25. Chapter 25

I may have to eat crow and admit that Siren was right.

There's literally no food in this damn house.

I normally only keep enough here for me, which isn't much, considering I'm on the road a lot.

To get the right price and keep people out of my business, I always go to the buyer instead of having them come to me.

I wasn't lying to Siren when I told her I didn't bring people here.

As I look into the barren fridge, the only things staring back at me that are actually edible are a few eggs and less than an inch of milk.

The rest, I'm positive, are no good.

In fact, I'm pretty sure whatever's in that green tupperware in the back just moved by itself.

Giving it a wide berth, I grab the eggs and milk, slamming the door shut with my booted foot.

I sit my meager ingredients on the counter as I fruitlessly open and shut every cabinet door, each one more empty than the last.

I could scramble the eggs but that sounded like a sad breakfast, even for me.

There's no way two eggs will feed both Siren and I.

A low whooping sound escapes me as I open the last cabinet to find a half-empty box of pancake mix and a bottle of syrup that's just over a quarter full.

I don't know if Siren likes pancakes, but if she does, tough titty because I'm making waffles.

I fucking hate pancakes.

Even though any sane person would say they're made from the same batter, my brain still tells me that waffles are the superior of the two.

All those little crevices to hold lots of syrup and melty butter.

Wait … do I have butter? As I glance back to the fridge, debating the merits of opening it again, on the off chance that something will eat me instead of the other way around, I decide to live life on the edge and risk it.

I nearly jerk the door off its hinges with how forcefully I pull it open, as though already spoiling for a fight.

Luckily, I don't have a Ghostbusters moment, and whatever's in that tupperware stays put.

I don't have to look long before finding a small tub of margarine on the door rack.

Hmm … that'll do.

Shutting the door again, I break out my ancient waffle maker and get to work. While I wait for the batter to cook itself into something fit for human consumption, my mind wanders back to yesterday. The day had started like any other in recent memory; I woke up, checked the cameras, took a shower, stroked myself off to the image of Siren sleeping naked in my bed, made some coffee, rechecked the cameras, watched Siren watching TV, ate a few slices of pitiful toast, rechecked the cameras … again … and so it goes. By noon, I knew that I wouldn't get any work done if I didn't turn off the monitor with the cameras on it. Not only was I still trying to locate Gaspari, but I was also simultaneously keeping tabs on my father. In the ensuing chaos after Siren's rescue, my vendetta against my father had to fall to the wayside. Now, I'm making up for lost time, so I've spent the better part of every day intercepting emails, tapping cell phones, and tracking his itinerary. After my unfortunate miss at Eugene Kingsley's auction, I've since learned that he did indeed meet with the mystery assassin earlier that night. For all my father's boasting and despite years of practice, the man was a terrible criminal. I could follow his tracks in the middle of a snowstorm. This knowledge should put me at ease but it has the opposite effect. Poor criminals were loose cannons, unpredictable by nature, and bound to do stupid shit. So, knowing that the connection was made that night has just put me further on edge than I already was, being cooped up in this house with the one woman on the planet who makes me question my sanity as much as her own. The pressure to find Gaspari and prevent my father from orchestrating a murder has never been so high. I need him to pay for my mother's death, and I need Siren to be free, once and for all. Two goals, one quickly becoming just as important as the other. As I flip the waffle maker over, I absently rub at a spot in the center of my chest. Thinking about Siren hurts. After only a few hours of absent-minded research yesterday, I'd broken and pulled the cameras back up to find her standing in the middle of the living room, playing her violin. To say I was shocked would've been an understatement. I couldn't hear the music through my office's vault-like door, but the simple fact that she'd taken the instrument out for the first time since she got here was enough to lure me out. What I walked into was something unlike anything I've ever felt. I had to describe it that way because that's what the music did. It made you feel , whether you liked it or not. There haven't been many instances where I've cried since the night I found my mother's body, but if I were a man that cried, I would've. As it was, I knew as the song finished, that the image of Siren smiling through a river of tears would stay with me for the rest of my life. The emotions I felt in that moment were too overwhelming to process, and even now, the next morning, I'm still at a loss for words. As I stand there, thinking about how long she stood and played the same piece over and over, as though she somehow knew that it was quite literally altering my DNA, I lose track of time. Before I realize it, there's a faint burnt smell in the air, and the kitchen has gone hazy. Shit! I grab a fork and pull the half-burnt waffle from the machine, plopping it onto a paper plate. Huffing out a breath, I close my mind off to yesterday's events, at least for the time being, and focus on the task at hand. Not starving.

