Not Mine to Keep: Chapter 13

Rome, Italy

“Why the hell haven’t you messaged yet?” Irritated, I about launched my phone out the open balcony door inside my hotel room. It was the tenth time I’d felt some strange and uncomfortable pit of disappointment in my stomach when looking at my phone and seeing no text from her.

Had I not been clear enough that I wanted to hear from her? Like every hour on the fucking hour?

Could I call her? Text her? Sure. But I’d never had to follow up with a woman before and wasn’t in the mood to start. Hell, the only women I checked in on happened to share my blood.

I reread the last few messages I’d exchanged with Gabriel, reminding myself he had her six. He’d told me she was safe in her bedroom and just fine—fine enough not to feel the need to check in with me, dammit.

I went outside to the balcony, catching sight of the afternoon sun unobscured by clouds, pouring light down over Fontana dell’Acqua Felice, also known as the Fountain of Moses. Felice. Luck. I could use some of that today.

Enzo, Izzy, and Hudson were caught in traffic and running late, so I was on edge for that reason, too. Well, that was what I was trying to tell myself as to why I was so anxious.

I looked at my phone again, feeling like it was a ticking time bomb and maybe I had to bite the bullet and message first. To not take a criminal’s word she was fine.

Me: Are you okay?

The relief I felt at her instant response, and the fact I knew it was her and not someone else pretending to be her just by how she’d answered, had me hanging my head for a second.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Define “okay.”

Not sure why I’d gone with that contact name, but it bothered me to type in Callie when that was what everyone called her. Everyone except Braden.

Me: Alive. Untouched. Hydrated.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Hydrated? (that’s cute). Well, I’m hiding in my room currently, so I’m safe. But now that you mention it, a little thirsty. No appetite, though.

Me: Yeah, I’m not exactly hungry, either. But you should eat. (And hydrate.)

No clue why I decided to copy her and throw in some parentheses in my text back, but I wasn’t exactly acting like myself. Hence the borderline panic attack at waiting on someone to text me.

Also, that was probably the first time the word cute had been tossed my way for any reason.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Why aren’t you hungry? You need your strength to do . . . “the thing” tomorrow.

“On to quotation marks now, huh?” And now I was talking to myself. Enzo and Izzy would have a field day with this. My balls would be on the chopping block.

Me: I’ll be sure to load up on food tomorrow before “the thing.”

And now I was smiling while discussing murdering the head of a crime family.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: For a songwriter, I have a way with words, don’t I? “The thing” sounds like the perfect song title.

Damn, my smile stretched to the point my cheeks fucking hurt. I need help.

Me: You write, too? I didn’t realize.

I went back inside the room and dropped down on the bed, the agonizing pain that’d planted roots in my chest dissipating now that I was in touch with her.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: I did before I found out I was the spawn of Satan. Writer’s block now.

Me: Sorry on both accounts. Being Satan’s daughter and the writing issue.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: There’s that sweet side of you again.

Before I could figure out what to say to that, she sent me a few more messages.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Gabriel showed me a live video of Aunt Tia to let me know she’s living her best life and okay. But the fact Armani has eyes (and a camera) on her has me in knots. (But oddly, somehow more at ease knowing I can see her at any time for proof of life, too.)

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Gabriel is too nice to be bad.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Does that make sense?

Me: Total sense.

I considered whether to keep the conversation going or to stop it now. I knew she was safe, so mission accomplished. No sense in talking. But maybe I should reassure her everything would be fine?

Me: Your aunt will be okay. My family will make sure of that.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: That bit of knowledge is what’s keeping me from losing my mind with worry. I just hate that you have to do what you’re going to do tomorrow because of my mess.

Me: A mess would imply you got yourself into something and need a bailout. You were born into this. Not your fault. And helping people and taking down assholes is what I do. What my family does. It’s no problem.

Well, that wasn’t the total truth. There were quite a few fucking problems happening. Marriage as part of my mission was up there as one of them. High-high up there.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: And if Armani’s lying about the Esposito family working with my guard to try and kill me? Do you think maybe he’s just trying to . . . find an excuse for you to take out his competition?

