Chapter 15

If it wasn't for being thrown right into work for Beckett and staying busy with all that entails, I would have lost my mind days ago, thinking about Briar and what's happening to her.

I'm such a fucking failure. The only woman I've given a shit about in six years, and she's in another country, possibly getting hurt. Or fucking raped by her creep of a fiancé. And there isn't a thing I can do. No matter what, I'm going to get someone hurt.

If I had stayed and drawn my gun and shot at him, I'd have had a dozen of his employees on me within seconds. There were only two people I could trust in that house, and I couldn't put their lives at risk.

I returned to the United States four days ago, and in that time, I've waited by my phone for Rossi to give me an update on Dove. I know she's been locked in her room, and I know there's been a guard by her door and outside of her window twenty-four hours a day. The one thing that's making me feel better is Rossi confirming that Enzo did leave the country. He simply said he was traveling for business for at least a few weeks and gave orders to make sure Briar was kept prisoner in her room.

In the days I've been back in the States, I've had to care for Poppy Wilson. The same Poppy who is Briar's friend and who lost her brother. Apparently, she and Briar's brother are together—or he wants to be. Or maybe it's her who wants to be. Honestly, I don't really fucking know. Either way, they are most definitely a couple. Or might as well be.

Poppy was attacked by some thugs who her brother had owed money to before he passed away. Walker—being the protective, good guy that he is—made a deal with good ol' Uncle Boobies that if he paid me to watch over her when Walker was at hockey; put her up in a nice motel, where she could heal from her injuries from the attack; and helped him find the two men who had hurt her, he'd marry Romano's daughter, Gia. Because apparently, Marco wasn't all that pleased with just having Briar. And now, I'm pretty sure that arrangement might not happen at all. Though Rossi wasn't sure what the hell Enzo planned to do with her.

Walker has no idea how I feel about his sister. Fuck, half the time, I don't even know how I feel about her.

I guess that's not really true. I know how I feel about her, but I'm fighting it because I know I can't give her what she needs or deserves. I'm a fraction of the man I was nearly a decade ago when I gave myself to someone else. You can't give what you don't have.

With Walker in for the night to keep watch of Poppy, I decide to go ahead and call my mother. It's been weeks, and I know she's worried. I guess I've been putting it off because once she knows I'm back in the States, she's going to want to see me. And until I finish this job with Poppy and somehow get back to Italy to save my Dove, I don't have time for that.

Looking out my hotel window, I bring my phone to my ear.

My mother answers on the second ring. "Hi, baby!" And there's no mistaking how excited she is from my call.

"Hey, Ma." I grin. "How's it going? Miss me?"

"Of course I do, asshole." She sniffles. "It's been over a month, Hudson. Over. A month!"

I press my shoulder against the window frame and watch as people come and go. "I know," I say apologetically. "I'm sorry. Things have been … tricky."

"That's what you always say," she gripes. "I'm ready for you to get out of whatever the hell it is you're doing for work. Life's about more than just working, you know."

"Oh, yeah, says you," I tease her.

My mom has owned a bakery since I was a kid. She does all the baking herself and works seven days a week.

"Excuse me, Mr. I Don't Call My Mom To Check In, I'm going to Hawaii next month."

"Really?" I say, stunned.

My mother never takes days off. And she certainly doesn't take vacations.

"Yep. I'm going with my, uh, friend." She suddenly sounds uneasy. "His name is Paul."

My jaw must hit the floor at the mention of her going on vacation with a dude. My mom hasn't so much as gone on a date since my old man passed away. She said she never would either.

"Is this, like, a boyfriend?" I frown. "Or do you not call someone your boyfriend at your age?"

"My age?" she growls. "First off, rude. And second, no, boyfriend sounds … pathetic. We've been seeing each other for a month now. And you'd know this if you ever checked in."

Pinching the bridge of my nose, I sigh. "I get it. I get it. I'm sorry." I smile. "But tell me about this Paul fella. What's he like?" I stop. "Also, what's his last name and Social?"

"Hudson William Hale," she says, using my full name. My real name. "I know you are not trying to run a background check on my … friend right after the first time you've called me in twenty thousand years."

"Gotta be safe, right?" I grin. "He could be a serial killer. Or a puppy slaughterer. Or a crackhead."

"He is not!" She groans. "He's a dentist, for Pete's sake."

"That might be worse. Dude has a thing for teeth. Gross," I joke. "Hopefully, he at least gives you a discount on dental work."

"Dear God, you are so much like your dad," she huffs out before she laughs lightly. "Will you come meet him? Please?"

Walking toward the kitchen in this hotel room, I open the refrigerator door and grab a beer. "I will, I promise. Give me a few weeks, and I'll come see you. Alllll the way in New Hampshire."

"Hey, you're the one who moved away from here," she tosses back. "Just like your daddy. Couldn't stand New England winters." I can hear the sadness, even through the phone, and I somehow know she's smiling. Or trying to. "He always wanted us to live in the South one day. For at least six months of the year."

"That's because he was a smart man," I say lightly. "I promise, Ma, I'll come see you soon. And I'll get a chance to meet this boyfriend of yours."

