The Intelligence Unit Series
The Guardian Chapter 21

Getting his hands dirty was part of the job. His father had always thought it beneath him, and Dante had been too much of a p***y, never wanting to watch the brutality in action when he could simply pay someone to do the wet work instead. Not Nicky, though. He got a dark thrill every time he brandished whatever weapon would get the job done. Gun, knife, ice pick, axe; truly, he wasn't choosy. The look that moved through a person's eyes when they realized they were taking their last breaths. The useless begging. The tears, and finally, the screams. It was all a symphony, proof of his power that grew as a person died, not just at his command, but literally by his hands, his eyes the last thing they saw as they bled out. Burned alive. Were shoved under water for the last time.

Or, in this case, were subdued with fentanyl and force-fed enough liquor and narcotics to take down a pro wrestler. Shame, really, Nicky thought as he scanned the breaking online news story that announced Peyton's demise. She'd been useful, and God knew she'd probably been able to s**k the paint off a f*****g Chrysler for all the time she'd spent on her knees. But she'd gotten sloppy and complacent, and allowing her laptop to be accessed by the police was a sin Nicky simply couldn't forgive. Even if he did have a fail-safe in place to ensure it wouldn't be a problem.

Everyone was expendable, because there was always another person either greedy or needy enough to act as a replacement.

Nicky's cell phone buzzed, signaling an incoming call, and well, well. That was timely. "I take it you've seen the news."

"I have," said his contact. "And while I appreciate the increase in profit share, I'm still not sure this was necessary. You've made a lot of work for me. Dealing with those detectives is a pain in my a*s."

"You're good enough at subterfuge, and you're also well compensated," Nicky pointed out. "Enough that disagreeing with how I do business is probably a bad idea."

"I suppose you did just murder a woman in cold blood because she pissed you off," the man said contemplatively, and anger pulsed, fast and hot through Nicky's veins.

"You need a lesson in discretion," he snapped.

But his contact just laughed. "You need to remember why you brought me in on this. Your phone's as secure as a nuclear bunker. I know, because I made it that way. I have a lot of toys at my disposal. Anyhow, I'm not about to admit knowledge of a felony on an unsecure line. What kind of amateur do you take me for, seriously?"

He had a point. The little shit. "Fine. Let's proceed as planned. I want the rest of that money."

"Uh, that's going to be a problem now, isn't it?" his contact asked. "If we're pinning this on Peyton, she's sort of dead. Pretty sure those detectives will replace it strange if she comes back from the grave to keep embezzling all that cash."

Nicky rolled his eyes, even though he was alone in his office. "For f**k's sake, try to keep up. Thanks to all your technological prowess, we still have access to the accounts, don't we?"

"Yeah." It came out like a question, and Jesus. This was why Nicky hated people he couldn't kill. Yet, anyway.

"Then we'd be stupid not to use it. Peyton's dead, yes, but that doesn't mean she isn't useful." He might have been too late to catch the RPD in the act of downloading those damned files from her laptop-of course, he'd been tracking Peyton's activity right along with Delia Sutton's-but he could still use them like the f*****g pawns they were. "The police believe they have everything they need to prove that Peyton embezzled that money from Cromwell A&M. But I'm not done with my payday." "So, you need a new scapegoat," his contact said, finally catching on.

"Exactly. And, as luck would have it, Delia just so happens to have access to those accounts, too."

"You want to pin this on Delia Sutton?"

"It's perfect," Nicky said, bypassing his contact's shock, because-let's face it-he didn't need permission to do a f*****g thing. "All the cops know is that the transactions were made from Peyton's laptop. It looks damning, of course, but it's not airtight. I mean, the police themselves proved how easy it was to sneak into her office."

Sitting back in his chair, Nicky grinned at the irony of the fact that Peyton, herself, had been the one to come up with the idea that had given him the wiggle room to eliminate her. God, if we really wanted to, we could blame the whole damn thing on Delia, herself. "Delia's smart," he continued. "She figures out a way to embezzle money, orchestrates things down to the last detail. Makes it look like Peyton's the guilty party. She was going to run off with the money and let Peyton take the full ride for stealing it, but then Peyton turns up dead from an accidental overdose. Delia doesn't even have to point the finger at her. But, of course, she gives herself one last big payday on her way out the door, and that'll prove to be her undoing when the cops follow the clues we give them and discover those offshore accounts in her name."

