CHAPTER SEVEN

Rage vibrated through Wyatt as he pulled into the parking lot of the San Camanez Island police station. Who the fuck thought it was a good idea to come after Vica?

Someone with a fucking death wish, that's who.

His trigger finger twitched as he shut off his truck. Not a lot of people knew this about Wyatt—well, besides his brothers of course—but he'd been a sniper in the marines. And a really fucking good one too. He had a steady hand and up until about seven years ago, perfect twenty-twenty vision. But after an explosion on his last deployment, his eyesight started to decline and seven years ago, he was forced to get glasses and contacts.

"Just wait in here," he said to Vica, hoping out of the cab and walking briskly around the front of the truck to open her door. He didn't like the idea of her not being protected at all times. Threats were everywhere, and if there was some sadistic fucker out there willing to run her off the road, then who knew the lengths they were willing to go to. There could be a goddamned man in a tree with a gun pointed at them right now.

You're becoming paranoid. How would they know you were here?

He couldn't answer that. But his intuition, his Spidey-Sense was rarely ever wrong. Vica was in danger, that much he was certain.

What the person after her hadn't anticipated though, was that they'd have to go through Wyatt to get to her first.

He shielded her as best he could as he escorted her to the front door, doing a cursory glance around the area before following her into the building.

"Hey, Maude," he said to the receptionist behind the desk. "We need to file an incident report. Who's around?"

"Duane and Dan are here right now. Myla just left on a call about an unsanctioned burn on the north side. Everett is off."

Wyatt grumbled. "How long ago did Myla leave?"

"We've been serving and protecting far longer than Ms. Bruce," came the voice of an entitled man with zero redeeming qualities. It was men like Duane and Dan that made Wyatt really hate his kind—white men. Duane Fischer stood in the doorway, half of a ham sandwich in his hand and a glop of mustard at the corner of his mouth. "What happened now?" The way he said "now" had Wyatt seeing red. He had to bunch his hands into fists and grind his molars nearly to nothing in order to not haul off and smack the cop.

"Someone tried to run Vica over this morning. She was out for a walk and they were clearly gunning for her."

Officer Fischer's brows rose ever so slightly. "Maybe they were just trying not to hit a squirrel. Or avoid a pothole."

"Or kill me," Vica said. "I was there. There was no squirrel or pothole. They drove onto the shoulder and sped up. I had to jump into the ditch to avoid being hit."

The cop's eyes traveled her body. "You don't seem any worse for wear."

"That's not the fucking point," Wyatt spat out, which earned him some real hiked brows from the cop now. He didn't care. "The point is that she was out for a walk, and someone tried to hit her with their car. She has the license plate number, and can recall the make and model."

Fischer calmed down just a bit. "Okay, what is it? "

"Shouldn't you be writing this shit down?" Wyatt asked. "Like isn't there a form?"

"There is," Maude piped up before sliding the piece of paper across the counter to Wyatt.

Fischer gave her a glare. "Fine, come on back."

His body swayed side to side like a duck's as he made his way to a small room with four desks. A fluorescent light overhead flickered and the paint on all four walls was a putrid shade of green, reminding him of split pea soup. Wyatt fucking hated split pea soup. A small jail cell sat in the corner with a lonely wooden bench barely big enough for two asses.

With a big grunt, Fischer sat down at a desk. He didn't offer them chairs, so Wyatt snagged one from what he assumed was Myla's desk, based on how tidy it was in comparison to the other three. He held it out for Vica, then he grabbed one from Everett's desk—he knew this because of the six fidget spinners stacked up next to his mug of pens. Everett had severe ADHD and could never sit still, let alone keep his hands from moving. The kid always had something to play with in his palm or pocket.

Wyatt handed Fischer the incident report paper once he was certain the idiot cop wouldn't get mustard on it.

Fischer cleared his throat. "What time did this happen?"

"About nine o'clock," Vica said. "A mile from the pub."

"Why were you out on your own?"