"Yeah, yeah," she utters back. "Be safe, my baby boy. I love you."

"Love you too," I tell her and end the call before twisting the cap from my beer and taking a long swig.

My mother doesn't know the full extent of what I do for work. She knows I'm in the FBI, and she knows I can't talk about what I do, but I hate keeping secrets from her, especially when I spend most days putting my life on the line and wake up never knowing if I'll even make it till tomorrow. But telling her all of that would scare the shit out of her. And she's been through enough that I'd never want to add on to the things that make her sad.

She lost her husband, my dad, who was the love of her life, to a couple of thugs who thought he was someone else. And then she lost her daughter-in-law and soon-to-be grandchild when someone decided to drive drunk.

Cami, my wife, died while coming home from work. She was twenty-three years old and a registered nurse who had spent the entire night saving lives. And then, a mile from our home, a drunk driver killed her. All because he'd decided to get fucked up and drive home.

At age twenty-three, I became a widower. And I pledged that day that I would not so much as look at another woman. I couldn't stand the thought of betraying my wife like that. She was the sweetest, best person I had ever known.

For six years, I was true to my word. I hadn't even considered breaking that vow, and there wasn't a single woman who tempted me to. I buried myself in work, put myself in stupid situations daily, and walked on the edge of death like it meant nothing.

And I guess that's because it really didn't mean anything. The person I loved was gone. I would never get a chance to meet my baby girl, hear her say her first word, or celebrate her birthdays, so what the fuck did it matter what happened to me? In some ways, I think I almost hoped something would happen. Because there were days the pain was so bad and brought me so much agony that dying sounded better than living through another day.

But then, one day, Dove showed up. Young—nine years younger than me. And in an impossible situation. Even though I wanted to look away from her, I couldn't. I had gone six years without so much as kissing another woman's lips, and then that night she tried to run away … she told me she hated me. She called me a monster. And something inside of me just snapped. I couldn't help it. I kissed her. Her lips didn't feel like Cami's. She didn't taste like her either. And that was when I remembered I was betraying my wife.

And now … well, now, I'm just so fucking lost. Because for the first time in years, I'm not reliving the day Cami passed away over and over again.

I'm reliving the moment I left Briar there to die, promising her she wouldn't when I knew deep down that wasn't something I could guarantee.

I'm reliving looking at the painful marks on her back and wanting nothing more than to just take her from that place. To make everything better. Only I couldn't. Because doing that could have potentially ruined everything else I had worked so hard to do to nail Enzo's and Marco's asses.

So, I said goodbye to the second woman I had ever loved. Only this time, I probably won't get the chance to even tell her how I feel. And she might die without ever knowing.

My hand works tirelessly in my sketchbook. I have no idea why. Who's going to see this? Nobody. Yet here I am, trying to fill every page.

Each day that passes, I lose faith more and more in the words Hudson left me with.

When there's a knock at my door, it cracks open before I even have a chance to hide my book. Quickly, I fumble to tuck it away, slightly relieved when it's Rossi who walks in. I wouldn't say I trust the man, but he's the most pleasant person here. He doesn't look at me like an insect. Or talk to me like I'm a prisoner at Alcatraz.

"Whatcha got there?" He nods toward the pillow where I just stuffed my sketch pad before he sets a plate of food on my nightstand with a can of soda next to it.

"Nothing," I say, instantly panicking.

If he looks at some of the crap I've come up with and drawn the past few days, he'd have to tell Enzo.

Sitting at the edge of my bed, he gives me a small smile. "You don't have to show me, but if you want to, you can," he whispers. "I won't tell."

Pulling my knees to my chest, I ignore him. One thing I like about Rossi being the one to babysit my door and bring my food and drinks is he gives me good stuff. There's one guy who looks sort of like a Cyclops mixed with Bigfoot, sprinkled with a moose. He's the worst. And he's terrifying. And not because he's ugly either. All humans are beautiful, except this guy.

"He asks about you every day, just so you know," he whispers, and when my eyes fly to his, the corner of his lips turns up. "I told him I'd keep an eye on you."

For a moment, I'm stunned. And then I remember where I am. I'm in Enzo fucking Romano's house, and Hudson's words hit me. The ones when he told me to pretend like he's nothing to me and to trust no one. Before Hudson had to leave, one of the guards here had told Enzo that Hudson liked me too much, for fuck's sake. How do I know that Rossi isn't setting me up?

So, instead, I glare at him. "He can ask as much as he wants. I don't care. Hudson Hercules is nobody to me."

"All righty then, scrapper." He laughs lightly. "And when you're in this house, that's a good answer. But I meant what I said. And I won't tell him the words you just spoke about him; don't worry." Patting my hand, he slowly gets up. "For what it's worth, Briar, I am really sorry that you got tangled up in this mess."

And then he walks out the door, closing it behind him. I don't check if it's locked—I already know it is. So, instead, I look at my food, knowing if I eat it, it's only to survive. Because these days, the last thing I'm thinking about is eating.

But as I lie down, I let the words that he said sink in. Maybe they were a trap. They were probably total bullshit. But there's a possibility that … Hudson asked about me.

And if that's true, maybe he does actually care.