The thought had crossed my mind, but if Armani wanted war with the Espositos, he could have attacked them long ago. Plus, I knew Gabriel wouldn’t send me on a kill mission if he didn’t believe the Espositos were responsible. (Even if he was a criminal.)

Fuck, now I’m thinking with parentheses.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Sorry, I’m sure you would’ve brought that up if you’d thought it was possible.

Me: I do think the head of the Esposito crime family’s responsible for the attack in the park. But it wouldn’t matter either way. Armani wants him dead, and I have to do it. Part of the job.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Job? Right. I’m a job for you.

Maybe our new “security company” needed some sensitivity training, because I’d fumbled the ball there. Forgot to be sweet or cute. Then again, being nice might . . . complicate things.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: And these Espositos really deserve to die?

Me: Your father may be more powerful than them, but the Espositos make Armani look like a gentleman in terms of their tactics to achieve their goals. They have no moral code whatsoever.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: I guess that should make me feel better about you doing “the thing” tomorrow.

Me: Try not to think about it.

She’d already seen me kill three people; no sense in her having nightmares about me killing more.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Okay . . .

Me: Not very convincing that you’re “okay.”

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: I can sing. Not act.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Oh, and shit, I forgot to tell you.

I’d swear it was as if we were talking over the phone instead of texting right now. I could hear her sexy accent, and every little inflection came through her tone with each word sent.

Me: Forgot to tell me what?

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: A friend found out I called in sick today at work. Dropped by with soup. Mr. Crabby (did I ever tell you that’s his real name?) told him I left with some guy that “looks too good for his own good.”

All I could focus on was the word him. Who was the “him” who had “dropped by” to see her when he found out she wasn’t in school?

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: I’m telling you this because now he’s worried, and he keeps calling and texting. He’s concerned I was kidnapped. What do I do? Do I answer? Text him back?

What was this ridiculous need to want to tell her that the “him” in question didn’t need to worry about her, because she wasn’t his to worry about? You’re . . . I let that unfinished thought go. Because she wasn’t mine. Not in the real sense. Never would be.

Me: Who?

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Remember the guy you met at the bar at the event? Bartender I jam with from time to time.

Of-fucking-course.

Me: How could I forget . . . ?

Me: Told you he wants to be more than friends.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Why do you sound jealous?

Me: I can’t sound anything. We’re texting.

Apparently, she could hear my voice through text, too. But jealous?

Me: And I don’t “do” jealous. Not even sure how that feels.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: I guess I believe you considering your reputation.

My reputation was what it was for a reason. I didn’t want anyone getting the idea I’d fall in love. No heart to give. No fucks, either.

And there I was, feeling like I was giving one. Well, a fuck, at least. But it was to keep her safe, because she was clearly a decent human being.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: So what do I do?

Me: Text him back so he doesn’t report you as missing. Send him a happy photo with the backdrop in Italy, letting him know you’re playing hooky because you decided to make an impromptu trip to visit family. If he pushes for a call, make it quick.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: He’ll never believe that.

Me: Fine, tell him the partial truth. I swept you off your feet after the fundraiser and took you to Italy for a trip.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: . . . You can’t be serious. Braden will lose his mind.

Me: Yeah, Braden’s going to lose something if he doesn’t back off.

“Fuck.” I backspaced each word before sending the text and typed something more appropriate.

Me: Just figure out something to tell him so he doesn’t call the cops.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Roger that.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Sorry, I think Braden’s military talk has rubbed off on me. What I meant is, I’ll think of something to say and handle it.

I closed my eyes and took a calming breath or two before I barked out some crazy commands about not wanting Braden’s “anything” to “rub” anywhere on my future wife.

Before I could come up with something less psychopathic to say, or God help me, jealous, my phone rang.

It was an unfamiliar number coming from Sicily.

Me: I have to go. Be in touch. And don’t forget to hydrate.

And to tell the marine to fuck off.

Little Miss Tennessee Whiskey: Be safe.

Me: Always.

“This is Alessandro Costa,” I answered the call, assuming it was Emilia Calibrisi and not Marcello or one of Armani’s men. “Emilia, that you?”

