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Alaric leaned backwards, swallowing audibly. “Sir, I’ve worked for you for years. I live in the building. This is my home. I don’t need more money. And I don’t have anything I could be threatened with. No kids. No significant other.”
“Right,” Roman grunted. He didn’t know whether to believe the older man or not. And that was a hard pill to swallow. Since when did he not trust his instincts? Since when couldn’t he read people? Moving on, he questioned the three bodyguards. “What do you three have to say for yourselves?”
“What is this about?” Maddock asked, not answering the question.
Abel got up in the other man’s grill. “This is about someone sharing personal information about Angela.”
“Angel? Is she okay?” Maddock asked with a worried frown.
Roman had to give the man credit—he looked genuinely concerned for Angel. In fact, all of them did. He wasn’t really surprised. She had a way about her. Most people loved her. “She’s fine. But somehow my uncle knows she’s moving in. Not even twenty-four hours after the fact. Who did you tell?”
Roman watched the men closely as they all denied telling anyone. Other than Alaric, that was. “What the fuck did you do?” Roman demanded.
“I didn’t know I wasn’t supposed to tell anyone. I didn’t know it was a secret,” Alaric tried to explain, looking pale.
“Is that right? Tell me, since when do you share my business, Alaric? Everything I do is a damn secret!” Roman finished on a yell.
Alaric was nearing fifty and wasn’t the fittest man. He stumbled back a few steps in the face of Roman’s anger. “I don’t. I swear. I only told the security personnel—like the guards on the doors and in the foyer. That’s standard procedure anytime someone moves in. Dr. Hawthorne already has access and passes, I know. But I figured security still needed to know about the change. I’m sorry, sir.”
Roman swore, stepping back and giving the other man some space. It was standard procedure.
“How?” Salvatore questioned. “How did you let them know?”
“An email was sent.” Teague was the one to answer, then he patted his colleague on the back, meeting Roman’s eyes. “Fully encrypted. All usual measures were taken to keep it private. It only went to fully vetted employees. It’s protocol.”
“I’m sorry, sir,” Alaric said, wringing his hands. “I didn’t know it was a secret.”
“Shit,” was all Roman could say.
“We’ll get Luca to look over the email. He can go through the recipients and also see if the system was hacked,” Sal said helpfully.
Roman nodded but said, “He’d already know that by now if it was. He has alerts in place for that type of thing.”
“I know,” Sal agreed. “But what choice do we have? It could be anyone.”
“It could be anyone,” Roman repeated. “And the Foreman could be anywhere. I want blood, and I want it now,” he growled. “You five, I want you to watch and listen. Come to me if you get even a whiff of something rotten under my roof. Understand?”
All five men readily agreed, and Roman dismissed them with a wave of his hand. When he was alone with Sal, Abel, and Morrigan, he allowed his shoulders to slump. He was feeling defeated. And it was unpleasant. Especially when he still had to inform Angel that his trip to New York was back on.
CHAPTER FIFTEEN
That evening, Angela listened as Roman outlined his phone call with his uncle. She wasn’t surprised to learn that the other man wasn’t willing to help. But the implications had her pushing her half-eaten plate away.
The eight of them were in Roman’s—and her—apartment, having ordered Chinese home delivery. It was a comfort food, and she could tell they were all in need of a little comfort. Though, thinking of the huge fifty-ninth-floor apartment as hers was going to take some getting used to.
“I can do it myself.”
Angela looked over just in time to see Abel get his hand whacked with the back of a fork. He yelped, clutching it to his chest. Angela did her best not to laugh. Besides, she thought he had gotten off easy. If he tried to feed her the same way he tried to do with Claire, she would have used the pointy side of the fork, and he’d be bleeding.
“I’m just trying to help,” Abel grumbled over the collective snickering at the table. “Rice is hard to eat with one hand.”
“Really? How many hands do you usually use to eat rice?” Claire shot back. “Besides, my left arm is broken, not my right. I can lift a fork just fine.”
“Then how come there’s as much food on the ground as you’ve put in your mouth?” Abel accused, gesturing to where Mario and Luigi were busily eating the dropped food.
“Because you keep distracting me!” Claire shouted. “You just tried to airplane feed me, Abel. Airplane!”
“Yeah, dude. You made the noises and everything,” Luca added, mimicking Abel.
