I wait until my wife has shuffled into the attached bathroom before I open the door.
Dom is leaned against the wall across the hallway. He lifts his hands for a slow clap. “Impressive.”
I don’t know if he’s talking about coming twice in a row or about fucking my runaway wife in general, but either way, I feel myself bristle.
Not rising to the bait, I close the door behind me with a click and cross my arms. Because there’s no way I’m walking away first to leave this man between me and Savannah while she’s changing.
Dom smirks, but doesn’t say more as he pushes off the wall and walks ahead of me toward the main level.
I follow him down to the kitchen, waiting to speak until we’re standing at the large concrete island. “Nero check in?”
I’m still not sure if I should tell Savannah about Hans being spotted at the motel she picked. I don’t know if I want to tell her about Hans at all.
I want her to be informed, but I don’t want her terrified. Plus, what we actually do know about the man is so minimal it’d be funny if it wasn’t so infuriating. He’s a fucking ghost, whose name always comes up when we hear about new trafficking rings, and knowing he was only feet away from my woman…
I don’t want her to live with that.
I may not know everything there is to know about my wife, but I know she has a gentle heart. One way too soft to be entrusted in my grip. And I don’t want to blacken it any more than is necessary.
“He called a few minutes ago.” Dom picks up an open bottle of beer. “Said he found three dead men, stab wounds, but that’s it. No money. No girls.”
Dominic has been good about keeping his business details hidden from prying eyes, but he has the same lines as us. And we know he wants to catch Hans just as much as we do.
I blow out a breath. “Suppose it was too much to ask for him to leave a business card behind.”
The tattooed man lets out a bark of laughter. “Sorry, no return address just yet.” He takes a drag of his beer. “Nero said he’d come back to pick you and the old lady up. But it’ll still be a few minutes.” Dom tips the bottle toward me. “Want one?”
We both hear the door being opened from across the apartment and turn that way.
A few seconds later, Savannah appears at the top of the stairs.
Even from across the large room, I can tell how sexy, how fucked, she looks. Her torn and soiled leggings replaced with black sweatpants. Her tank top replaced with a pale blue t-shirt. And her hair pulled up into a messy golden bun at the top of her head.
“I’ll take that beer,” I say, holding my hand out.
The request is two-fold. One to force Dom to turn away from Savannah, and another to calm my nerves with alcohol. Because right now I’m just about wired enough to start a turf war over someone ogling my wife.