“Sì, and I had an interesting meeting with your father.” She cut right to it. Good. I preferred that over small talk. “He let me know about your precarious situation.”

Precarious is one way of putting it. According to the conversation with my father when I’d arrived in Rome, he’d told me she was on board with the plan. “I appreciate your help with what we’re asking you to do. It’s a big ask, but it’s to save a life and—”

“And a chance to get Rocco Barone,” she finished for me. “Only I have a condition. One of Claudio Barone’s rockets took out a village in Egypt three months ago, and a lot of innocent people were killed. We’ve been searching for him ever since. Claudio Barone is our mark.”

“Just Rocco’s father?” I tensed as I waited for her to answer because Rocco was mine. His head. On a motherfucking platter.

“You can accompany my team on the mission to intercept the Barone family, and we’ll give you first rights to kill Rocco. But Claudio . . . We’ll handle him. This is non-negotiable.”

Technically, Claudio Barone had been our target four years ago. Sent after him by the US government. And we’d failed when Rocco got his hands on Constantine instead. I hated leaving a mission incomplete, even if we no longer answered to the government, but I supposed a win was a win. If The League killed him, it’d still be mission success.

“Deal,” I rasped. “I assume you’re already aware of the fact I’m in Rome and what Armani DiMaggio wants me to do in order to have a shot at marrying his daughter?”

“Sì. And my husband, Sean, and my most trusted friend in The League, Sebastian Renaud, will have your back tomorrow to assist. I’d come myself, but I’m six months pregnant.”

“I didn’t know. Congratulations.”

“Grazie.” She didn’t waste time getting back to business. The woman was harder than I was. Damn. “You obviously can’t get an invite to Esposito’s party tomorrow as a Costa, so Sebastian is working on ways to get everyone in. New identities for you and your siblings. My husband has your number. He’ll be in touch later.”

“Thank you. I’m forever indebted to you.”

“Consider your debt paid when Claudio Barone is dead.” The woman of few words hung up without any pleasantries, which was fine by me. As long as we had the support of The League, that was all that mattered.

I set aside my phone when I heard a knock coming from the living room of the suite. By the time I reached the door, my sister had already yelled out, “It’s us.”

I swung it open and immediately bowed my head at the sight of Constantine in the hall, too.

“It wasn’t me. Blame Dad. He told him.” Izzy was quick to defend herself.

Constantine quietly barreled around me. A man on a mission.

“You could’ve given me a warning,” I mumbled while stepping back to allow more space for Enzo and Hudson, carrying the bags, to come in.

“He was adamant about us keeping our mouths shut,” Enzo said as I closed the door.

“Like Dad was supposed to do.” I faced the room and folded my arms, waiting for Constantine to start his lecture.

“You invited Izzy but not me. I can’t believe you tried to keep this a secret,” Constantine began, earning him the side-eye from Izzy.

“What does that mean?” Izzy aligned herself beside me at his borderline insult. “Just because I’ve never killed anyone doesn’t mean—”

“And you never will,” Constantine barked out, stabbing a finger her way.

I was on the same page there as he. The last thing I wanted was my little sister to know what it felt like to take a life. My brothers and I were numb to death now, and it was a fucked-up feeling that no amount of therapy could help me push through. Not that I could tell my therapist about the lives I’d taken outside the army.

“You’re too overprotective for your own good.” Izzy went over to the bar, snatched a bottle of wine, and began to uncork it.

“No, I’m the exact right amount of overprotective,” Constantine fired back as Hudson quietly moved the bags over by the couch.

Enzo dropped down on the lounge chair and gripped the back of his neck, his eyes red with exhaustion. “Dad wanted us all here for you.”

And now I was feeling guilty that Enzo had come. He should’ve been back home with his pregnant wife and daughter.

Constantine tossed his suit jacket on the couch and began working his sleeves to the elbows, taking out more of his anger on his custom-fitted shirt. “It should be me. You should’ve told me. I should be the one—”

“Marrying Calliope?” Calliope. Yup, out came that name. Smooth, like fucking butter.

