturbing realities of her fame.

I hate that I need to do this. I hate paintinggraphicpictures of what sick fuckbags say and do. But she can’t make an informed decision about living here withoutallof the details.

Still, this’ll hurt her.

I’mgoing to hurt her.

I strain pasta, steam billowing, and by the time I have food set on the iron café table, Jane climbs down the stairs and twists her damp hair in a bun. Just coming from the shower.

She sniffs the air and smiles brightly. “It smells like heaven.”

“You hungry?”

“Mmhmm,” Jane nods. “I’m mortadafam’.”