White Knight (Dirty Mafia Duet, #2)(15)

He offered to let me do the investigation as part of my role at the network, but when I declined, he didn’t push the issue. Probably because he knew that this wasn’t for public consumption, and I would never exploit what happened to my father for the sake of ratings. Besides, if I was right and my father died because he’d dug too deep into the dark recesses of the mob and paid the price with his life, nobody at the station would have been safe.

This is for me and the justice I need. I won’t let a personal quest cost another life.

“Jim and I had an agreement, and what’s more, it was a confidential one. Sandra shouldn’t be saying anything about it.”

The server keeps glancing in our direction but stays away from the table, like he’d rather not interact with my stepmother either. Smart guy.

My stepmother releases an exasperated sigh and maneuvers a snail off the serving dish and onto her plate with not-so-nimble grace. “Well, maybe I wouldn’t have to go around asking for updates from my friends if you would answer your phone and tell me what’s going on.”

If I thought the woman across from me actually cared about anything I had to say, I might have told her more, but I’ve learned over the years that our interests don’t overlap.

Maybe after all these years, it’s time to search for relatives of my biological mother. My father told me she loved me dearly and passed away when I was four, and out of respect for Cynthia, he would prefer we not talk about her. While my instinct was to rebel against everything my stepmother told me, I followed my father’s instructions like they came straight from the gospel.

I don’t know why I didn’t think more about her after . . . after what happened to my father. Probably because my sole focus in life since getting the call I never wanted to receive has been finding the truth and then gaining justice for him.

As my stepmother blathers on about her next snail being too rubbery or too salty, and how can this possibly be a Michelin-starred restaurant with such terrible service because I finished my glass of wine three minutes ago and no one has come to refill it, I zone out.

At least, I zone out until I overhear an unmistakable voice—Randi Brown’s voice—from just beyond my stepmother, telling her date she’s ready to get the hell out of here.

I stare over my stepmother’s shoulder at Randi as her gaze zeroes in on me and she stops in midstep. What feels like every drop of blood drains from my face as we make eye contact.

I’m wearing Memphis Lockwood reporter-on-the-air persona tonight. No one should recognize me as Drew, but the hair on the back of my neck lifts at the way Randi is staring. It’s like she sees right through me.

And right next to her . . . is GTR Rossetti.

Oh Jesus Christ. Oh Jesus Christ. Please don’t say anything, Randi. Please don’t say anything.

“Why the fuck are you stopping?” GTR asks her, pushing Randi along to get her moving again.

Randi rips her gaze from mine and locks arms with GTR. “Because I’m waiting for you, bad boy. Come on.”

Before I can duck my head and pray she didn’t just recognize me, my stepmother turns around and snaps her fingers in the air, rudely summoning the server who finally dares to come two steps closer.

“I need a refill. Right now.” She shakes her head and turns back to me. “Next time, Memphis, you’re taking me somewhere nice.”

My name rings in the air in my stepmother’s tone of eternal disappointment, and there’s no way Randi can miss it. She does a double take, her eyes narrowed on me in a quick glance over her shoulder as she leaves the restaurant.

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck. I have to tell Cannon. Now.

While my stepmother places her order for a dish that’s not even on the menu, I pull out my phone and tap out a quick text.



Me: I’m at L’Atelier and GTR and Randi were here together. Randi looked at me too hard as they were leaving. Like she recognized me. My mom used my real name in front of her. Help.



As I type the words, I realize that I’m fucked. What if Randi says something to GTR about thinking she saw someone who reminded her of me? How long could something like that possibly take to make its way back to Dom? And if it gets back to Dom . . .

I remember the icy feeling of terror that suffocated me at the construction site when I thought he was coming to kill me because he’d found out my real identity. It’s rising in me now, and my fingers curl into my cloth napkin while I grip the phone tightly with the other hand.

My leg bounces to dispel the nervous energy.

My stepmother corrects the server about whatever.

My breathing quickens as, once again, a very real threat settles into the pit of my stomach.

I pray to God my cell buzzes with a response that tells me Cannon is coming to the rescue. He said we were in this together, and I hope he knows what to do.

Which is when I realize that I’ve never relied on a man other than my father to come to my rescue. That’s big. Huge.

And I hope it doesn’t cause us to end up dead.

Mommy Dearest taps her fork against my crystal wineglass, jolting me back to the moment. “Memphis? Are you going to order? We’re waiting on you.”

I lift the corners of my mouth into a fake smile that I’m sick of wearing. I’m tired of hiding. Being in disguise. Not being able to show how I feel.

It’s time for a change. It’s time to just be me.