I soaped up my hair and body and tried to analyze my feelings. I had certainly thought I had been in love before. Had talked myself into it twice, been convinced enough to accept a marriage proposal just over a year ago. But something had been wrong, wrong enough that I was able to walk from the relationships without tears or regret. True love seems as if it would be a hell of a lot harder to get over. With Brad I just knew it was real, that this was what love was really all about. I was as sure of it as I’d ever been of anything.

When I came downstairs, clean, towel-dried and dressed in a yellow skirt and white tank, Brad sat in the kitchen. His head was in his hands and he looked up at my approach. “I need to talk to you. Sit down.”

Unsure of what was coming, I grabbed an apple from the fruit basket and sat down at the large teak table, sitting cross-legged in the seat next to him.

“We need to talk about what happened last night, so you are aware of your situation, but first I need to know what you overheard Broward say, the conversation that you spoke to the police about.”

I was halfway through a big apple bite when he spoke, and I froze, the unexpected words catching me off guard. I finished the bite, chewing loudly and buying myself some time. Holy. Shit.

He continued, keeping his eyes on mine. “Since you haven’t mentioned this to me already, I’m assuming it’s because you recognized the danger that exists in that knowledge. Unfortunately, it is too late to avoid that. The implicated parties are aware of your involvement. They know who you are and where you live. They came to your home last night, presumably to kill you.”

I swallowed, a jagged piece of the fruit getting painfully stuck in my throat, my mind trying frantically to catch up with this information. “Last night. The break-in...or whatever that was.” I stopped, my mind following the evening’s events, Brad’s call, us leaving the house. “So...what happened?”

He frowned at me, his brow lined. “You got fucking lucky. I was unarmed and in the parking lot when I saw the man. By some incredible twist of fate, I knew the son of a bitch.”

“You knew him?” I stood, gripping the nearest chair, and turned to stare at Brad, my frantic eyes meeting his calm ones.

“Yes.”

I tilted my head, trying to process the billion thoughts that were fighting each other for my attention. “I’m sorry—how did you know about what I told the police?”

“The man, last night. He told me that the reason he was there, why he had been sent, was whatever you told the police.”

The police...I frowned at that information. “So, what—you just said ‘please go away’ and he did?” My voice arched and I raised my brow at him, unconvinced.

He shifted uncomfortably. “He was sent by the Magiano family. I have some connections to his boss. I delayed him.”

Magiano family. My worst fears, realized. “Delayed him. So he’s going to come back another time and kill me. Shouldn’t we be in a police station right now!” I released the chair and spun, pacing a short path in front of the table.

He laughed, a bitter, short sound. “Sure. Going to the cops worked so well for you so far. Julia, whoever you spoke to at the police station, they are just one cop on a lengthy list of dirtbags. The police cannot, or will not, protect you.” His eyes met mine, a hard stare with an edge of despair. Just enough despair to send me onto another level of panic.

“Shit! Then what? I wait around to get whacked?” My heart felt as if it were going to come out of my chest and I stopped pacing, leaning on the table and focusing on breathing. Magiano. The biggest crime family within a thousand miles. What the fuck was I thinking?

He stood, his strong hands gripping my shoulder and turning me to face him. I looked up, into his face, stress lining the beautiful lines of it. “Julia. Calm down. I have connections. Let me find out how fucked we are. Go to Martha’s. Tell her something has happened, and you need to stay up there for a bit. I’ll call my contact at the police, then check on a few things, see what I can find out.”

“Why do I need to go to Martha’s? Can’t I just stay here?”

His hand fell from my shoulder and he studied me with his eyes. “I just dropped a whole lot on you. I’d rather you not be alone, have someone to talk to if need be.”

“In case I flip the fuck out?”

His mouth twitched, and he chuckled once before the hard look returned, taking over his face. “Yeah. Or in case you decide to run. Which, I can tell you right now, is a bad idea. The safest place for you right now is on my property.” The authoritative tone, one that would normally cause my hands to clench and my voice to rise, was somehow comforting, and I leaned on its strength. I dreaded the thought of spending any time with Martha, but I nodded, my eyes searching his, looking for reassurance, confidence. I found only grim determination and steely resolve.

“Fine,” I said, turning on my heel and throwing open the back door. I pounded up the stairs to her carriage house apartment, my shoes making a racket on her iron stairs, my panic growing with every step I climbed. She opened the door with an irritated expression before I even knocked, a small thermos bag in her hand and her purse over her shoulder. Her mouth was open, a smart-ass comment ready, when she saw my face. She paused, her eyes narrowing; then she opened the door wider.

“Aw, hell,” she said, her big shoulders slumping and her purse hitting the floor with a thud. “Let me guess, that man got himself in trouble.” She gestured with a hand. “Come on in.”

Martha’s apartment consisted of a small living room, a galley kitchen and two bedrooms. The furniture was functional, the space tidy and sparkling clean. I looked around but saw no family photos, nothing to give me a sense of the woman in front of me. She moved past, closing the bedroom doors with a look that told me to mind my own business, then ushered me to the couch.

She sat across from me in silence, the two of us studying each other for a moment. Her expression was wary, examining me with a look that resembled motherly concern. She pursed her lips and then spoke.

“You eaten?”

The words were so unexpected that I laughed, a welcome emotion. My eyes threatened to water and I blinked back the tears, shaking my head at her. She stood, briskly moving to the kitchen, having bacon and eggs sizzling in minutes. I leaned back on the couch, trying to process my current situation. My mind meandered down different paths, all which ended at similar dead ends—me, deceased, my funeral sparsely attended. Running seemed to be the best course of action.

I turned, wanting something, anything to distract me. Martha stood at the stove, flipping bacon. She seemed relaxed, a calming presence in my new state of anxiety. “Have you worked for Brad long?” I asked. Silently, she went to the fridge, bending over and pulling out a carton of orange juice. I almost repeated the question, but she answered while pouring us both a glass.

“Honey, I been working for Brad since he was twenty-six, but I’ve known the boy since he was a teenager. I worked for his father before him.” She brought the two glasses to the coffee table and slid one to me, setting the other in front of a recliner. I pushed off the blanket and stood, following her to the kitchen. She fixed two plates, passing me one, and we took our food back to the living room, sitting back down. It was weird to be sitting this close to Martha, in her apartment. She was a lot less scary up here, but that was probably thanks to my meek demeanor. The other morning I had been all bitchy attitude. Now I was a scared Chihuahua. A Chihuahua that was incredibly grateful for her kindness, especially given our volatile history.