His contact let out a soft laugh, part disbelief, part awe. "You diabolical bastard. Do you really think it'll work?"

"In the long run, no." Nicky shrugged. "After all, those accounts-and the money in them-aren't real. But all I need is one last transaction to get the rest of that cash out of Cromwell A&M. By the time the police figure out that Delia's actually innocent, I'll have what I've earned, you'll be out of the country sipping Mai Tais or parading across Europe or whatever the f**k it is that you feel like doing under your new identity, and Silhouette will be dissolved. Gone as if it had never existed. Untraceable."

He'd have to wait until the dust settled around Peyton's dead body to make the transaction, of course. It's what Delia would do. But as soon as they ruled her death either an accident or a suicide-which they would, because Christ knew he'd been too careful and the cops were too f*****g stupid to make a case for murder, anyway-Nicky could take the money, and the respect he'd earn along with it.

"And what about Delia Sutton?" his contact asked, and here, here was where Nicky's smile went down to his bones.

"They'll still be looking for pieces of her next Christmas. Nobody double crosses me and lives. As soon as I'm done getting the rest of this money, she's a dead woman."

***

Delia lookedaround the tiny one-bedroom cabin, certain she was in a parallel universe. From a factual standpoint, she remembered everything that had happened today. The trip she'd taken back to her apartment, escorted by Matteo and Isabella, to pack up some personal items and pick up Al from Mrs. Wong's, across the hall. The quick but (hopefully) convincing phone conversations she'd had with both Camila and her father. The longer one she'd had with Kent that had required every shred of her pretty questionable acting abilities. The wait at the Thirty-Third for a safe house to be chosen, then readied as the paperwork had been processed. The drive to the outskirts of Remington, where there were far more back roads than buildings, land stretching out farther and farther the closer they'd gotten to the cabin.

Although Delia's brain had processed each of these things as they'd happened, they still felt as if they couldn't possibly be real. After all, the cover story she'd told both Camila and her father was fake. Her response to Kent had been carefully crafted. He'd sounded devastated when he'd told her about Peyton, and at least her reaction to that had been genuine. But at some point between the planning and the paperwork, Delia had started going numb. The last twelve hours had put her through an emotional blender, with all of her fear and uncertainty and-God, more fear-so blurred together, there was no way to untangle them.

Matteo closed and locked the door behind them, and speaking of emotions. He'd given up being the lead detective on this case so he could stay with her. And as conflicted as Delia knew thatshould make her feel, it was the only thing she could lock down with absolute certainty.

With Matteo here, she felt safe.

"Home sweet home. At least, for a little while," he said, unshouldering his duffel bag to place it beside her suitcase at the front door. "There's not much to the place. Makes it easier to secure. But we should still take a tour and talk about what we'll do if there's an emergency."

"You mean, if Nicky tries to kidnap me or kill me," Delia said brightly, her awkward attempt at levity falling flat between them.

"Hey. I know this is a lot," Matteo said, moving close enough to lift her chin with his index finger. "But I promise you, I'm not going to let that happen. Okay?"

She nodded, because it was all she had. Lowering the cat carrier to the floorboards, she popped the swinging door open to let Al start exploring. But after a day in strange surroundings, not to mention the night that Delia didn't even want to imagine, the poor guy stayed put inside the carrier.

"Come on, sweet pea," she said, reaching inside to slide him into her arms. He eyeballed Matteo cautiously, but didn't try to squirm away as Delia stood and moved back to Matteo's side.

Getting right to it, he said, "Right. So, the front door, the back door that's off the kitchen, and all of the windows are wired to the alarm system." He pointed to the keypad on the wall behind them. "The code is 13610."

Delia's laugh took a swat at the unease that had built in her chest. "Oh, my God. You didn't."

Matteo arched a dark brow. "What, you thought I'd forget Pascal's Triangle Sequence?" "Well, yeah," she said. "Most people do."

He shrugged one shoulder most of the way up before letting it fall. "I thought it'd be easier for you to have something familiar, and it's not like it's a birthday or something easy to guess. Anyway, we won't need it all that much. The system stays armed all the time, unless someone from Intelligence is coming or going."

"That's a little reassuring, at least," she said. Despite the rustic vibe of the cabin, the alarm system looked state-of-the-art.