"Because she feels like a caged animal and hasn't been convicted of anything. She wanted to go for a walk to clear her head and get some air. Last time I checked, Officer Jenkins, not only is this a free country, but Ms. Vitale hasn't been convicted of any crimes." He glanced at Vica. "Sorry, I didn't mean to answer for you."

She shook her head. "It's okay. I appreciate it. I am … I am still very shaken."

He took her hand in his and gave it a squeeze. "Of course you are."

"Please describe the incident again," Officer Fischer said, just as a toilet flushed down a small hallway.

A moment later, Officer Jenkins came wandering out, giving Vica and Wyatt a curious look. "What's going on here? Finally come to confess?"

"Excuse me?" Wyatt said. The only reason he wasn't on his feet and getting into the cop's face was because Vica's grip on his hand tightened, keeping him in his seat and with her.

Duane smirked and wandered into the bullpen and over to his desk, taking a seat. "Just kidding around. Relax, McEvoy."

Wyatt glared at the asshole cop before turning his attention back to the other asshole cop, then eventually settling his gaze on Vica. "Take all the time you need."

Her smile was small, but she did a great job recounting the event just as she had done to Wyatt right after it happened, and Fischer when they first entered the station. She added the color and model of the car. A non-descript gray sedan. As well as the license plate.

"Don't know the make of the car?" Jenkins asked.

"While I am familiar with all the popular brands, I could not see a logo on the back, no. Shouldn't the license plate be enough?"

Fischer made a noise in his throat.

Vica and Wyatt exchanged confused expressions.

What the fuck was going on with this cop? Was he not taking this seriously? Would they shred the report the moment Vica and Wyatt left?

Noise at the back door pulled their attention and a moment later, Myla came in. Her expression was both surprise and curiosity.

"Oh, thank fuck," Wyatt breathed, and not quietly.

Removing her sunglasses from her face and pushing them onto the top of her head, Myla glanced curiously between Fischer, Jenkins, Vica, and Wyatt. "Hey guys, what's going on?"

"Vica was nearly run over today and we're here giving a statement. She got the license plate and everything. "

"That's great," Myla said before she paused, blinked, and shook her head. "I mean, not that you were nearly run over today, but that you got the license plate." She didn't show any signs of being put out that Vica sat in her chair, but just grabbed a folding one from the corner and set it up at her desk. "I've got it from here, Duane. Why don't you and Dan go do a drive? Just because it's Monday doesn't mean tourists aren't doing stupid shit."

It was easy to see by everyone that Fischer and Jenkins did not like being told what to do by not only a much younger police officer, but a woman to boot. Wyatt stowed his snicker.

They waited until the Boomer-Pigs left before Myla resumed conversation. She had Vica recount the event yet again. Myla followed up with some questions of her own before punching the license plate number into their database.

Ha! See?

Wyatt knew that the make of the vehicle didn't matter as long as you had the plate.

But Wyatt was celebrating too quickly. Myla's face dropped into a frown. "That car's last registered owner passed away a few years ago and the vehicle with that plate hasn't been registered since."

"Dammit," Wyatt exhaled, scratching the back of his neck. "So, now what?"

"I'll do some digging," Myla said. "See if anybody has seen the vehicle. I'll ask local businesses and do some driving around in search of the license plate."

"If it was a hit put out by Wyndham Croft, the vehicle might not be on the island any longer," Wyatt pointed out. "They've been made and will switch to a new car."

Myla nodded and nibbled on her lip. "I'm also really curious how they knew Vica was going to be out there at that exact time? Like do they have someone watching the pub?"

"Fuck," Wyatt murmured. "Maybe."

"I'm going to relay all of this to Seattle PD, and it might not be a bad idea if we posted an officer outside of the laneway down to the pub instead of just at the terminal and main junction." Her focus shifted to Vica. "How are you after all of this?"

"Not good," Vica said, her voice tight and quiet. "My life flashed before my eyes and … there wasn't much there."

Myla rested a hand on Vica's knee. "Don't say that."

