Page 10 of Mafia Boss's Fake Wife

And whether or not he's going to stand up at trial and testify, as he's told me he would.

Because if I don’t find him, I'm going to be looking at not only losing my job, but a number of charges long enough to put me in jail too.

Right alongside the criminals that I have put there.

Instead of going into the office, I take my coffee and get into my car and head back to the little cottage in the village outside of the city. It's my official residence, for now anyway.

Well.

It'ssupposed to be, as I was supposed to utilize it in order to keep my charge from danger.

My hand drifts to the front gate, my fingers lingering. I push it open, my ears mindful, as ever, of the complete lack of squeak.

Marco fixed that.

He actually did a great deal of work on the little cottage, fixing things here and there as he stayed over the course of a few months. His touch is everywhere in the cottage, and I can't hardly look more than a foot without seeing something that reminds me of him.

Which, of course, means that every foot of the cottage punches me in the gut with the anxiety over Marco De Luca, over and over again.

Huffing, I finish off my coffee and toss it in the bin, settling into my couch as I open my laptop. For weeks, I've been searching for evidence of Marco. I'm not entirely sure why, because it's not like I can tell the other agents that I lost him.

They can't help me take him back in. I can't admit what I've done.

Because if I tug at even one lie, the whole damn thing is going to come unraveled.

If I told the other agents about Marco, then I'd have to tell them that he left because I'm a MacAntyre. And if they know I'm a MacAntyre, they're going to get very rightfully suspicious about why I'm working for Interpol.

And they're going to start to question some of the decisions I've made. The arrests. The convictions for crimes that eerily follow the lines of influence...especially the ones that benefit thefamily.

It's yet another lie, layered in with all the others. One that I've held close to my chest for years.

One that I hate myself for keeping, if I'm honest.

Because it's one of the only ones I'm ashamed of.

I'm just about to dig into some surveillance footage when the creak of my wood floor catches me by surprise.

I freeze.

There are no other sounds, save for the birds outside and the occasional rumble of a vehicle down the street.

Quietly, I place my laptop on the coffee table. I creep over to where my gun is, resting in its official holster, and slip the leather over my shoulders.

The creakiest floor in the cottage is near the back door. Pistol raised, I creep through the house, making no sound...

The floor squeaks again.

In a fluid motion, I click the safety off of the gun and step into the doorway. "Hands where I can fuckin' see them,' I snarl, pointing the gun in front of me at the shape in my kitchen.

"I guess that's one way to greet your brother," a voice says in response.

I keep my gun trained on him.

In front of me, a man turns. Green eyes, our father’s eyes, in a face that is ripped straight from my nightmares, looks back at me.

"Hello, Sis," my brother Liam says with a smile.

I sigh.

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