Matteo nodded. "There's also a panic button in the bedroom. I know you had to leave your smart watch behind because of the GPS, but Capelli activated this for you." He took a necklace with a pretty pendant charm from his pocket. "It's got a tracking device in it. Just a precaution, but better safe. A pair of detectives will monitor the perimeter from a distance twenty-four/seven, but they'll check in once a day face-to-face, just to be sure we're all good."

"All good' feels kind of relative right now."

The words rode out on a joyless laugh before Delia could stop them, but once again, Matteo met her with unyielding steadiness. "Why don't we check out the kitchen? I bet Al is starving." "You're trying to distract me," she said, although there was no heat in the accusation.

And he didn't deny it. "I am. But we don't have to change the subject. If you need to talk about all of this, I'm here to listen."

Delia's heart squeezed against her ribs, but she shook her head. Today had tested her limits. If she tried to rehash it all now, she'd probably redline. "No. Not right now, anyway. You're right. Al's probably super hungry." The kitchen was small but cozy, the pine cabinets well stocked and the two-person table ready for use. Delia's mind wanted to explore all the questions threatening to crowd it-who was the last person to stay here? What had happened to them? Was the meal they'd eaten at this table their last? But she concentrated on petting Al, scratching behind his ears and rubbing his belly until he gave in and started purring, then wiggled to be put down so he could check out their new surroundings. She washed her hands and pulled a tin of cat food from the cabinet, and the familiar motions soothed her jangly nerves just enough to give her breathing room. She and Matteo moved around each other in the small space, not talking, but not needing to, as they assembled a pair of sandwiches (ham and Swiss-not even she could argue with a classic like that), grabbed a bag of chips and two bottles of water, then settled in at the table. Delia hadn't realized how hungry she was until she took that first bite, and all too quickly, she found her plate empty of everything other than a few stray crumbs.

"I'm glad you ate something," Matteo said, and Delia realized that his "I bet Al is starving" maneuver was probably a ploy to get her eating, too.

"I do feel better," she admitted. Enough so that she actually had her wits about her now, so she said, "You let Sinclair take you off the case so you could stay here with me."

Matteo's shoulders edged up by just a fraction, but he didn't look away. "It's a technicality. But Bianchi saw you in that parking garage. He killed Peyton. For Chrissake, he was in your apartment when you were supposed to be home. I'm not going to leave you. Not even with the rest of the team."

"You really don't trust Roman, do you?" She had to admit, the guy hadn't made it easy, and his ego was roughly the size of Neptune.

"I don't trust anybody who's not in my unit. Bianchi's up to something, and he's got to have someone else on the inside if Peyton was expendable."

Taking a breath, he shook his head and let the barest hint of a smile tug at his mouth. "Sorry. You said you didn't want to talk about it, and here I am, running my mouth. I guess I don't really have any other defaults."

The gravity of the day-of the past few weeks, really-tightened inside of Delia like a coil being pushed all the way down, ready to spiral out of control. But the last time she'd felt this overwhelmed, Matteo had been there, calming her fraying nerves in a way that only he could, with that rough, gruff laugh that sizzled all the way through her. That made her feel strong. Self-assured. Capable.

And right now, in this moment, she wanted that again. She wanted him.

Pushing to her feet, Delia moved over to the spot where Matteo sat at the table. She saw it in his eyes, the wild flicker of heat threading through all that darkness the instant he understood her intention. A few weeks ago, she wouldn't have been able to read the emotion he tried so hard to bury. To be fair, he was so well-practiced at hiding his feelings that, of course, she'd have missed it.

But Delia didn'twant to miss it. She wanted to taste him with her tongue, to drown in him, to soak up the full force of all that intensity he always kept banked beneath those broody stares and firm frowns.

She wanted everything.

"Matteo," she said, not caring that her voice was a husky whisper that screamed of s*x, especially when his eyes flared even hotter at the sound. Delia slid into the space he'd made for her between his body and the table, brazenly placing her hands on his shoulders and straddling his lap.

"Delia." The need in his voice betrayed him, but not as much as the thick ridge of his c**k, now pressed up against her, exactly where she wanted him. "You've had"-he broke off to grunt as she rocked against him, just once, but God, it felt so good-"a long day. Maybe we shouldn't."

"I thought you wanted to distract me." She thrust again, slow and hard, too greedy for the sensation to hold back.

"I want..." Matteo broke off, his hands replaceing her hips, rough denim beneath rougher fingers. "F**k, Delia."

She smiled. "I want it, too. Show me how alive I can feel. Make me forget everything but you."