Page 50 of The Silent Hour

My body stiffened immediately. I knew that tone. "Something happened?"

"Nothing happened with me," he stressed, and the distinction made my attention sharpen. "I ran into her when I was leaving. She knew what time I normally leave the office."

My brows pulled together. "That isn’t too unusual, is it?"

“Not really. We ran into one another on my way out. She said she hadn't intended to upset you and offered to apologize."

"How gracious."

"I told her not to approach you."

That surprised me. "You did?"

"Yes. Because you don't need an apology from her, and I'm not giving her another excuse to insert herself into our personal lives. You know I have firm boundaries between business and pleasure."

That settled some of the irritation lingering beneath my skin. Ethan stared toward the dark television for a moment before continuing.

“There is something else we need to discuss.”

My hands rose to his face, my thumbs brushing slowly along his jaw. "Hey."

His eyes found mine.

"What else has that mind spinning? The potential client you mentioned?"

His hands came up and covered mine, holding them against his face like he needed the anchor.

"Potential," he corrected quietly.

Something in his tone made my stomach dip. "Who?"

"Dominic Cortez."

I knew that name and I knew he was in deep shit. I hadn’t cared enough to look into what. I waited for him to continue. "He's being held at Coleman."

"What's he facing?"

"Racketeering. Narcotics trafficking. Four homicides tied to his organization, although the government hasn't connected them directly to him yet. Then there's the laundering. Offshore accounts. Shell corporations. Money moving through churches, charities, foundations. The works."

His voice had shifted, the timbre sharpening like metal drawn across a whetstone. There it was—the same cutting edge that flickered to life whenever Ethan began arranging a chessboard of facts and figures inside his mind.

“He’s got enough stacked against him to bury him twice over,” he explained, tone low and as he settled deeper into the velvet cushions of our sofa. “Which is probably why his son and grandfather came to see me earlier. They want us on it—me, Knox, Rafa.”

I glanced up from the coffee table, where a single lamp cast a warm pool of light across scattered case files. “Why isn’t his current attorney handling it?”

Ethan shrugged, his broad shoulder brushing against mine. “Exactly my question. Cortez already has solid counsel in place. Something went sideways.”

“This wasn’t a quick takedown, either,” I replied, leaning forward, the fabric of my sweater soft under my fingertips.

“No.” He paused, eyes narrowing as though replaying years of evidence in his head.

“This has been building for years. Agents living under false identities. Informants in every port. Handed-off recordings in deserted parking garages at 2 a.m. Financial analysts threading blood money through spreadsheets until each dollar sprouts a family tree.”

He reached out, his fingertips tangling gently in my hair. The warmth of him grounded me, even as his words sketched a map of danger. “If they’ve got him where they do,” he murmured, voice hushed but unwavering, “someone spent years threading a hundred tiny needles to get him here.”

I watched the familiar fire in my husband’s eyes. That restless hunger. Not for payoff—rarely for the money, at least, but for the lock that needed picking, the code that needed cracking.

“Say the word, and I walk away,” he offered, his voice a rough promise in the hush of our living room.