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Can I ever have a normal life again? Or am I already in way too deep?
Mila refills my glass, and I drink my vodka, taking comfort in the warmth the alcohol provides. “I heard you have a lovely home,” she says, steering the conversation back to safer topics, and we pass the next half-hour with polite chit-chat about home décor, and vacations, and television shows.
Finally, Nero steps out onto the patio. “We can go,” he says, giving Mila a respectful nod. “Thank you for keeping my wife entertained.”
“Of course,” Mila says with a smile. “I hope we will see you again.”
“Thank you,” I tell her, meaning it. I feel a strange and unexpected comradery with Mila, despite how short our conversation was. She’s married to this madness, just like I am now. Our circumstances are different, but we’re both connected to powerful and dangerous men. No matter what, that puts a target on our backs.
The question is, can I live with that?
We head home.Nero doesn’t say a word. He spends the journey looking deep in thought. We arrive back at the townhouse and sneak in via the back alley again. But once we’re safely inside, I can’t keep my curiosity at bay.
“So?” I asked, finally breaking the silence. “Are you going to tell me what happened?”
Nero crosses to the bar and pours himself a drink, still moving slowly and carefully after his injuries. But when he turns back around, there’s relief on his face.
“The détente is still on. Not only that, but they agreed to help me find Vance.”
“How?” I ask, surprised—and relieved. Between the FBI and Vance, we have enough enemies right now. I’m glad the Kovacks aren’t on the list.
“They’re going to offer a reward, for whoever can claim credit for killing me,” Nero says with a grim smile. “A million dollars.”
“Wow.” I exhale. “That’ll be hard for Vance resist.”
“And why would he?” Nero agrees. “The world thinks I’m dead. So, Vance will assume there’s no danger in collecting his reward.”
I have to admit, it’s a good plan. “So, what will you—”
The sound of the buzzer interrupts us. Nero freezes, and we exchange a look. “Who is it?” I ask, panicking.
He strides over to the security screen mounted on the wall and lets out a curse. “It’s your old friends,” he says, grimly. “The FBI.”
