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In my experience, women who take enormous risks to wage war against monsters—women like my mother—are dead. They leave behind a trail of broken hearts, littering a river of tears and loved ones who never fully recover from the loss.
Lexie might not take the kind of risks that my mother, her sister, and their friends took, and she doesn’t share a drop of blood with them, but she’s cut from the same cloth. The very same.
“Don’t worry. I don’t get involved with reckless women.”
“I’ve met some of the women you’ve taken home. Although I suppose too stupid to live isn’t the same as reckless. But I do know this, Rafael. You can’t resist a woman who needs to be rescued. My warning stands. Be careful. Be the good guy I know you are.”
Too late for that. “Reading tea leaves isn’t a very lucrative profession, menina. Given how much you like designer shoes, I’d stick to Port if I were you. Where’s your husband, anyway?”
“Quimper.”
“Quimper? What the hell’s he doing in the north of France?” While you’re alone in the US.
“Closing a deal for a client who’s investing in pottery.”
“When did pottery become art?”
“Don’t take that tone with me. I’m not talking about the bowls you slurp your breakfast from,” she scoffs. “They make some exquisite pieces in Quimper. Collector’s items.”
Collector’s items. Maybe he can pick up a few heavy plates to toss at some bastard’s head who gets too close to her. God knows a knife would make him squeamish.
My phone vibrates with a message from Zé.
Molotov cocktail tossed at the front entrance of Sirena. No injuries. I’m here.
A Molotov cocktail? What the hell? Retaliation came sooner than I expected.
“I’ve got to go, Valentina. Call Lexie, and then come home.”
18
RAFAEL
“What the fuck happened?” I snarl, while Zé’s still grunting “yeah” into the phone.
“Some asshole threw a Molotov cocktail at the building. It bounced off a window in the area where guests will be waiting in line tonight.”
“You sure no one was hurt?”
“The street was empty—except for whoever tossed the goddamn thing.”
We were lucky. If it had happened in the evening, dozens of innocent people could have been injured—or worse. “How much damage?”
“Everything under the portico is gone. Security cameras—everything. The awning’s gone too. But because the thing bounced off the bulletproof window, the brick front didn’t sustain any damage. Maybe some soot. That’s it. Xavier says the front will be patched up before the doors open.”
“You agree?”
“The entrance won’t be covered, but it’s not supposed to rain tonight. Otherwise, I think it’ll be fine. They’re already working on it.”
“Did the police show up?”
“I called the station before I texted you. Told them one of our heaters malfunctioned and there was an explosion. They asked if anyone was injured, and I told them no. They offered help if we needed it, and I thanked them.”
“Good.” The police don’t really bother us, but it’s always less of a hassle if they’re not involved at all.
“The fire alarm went off, too, but Xavier took care of it.”
“Someone was sending a message. If they wanted to incur maximum damage, they would have waited until eleven o’clock tonight when the line was snaked around the block.” The thought of bodies piled up in front of the club—a place that’s been a little oasis since I bought it—makes me sick.