Fifteen minutes later, I'm walking out of the kitchen, shoving a forkful of slightly burnt but dripping waffle into my mouth.

Just as I enter the dining room, I nearly choke to death.

Swallowing hard several times, I finally manage to get out, "Goddammit, Fed, don't you fucking knock?!"

Sitting at my dining room table as though he owns the place is none other than Mr.

FBI himself.

As I take a healthy gulp of lukewarm coffee to help finish the job of pushing the waffle the rest of the way down my throat, I look from him to the closed front door and back.

My eyes narrow.

He didn't trip any of my alarms.

And my door was locked.

I take a quick glance at the surrounding windows.

All intact.

How the fuck did this dude get into my house?

The picture of innocence, Alexi holds up his hands, palms out, as if to say what did I do? As he puts them back down on the table, his tattooed knuckles stand out sharply in the midmorning sun streaming in through the front window.

If I'm not mistaken, I see several other tattoos peeking out from beneath the cuff of his sleeves.

"I'm not sure if you're aware but it's proper etiquette to make extra plates when you have guests.

I like waffles too, you know,"

Alexi says, a slight lilt to his words that only hints at the Russian accent I know to be there.

What is it with this guy? Has there ever been a bigger pain in the ass? On some level, his dry and sarcastic sense of humor calls to my own, though.

If I'm honest with myself, if it wasn't for his chosen profession being a direct arrow at the massive target that is me, I might actually like him.

Though, as it stands, I swear, if he doesn't get out of my house in the next 10 minutes, I may break out into hives.

I don't like cops, and this man might as well be a super cop.

"You're absolutely right.

Where are my manners? I don't know why I didn't think to make some for you.

Oh wait … maybe it's because I didn't fucking invite you. "

If I expected him to fire back at me, I should've known better.

Instead, he lets out a deep chuckle before saying, "That's okay.

They smell a little overdone anyway."

Glowering at him because I know he's right, though I'll die before admitting it, I move to the table and pull out the chair at the opposite end.

As I sit my plate and cup down, I park my ass in the seat and have an internal battle over whether I should wait until he's gone before finishing my food.

Fuck that.

I dislike cold waffles about as much as I do pancakes, so I pick up my fork and shovel in another bite.

Swallowing again, with much less dramatics this time, I say, "You gonna tell me how you got past my security?"

His Russian accent comes strongly to the forefront this time, and he simply replies, " Nyet ."

I don't even bother hiding my eye roll, voicing my earlier thought.

"You're a pain in the ass, you know that? Why don't you just tell me what you want? The sooner you do, the sooner you can leave."

Completely ignoring my demand, he looks around the empty space before asking, "Where's Siren?"

In the blink of an eye, I can feel my entire demeanor shift.

My eyes return to slits, and the handle of my fork is suddenly biting into my palm.

I know he and Merrick have been on friendly terms for a few months now, but I know my best friend.

He wouldn't have told the Fed where I lived or that Siren was with me.

He knows how much I value my privacy.

My mind whirls, trying to uncover how he could've gotten the information.

He's obviously hacked into my network, but I have no idea how he did that without me being alerted.

Probably the same way he got into my damn house without setting off any of my alarms.

I don't bother to lie.

It's clear that super cop knows a lot more than he should, and you can bet your ass that as soon as he's gone, I'm gonna find out how.

I'm invasive by nature, and I've also spent a lifetime honing my computer skills.

I'm not vain enough to think I'm the best out there, but the idea that this person in particular is possibly better at it than me grates my nerves.

Deciding to pick and choose my battles, I say tensely, "She's asleep down the hall."

"No waffles for her either, then."

He makes a tsking sound, shaking his head.

"Selfish."

Gritting my teeth, because I know he's deliberately trying to piss me off, I say offhandedly, "I would imagine the murder of a government official carries a heavier sentence than the killing of just anyone, right?"

I quickly push back from the table, not giving him a chance to reply, saying, "I think I'll chance it. "

Alexi lets out a bark of laughter.

"Calm down, loverboy; I'm just here for some information."

Despite the fact that he just called me loverboy, I feel some of the tension in my shoulders ease, and I make a conscious effort to loosen the grip on my fork.

Letting out a snort, I say, "Based on what I've learned about you, it's hard to believe that I'd have access to any information you aren't able to find."

In a cryptic tone, he replies, "Most information stays put.

You can pin point it down to a single source with enough research.

