Page 73 of His Holy Chaos

Carlos looks at me. And what I see in his eyes is not anger. It's excitement. He can't wait to hurt me.

His hand closes on the collar of my jacket. The denim bunches in his fist, the seams straining, and I hear the fabric tear. He yanks me forward and my feet leave the ground for a fraction of a second, the world tilting, my balance gone, my face suddenly too close to his. His other hand rises, the fist cocked back.

Time does the thing it does in these moments. It stretches. It gives me one long second to see the fist and understand what's coming and feel not fear but the furious certainty that I would do this again, every time, for Alfie.

Then: headlights. The screech of tires.

Ford's car. Ford's door opening. Ford. His raw authority, his dark eyes fixed on Carlos. He doesn't look like himself. He looks dangerous.

He reaches us. His hand closes around Carlos's wrist where it grips my collar. The contact is not violent. It's worse than violent. It's controlled. Carlos's grip loosens. Not because he wants to let go, but because he's shocked. I can see the confusion on his face. He has no idea who Ford is.

Ford steps between us. He faces Carlos, and there's barely any height difference. But the difference in everything else is vast. Ford carries the absolute authority of a man who has never once needed to raise his voice to be obeyed. And Carlos, for the first time, looks small.

"You have exactly one chance to leave," Ford says, and his voice is low and even. He's not afraid of Carlos. Not one bit. "Or I make a call, and you spend tonight in a cell. For starters. Then you'll spend considerably more time."

Carlos's face changes. The standoff lasts three seconds. Five. An eternity compressed into a handful of heartbeats. Then Carlos steps back. His hands drop to his sides.

"This isn't over," he says, the words aimed past Ford at Alfie, at me, at everyone except the man standing directly in front of him, because he's not brave enough to look at Ford.

Ford doesn't respond. He doesn't need to.

Carlos turns and walks into the dark. His silhouette shrinks under the streetlights, and the night swallows him.

I feel my knees going weak, but I won't fall. Not while Carlos could still come back.

Ford's hand finds the small of my back and guides us through Alfie's front door with firm, steady pressure. Alfie enters first, his movements jerky and disconnected, the autopilot of a body running on fumes. I follow, and Ford comes last, and he closes the door.

Alfie's living room is small and warm. Books stacked everywhere, a guitar propped against the wall, racks of tailored clothes, a single lamp that throws amber light across a worn green couch. The space smells like coffee and leather conditioner.

Ford moves through the space without asking permission. He checks the kitchen window: closed, latched. The back door: locked, the chain engaged. Alfie is beside me. He's leaning against me and I hold him with one arm.

Then the holding breaks.

It happens to both of us simultaneously. Alfie's first sob arrives at the same moment my vision blurs, and then we're gripping each other. His face presses into my shoulder, and I feel the heat of his tears through my jacket, the torn jacket. I'm crying. The tears are hot and fast and taste like salt and terror. We're a mess.

Ford finishes his perimeter check. He stands at the edge of the room for a moment. He finds a blanket, directs us to the couch. We sit, still crying, and he drapes the blanket over both of us without a word. Then his hand rests on my head, briefly. A benediction. I'm here. And then he's moving toward the kitchen, giving us the space.

His voice carries through the doorway. The boardroom frequency. I can't make out the words. He makes three calls. Maybe four. Each one brief, final.

By the time he returns, Alfie and I have reached the other side of the collapse. The tears have subsided into the particular exhaustion that follows them. Alfie's head is on my shoulder, his eyes red but open, his breathing finally returned to something resembling normal. My hand is in his hair, combing through it absently.

Ford stands in the doorway.

"I have contacts in law enforcement," he says. His voice is steady and warm and does not apologize for what it's about to reveal. "Carlos has outstanding warrants. Two, at minimum. Violations of a previous protective order and failure to appear. By morning, he'll be picked up. I've also arranged for additional monitoring of this address and yours." He looks at Alfie directly. "He won't come near either of you again."

Alfie looks at Ford. For a long moment, he doesn't speak. Then he nods. "Thank you," he whispers.

"You're welcome, sweetheart," Ford says, and I can hear it. The same protectiveness he has for me, extended now to the person I love most.

"I'll make tea," Alfie says. He walks to the kitchen, and I hear the tap run, the kettle fill, the click of the burner.

Ford sits beside me on the couch. He pulls me against him and kisses my head. We don't speak.

Alfie comes back and sets the tea on the coffee table. Chamomile for me, black for Ford, something green for himself. Ford's thumb keeps circling my back. We drink in silence.

Chapter 32. Ford

By morning, Carlos will be a problem with a case number. By next week, he'll be a problem behind bars.