"It's true though. Sure, I've done things. Traveled and had adventures, but it wasn't the first time I thought, ‘If I die, who is really going to miss me?'" She swallowed hard and Wyatt's heart ached for her. "I've done a lot, but I've always been closed off to people. It hasn't been easy for me to connect with people. Not even as a child. I don't have friends here."

Myla squeezed her knee, then glanced at Wyatt. "I think you do."

Wyatt squeezed Vica's hand. "You do."

A fat tear slid down her cheek. "Thank you." She pulled in a deep breath. "I have never been someone who doesn't speak up. You know? And that's part of the reason why I struggled in school to make friends. I called people on their bullshit."

"We need more people like that in this world," Myla said.

Wyatt agreed.

"I came home from school one day when I was seven, my mother had passed not even six months before, and I had a bloody lip. Two girls in school were picking on a boy. He was smaller and had been born without his left hand. He had a prosthetic, and had just transferred to the school a few months before. The girls were being very mean. I told them how cruel they were and that they didn't deserve Jesus's forgiveness for their sins, and I hoped they had fun dancing on fire in hell. Even though we were Jewish, I went to a Catholic school and this stuff was hammered into our heads."

Myla and Wyatt both politely chuckled, but remained quiet so Vica could finish her story.

"Well, that got me thrown onto the ground, my face rubbed in the mud, and my hair pulled. I had a fat lip, a torn skirt, and skinned knees. "

"Kids can be such assholes," Myla murmured.

"My father took me into the bathroom and he cleaned me up. He picked me up and set my butt on the counter as he looked me in the eye and said, ‘ Bambina , we don't let bullies win. We don't just roll over and show our bellies. We fight back. We do what is right. We are Vitales and we never back down to tyrants."

"Your father sounds like a very wise man," Myla said.

Vica nodded. "He was. And my brother taught me self-defense. I never rolled over or let a bully hurt me. And I'm not going to do that now. We need to do whatever we can to clear my name."

Fear rippled through Wyatt and dripped down his back like sweat. Even though he much preferred Vica with fire in her belly and determination in her brown eyes, he was worried. She clearly wasn't safe and shouldn't leave the property unchaperoned. But at the same time, if things escalated, was keeping her at the house bringing danger right to their doorstep?

"Have you been in touch with anybody from work?" Myla asked.

Vica shook her head. "Not yet. My inbox is full, but I have not been able to bring myself to do it."

"Do it," Myla said. "The more you act like you're not guilty, the better. Because you're not guilty. Not of murder. It was self-defense. And we need people on your side."

"But what if Wyndham Croft has paid them off? He tried to pay me off."

"We need to find more women with stories like yours. Where Track got aggressive and the women were either hushed with money, or threatened. I know it seems scary, the idea of going up against someone like Wyndham Croft, but maybe if someone else had come forward sooner, what happened to you never would have happened at all."

Vica nodded. "Okay."

"And blind carbon copy email your lawyer on all emails so she has the paper trail too."

They stood up and Myla saw them to the door. "I'm really sorry for everything you're going through, Vica." She gave Vica a hug, then Wyatt carefully escorted Vica back out to his truck. He couldn't put his finger on the feeling he had, but something told him they were being watched. By whom? He wasn't sure. Maybe it was just a squirrel. Or maybe it was someone far more nefarious and out to get Vica. Either way, he'd be locking his doors tonight and setting the alarm—something he hadn't done since he moved to the island.

Vica had a target on her back because she refused to cower to entitled men, and Wyatt would do whatever he had to in order to keep her safe. He hardly knew the woman, but after hearing her story and how she didn't think anybody would miss her if she died, he was more determined than ever to prove her wrong. A lot of people would miss her. And he was one of them.

They were coming up on a week since the incident with Track Croft and Vica. Nothing else nefarious had happened since Vica was nearly run over, but she also hadn't left the property since then.

Wyatt could tell she was going stir-crazy though.

Who wouldn't?