“You shouldn’t be the one sacrificing yourself to get to Rocco.” Constantine slammed a palm over his heart. “It should be me.”

“Are you sure we can even trust Gabriel?” Enzo spoke up before I could shut down the ridiculousness of my older brother’s words. “He’s mafioso.”

Like I needed the reminder. “And if it wasn’t for him, I’d be dead. Constantine, too,” I snapped out, forgetting this information hadn’t been common knowledge. I hadn’t wanted my brothers knowing I was indebted to a criminal and why. I didn’t need Constantine shouldering more guilt. He already did his best to carry the weight of our problems like he was our father.

Hudson was the only one I’d shared bits and pieces to about Gabriel, and he’d given me his word he wouldn’t repeat what I’d said. So based on Constantine’s and Enzo’s shocked looks, I had a feeling Hudson hadn’t opened his mouth.

“I’m sorry, what?” It was Izzy to pipe up first, a glass of red in hand.

I shoved my hands into my pockets, trying to remain grounded. Calm. “After Gabriel took out a sniper seconds away from killing me on our mission to get the Barones four years ago, he helped find out where Rocco was keeping Constantine. If it wasn’t for him, Dad never would’ve been able to negotiate your release with Claudio Barone.” Rocco would’ve finished you. And I’d be without two siblings.

“Why’d he do that?” Izzy whispered. “Gabriel chose the dark side. How’d he get involved in your mission for Uncle Sam? Why help?”

“I’m sure he had his own motives, as he does now.” Not that he’d revealed them back then when I’d pressed. Enzo steadied his eyes on me, as if worried I was misplacing my trust and faith in a criminal. Maybe I am? “Lesser of two evils in this case after Armani dies.” The theme of this fucking mission. And it was starting to feel like the theme of my life.

“If we’re going through with the plan tomorrow, and this insanity that you plotted behind my back to marry Armani’s daughter,” Constantine began, heading for the bar, “then no more secrets. Are we clear?” He filled three glasses with Macallan and turned toward us.

“Crystal,” I remarked in a low tone while accepting what felt like a peace offering from him, and I tossed back the whisky like it was a shot.

“You’re sure Rocco Barone is really in the mix?” Enzo stood, took the tumbler, and swirled the liquid around. “What if Gabriel’s using him as bait to draw you into his plan, knowing you couldn’t resist the chance to get to Rocco?”

“I guess we’ll soon find out if I’m a horrible judge of character or not,” I said under my breath, then refilled my glass. Two fingers of whisky instead of the one Constantine had poured.

“Yeah, well, I’d like to work on more than just gut instinct and the ‘we’ll find out’ approach.” Constantine set his eyes on Hudson. “After this op ends tomorrow, do a deep dive into Gabriel’s background. I want to know everything he’s been up to in the last four years since he supposedly saved our lives.”

Hudson nodded, then focused my way with an apologetic shrug. Maybe Constantine was right, though. I’d been worried my brother wouldn’t be able to think clearly with Rocco in the mix, and I was the one thrown off instead.

“You’re seriously going to marry this woman?” Constantine asked me.

The idea of marriage had my throat constricting. Body growing tense. “I don’t have a choice.”

“There’s always a choice,” Constantine said, his tone less vinegar this time. “Say the word, and we find another way to protect her. And if Rocco’s really in the picture, we’ll get to him, too.” My confident and rock-steady big brother was showing his true self right now. There was a reason he was often in charge of our ops: aside from being the eldest—along with having the most experience in war, apart from Hudson—it was his ability to remain objective.

I should’ve trusted him from the beginning with the truth about the call from Gabriel. Maybe it was me who’d lose my cool if in the same room with Rocco.

“No.” My shoulders collapsed. “Calliope’s mine.” I blinked at the realization of what I’d said instead of what I’d meant to say. “My responsibility.” I cleared my throat and faced the room. “That’s what I meant.”

Izzy exchanged a look with the ever-quiet Hudson for whatever reason before finding my eyes, a slight smirk touching her lips. “Sure you did.” Then, damn her, she winked.