What I'm looking for has a pulse and doesn't wanna be found."

Ahhh.

Here we go.

I knew this was coming.

My only hope was that it would be later rather than sooner.

I've already got enough on my plate.

But I guess, given how much time this particular gnat has been buzzing around our faces, it's surprising this hasn't come up earlier.

Alexi and Merrick have been chummy since shortly after he first popped up in our lives, offering to help with the pesky problem of Merrick and Amelia's toxic parents.

Usually, you'd welcome the help of a cop when dealing with two dangerous criminals.

Unless you also happened to be a world-class thief yourself and are already wanted by an untold number of government agencies.

Luckily … or possibly unluckily, the Fed seemed to know all about Merrick's extracurricular activities already and had no intention of taking him in … on one condition.

At the time, that condition wasn't entirely clear, but since then, we've discovered that Alexi is looking for something himself.

Something of value to him.

Obviously, well hidden, and yet, somehow, he thinks Merrick will be able to steal it for him.

Two things become crystal clear at this moment.

My role in all this will be to aid in the search for this hidden thing.

And now I know that he thinks whatever it is will lead him to someone.

I'd bet my life that it's a woman.

Up until now, he hasn't called in the favor from Merrick, but he's still made his presence felt amongst our little group.

In the most bothersome ways possible, if you ask me.

Like right now.

In my dining room.

I sigh heavily.

Resigned, I ask, "What, exactly, am I looking for?"

I watch his lips turn up in the ghost of a smile.

"You're smart, Deacon.

And blunt.

I appreciate both."

For a moment, he only stares down at his hands, but his mismatched eyes are suddenly a million miles away.

After another minute, he lifts his gaze back to mine and says, "I'm looking for a box.

A music box, to be exact.

A very old music box."

Nose scrunching slightly, I say, "I'm guessing this old music box is either worth a shit ton of money or has some kinda sentimental value? Because otherwise, why the hell would you want some dusty old toy?"

"The toy is hardly dusty and is really only a means to an end.

Another clue, leading me on what's been a lifelong goose chase."

What a fucking weirdo.

Who on Earth would spend their life running after something, knowing there's a good chance they'd never find it? Pausing, I think back to Merrick's obsession with Amelia.

He waited nine years.

I guess the answer to that question would be … a man in love.

As if pulled by some invisible force, my eyes flick towards the hallway.

When I bring them back, I find Alexi watching me closely.

"Can I trust you, Deacon?"

he asks pointedly.

What kind of questions is that? Of course not.

"I could ask you the same question, Fed,"

I say, arching a brow in response .

"Touché,"

he says.

Taking a deep breath, he continues.

"I want to help you, Deacon.

Not just with this Gaspari problem, but also with the issue of your father."

Taken aback, I slowly sit my fork down before saying, "What do you know about my father?"

"Enough.

Enough to know that he's not a good man.

I can't say that I know what your endgame is for him, but if I can help you accomplish it while also keeping you out of prison, I'd like to."

My kneejerk reaction is fuck no .

Cops of any kind can't be trusted.

But just the mere mention of my father has my blood set to boiling.

So, instead of dismissing the offer completely, I stare back at him pensively, hoping that my silence will make him uncomfortable.

I feel a small measure of satisfaction with the idea.

But instead of fidgeting, he just continues to look back at me, gaze unwavering.

My emotions are conflicting with my brain.

My brain is screaming that this is a setup, and if I get into business with this Fed, I'm gonna end up either dead or behind bars.

But my gut is telling me that maybe he's just the ally I need.

I want something; he wants something.

It's nothing more than a business transaction.

At least, that's what I tell myself.

And, of course, I'd be careful.

It's not like we'll ever be besties, but I have to admit I could use the help.

Going with my gut, I make up my mind before I have a chance to second-guess myself.

I grab my fork again, loading another generous bite of my now cold waffle.

Dammit.

Around the food in my mouth, I point my fork at him and say, "Ok.

Tell me more about this box."

I watch as that ghost of a smile from earlier reappears before turning into a full-blown grin.

The sight causes a reaction that feels like the devil's running his tongue up my spine.

I immediately regret asking the question.

"Well … it's not so much a box as … an egg,"

he says, and there's a deliberate pause that I just somehow know is being done for dramatic effect.

Unfortunately for me, I'm midway through another bite of waffle when the bomb drops.

"A Faberge egg."

Choking for the second time in less than half an hour, I cough, desperately trying to get air into my lungs.

All the while, the fucking Fed just laughs.