She was holed up in the house and on the property with his two little boys, who—even though they were wonderful—were also exhausting. She was doing her best to put a positive spin on everything, and never had a negative word to say when he came home after work, but he could tell her sanity was wearing thin. And he certainly never expected her to play babysitter. He and his brothers had a system that worked well, and never did they assume, or expect, a guest to babysit. But Vica refused to take no for an answer, and insisted that she enjoyed hanging out with the kids .

It was Friday morning and Wyatt was getting all the boys' beach attire organized. Jagger, Clint, and Brooke were taking the children to Humpback Beach for the day. Bennett and Justine had to work, as did Dom and Wyatt. He couldn't tell if Vica was disappointed that she wasn't joining everyone at the beach, or just sad that the kids wouldn't be around to distract her. She did seem genuine when she said the boys were great distractions from her otherwise tumultuous life.

His phone buzzed as he packed the boys' lunches. It was a text message from one of his line cooks, Rico. Fuck, man, I'm sorry. I broke my leg this morning. Justine is patching me up right now. Fell off my bike.

Oh, fuck.

As bad as Wyatt felt for Rico, his head immediately went to the fact that it was a Friday and they were going to be short staffed in the kitchen. Another line cook was already on vacation for a four-day weekend since his long-distance girlfriend was in town. This meant Wyatt would be down two cooks and they were heading into the weekend.

He shot off a quick text to Rico expressing his sympathies and wished his employee, and friend, a speedy recovery. Then he went to work, sending out pleas to the rest of his staff to see if anybody could cover.

By the time Vica and the boys came down into the kitchen, Wyatt had received a whopping four "no" responses, and two employees hadn't gotten back to him. Fair enough. It was their days off, or they were scheduled for the evening shift. It was their summer too. And his staff was pretty fantastic about covering shifts and stepping up to the plate at the eleventh hour.

That didn't stop his mood from shifting though, and when Vica greeted him in the kitchen all he could muster was a grunt.

"Can I have pancakes?" Griffon asked, full of energy and wearing nothing but Spiderman boxer shorts.

"No," Wyatt snapped. "And why aren't you dressed?" He glanced at Jake. "The same goes for you. Why aren't either of you dressed? You're going to the beach with your uncles and cousins. I expect more from you guys. Come on."

The boys' faces fell, and they slid off the kitchen chairs and trudged upstairs, their shoulders rounded.

"Can I help with something?" Vica asked.

"No." He instantly regretted his tone and grimaced when he saw her reaction.

She glared at him. "Why are you eating people's hair this morning? What happened?"

Well, that kicked him out of his foul mood for a hot minute. "Eating people's hair?"

"Eating people's heads?" Her shoulders lifted. "I don't know the English idiom. You are being abrupt and angry."

"Ohhhhhh." He nodded. "Biting people's heads off."

"Sure. Why are you biting people's heads off?" She cocked a hip into the counter and crossed her arms, pushing up her breasts in the simple gray T-shirt she'd paired with cute denim cutoffs. Justine and Brooke did well picking out clothes for her.

He exhaled and raked his fingers through his hair, shaking his head. "I'm just stressed. I'm short-staffed today in the kitchen. One line cook is on vacation, and another just texted to say Justine was patching him up after he fell off his bike and broke his leg." He picked up his phone. "And nobody else can cover. I shouldn't be taking it out on the kids, or you. I'm sorry."

"How about me?"

"What do you mean?"

"I can cook. I'm actually a very good cook. I worked at a restaurant back home in Italy as a teenager and my father, brother, and I cooked dinner together almost every night. It was a way we came together and bonded."

He was skeptical.

But he was also desperate.

Technically, he could just put her on a prep station chopping vegetables and such. All he really needed in the kitchen was an extra set of hands that knew how to hold a knife and dice onions.

"I'm getting pretty restless, Wyatt. We could help each other out here. I help you in the kitchen, you help me by getting me out of the house and making me feel useful. I feel like a sitting chicken right now. Just waiting for slaughter."

"A sitting duck?"

"Does the bird really matter? And besides, ducks can fly. They have a better chance at escaping. It should be a chicken."

He couldn't argue with her reasoning.

"Please?" She blinked those beautiful, soulful, brown eyes at him and in that moment, he would have given her anything in the world. A job, a ring, a kidney.

Finally, he nodded. "Okay. Thank you."

"I am the one that should be thanking you." She bounced on her toes. "I am excited to be useful. You will see, I am very good with a knife." Her wink made his dick twitch before she bounded out of the kitchen and upstairs. "I need to change."

He really shouldn't be having such inappropriate thoughts about Vica, but the longer she stayed with them, the harder and harder that became. He'd already woken up twice with painful erections because his dreams about her had been downright filthy. Then it was impossible to look her in the eye in the morning over the breakfast table. Particularly because in one of those dreams, her mouth had been wrapped around his cock and the eye contact she made, glancing up at him from her knees, nearly made him wake up in a sticky mess.

He finished packing the boys' lunches, then went about making pancakes since the guilt of lashing out at his kids gnawed away at him like a beaver on a tree trunk. He was just flipping the first batch on the griddle when the kids and Vica came back downstairs. She wore all black now. Black leggings that made her ass scream at him to bite it, and a black T-shirt that hugged her curves and made him groan.

"Are you making pancakes, Dad?" Jake asked .

He nodded. "Yeah. I'm sorry I snapped at you guys. I was stressed because Rico fell off his bike and broke his leg."

"Oh no!" Griffon said. "Did it fall off?"

Wyatt gave his youngest son a heavy eye roll. "No. It didn't break off , it just broke on the inside."

"Like Talia broke her arm," Jake said.

"Exactly. Anyway, Justine put a cast on him, but he's going to be out of work for a bit and Killian is on vacation until Tuesday. So we're short staffed. I was just stressed, but I shouldn't have taken it out on you. I'm sorry."

"So what are you going to do?" Jake asked, reclaiming his seat at the table and grabbing a small bunch of freshly washed green grapes from the bowl.

"Luckily, Vica has offered to help out in the kitchen."

"You can cook?" Griffon asked her with genuine surprise.

"I can. I used to work in a kitchen back in Italy. And I cooked a lot with my dad and brother."

"What's your brother's name?" Griffon asked. The kid had the attention span of a fruit fly and switched topics quicker than a Formula One driver changed gears.

"His name was Lorenzo, but he has passed away."

"How'd he die?" Griffon asked.

"Griff," Wyatt warned.

"What?" his youngest challenged. "Is that a bad thing to ask?"

"It's okay," Vica said. "He was a professional parachuter with the Italian military. He was on a training jump, neither of his chutes deployed and—"

"That's awful," Griffon said, his little mouth hanging open. "I would never want to die that way."

Yeah, it definitely wasn't how Wyatt wanted to go, knowing you were falling to your death when neither chute opened and there wasn't anything you could do to stop it. When he went, he wanted it to be either quick and painless where he didn't even see it coming. Or where he knew it was happening and had done all he could to fight it and was surrounded by those he loved, with all his affairs in order and a heavy dose of pain meds flowing through his veins.

"Pancakes are up," Wyatt said, plunking the flapjacks into the middle of the table. "I expect fruit to be consumed, please. Not just carbs and sugar."

"But carbs are so delicious," Griffon chimed as he speared a pancake with his fork and brought it onto his plate. "Why are they called carbs?"

Wyatt exhaled and brought Vica a coffee. "I'm sorry, again."

"It's okay. If that is the extent to which you eat people's hair, it's pretty low-key."

He smirked. "You're fucking with me now. Right?"

Her grin made his cock twitch, and she bit into a strawberry. He never wanted to be a piece of fruit more in his life. "I'm excited to see you in your work environment as the big boss. Does everyone say, ‘Yes, chef.'?"

He sat down across from her. "No. But I think I'll make you say it."

"Yes, chef," she said with a wink before taking a sip of her coffee.

Annnnd, his dick just jumped again.