Forbidden Neighbor: A Contemporary Romance Boxset (Forbidden Saga Book 2)

by Summer Brooks

  But I don’t tell him anything, because I can’t. Dan will panic. This is his little sister we’re talking about. I can barely keep it together myself. Out of the two of us, I’m definitely the more cool-headed.

  “I’ve just got to get this done,” I give him a wry smile. “It’s been a long day.”

  “Jane crying a lot at night?” he asks fondly, thinking about his little niece.

  “Not too bad… Laura’s a trooper, but I hate letting her do all the work. This is a two-parent household, after all.” The final words come out flat. Dan senses that I want some time to myself.

  “Alright,” he says. “Well, if you need help, just let me know, I’m not far.”

  “Thanks, Dan,” I whisper. “I know.”

  He casts one more look my way, and then steps out of my office. I have to head to the address, but if I just go there, chances are I’m not coming out alive and neither is Laura. If I call the police, I’m probably going to come out alive, but Laura won’t. I can’t imagine life without her. I found her, only to lose her, and now that I have her again, I never intend to let her go. I grab my jacket and step out, careful to make sure that Dan doesn’t spot me.

  I go down the stairs, avoiding the elevator, and I step into the sunlight. I hop into my car and start heading for the address. Should I maybe leave Jane a message? Explain to her exactly what happened to her parents?

  No. I can’t go in there thinking we’re not going to come out. I can’t become suicidal before facing off with Shorty. There must be a way to help her. There must be a way to help both of us, to stop them. I could call Jason and ask him to come meet us, but he’s a security guard, he’s not exactly equipped to handle a planned trap by the mob. Stopping a kidnapping was one thing, but walking into a trap? That’s a whole other thing.

  Part of me thinks about all the thriller and mystery novels that Laura loves to read. The ones that we’d discussed the first night we were together. The ones that she’d just gotten into, now that Jane was born and I was back home to help her. They always had this weird solution at the end, never quite what you’d expect, and yet, somehow fitting the story. Maybe there’s something here that I can use against Shorty. And then I could tell Laura about it. About how I found inspiration from her fiction ideas, and she’d laugh. And maybe she’d start writing again. And then I could support her in that, and bounce Jane on my knee while Laura got all of those words trapped inside of her back out.

  “Laura… I’ll find a way to help you. I promise. I just… need to think of something different to do.”

  Lucky assured me that nobody would be coming after us, not that I should necessarily base all of my decision points here on the word of a mobster. But he’d given me his word. He hadn’t done anything yet to attack my family, and he really could have. Maybe he’d waited long enough so that it couldn’t be traced back. But no, that doesn’t make sense either. Shorty’s already leaving a trail, with the address on my phone… something that could be traced back from the cell phone provider… any good attorney knew that.

  No, there was something else at play here. It suddenly strikes me. What if Shorty’s acting alone? What if Shorty isn’t actually doing anything as part of the mob family and just decided to come after us, to claim a vengeance that he himself feels is owed?

  My heart accelerates.

  There may be a way to save Laura.

  If it doesn’t get me killed first.

  The text made it clear not to call the police, and I don’t intend to, as I weave through traffic, making sure I’m not being tailed.

  I’ve learned a few tricks from my time working with the FBI. It’s never flashy like in the movies, and there’s no cool car chase that doesn’t end in fiery death. But, in this case, I’m at least sure no one is following.

  Pretty sure, anyway.

  My best trick is to turn into a quiet neighborhood. Cars can’t hide as easily in suburbia - the tiny streets and slow speeds are great for making sure you’re not being tailed.

  I turn into a maze of smaller neighborhood streets and notice schools and houses lining the road. My stomach churns. If there is going to be some sort of gun fight, I’m bringing it where children and mothers are walking and enjoying the afternoon.

  They didn’t mention this kind of situation in my FBI civilian training, but I’m in it now and check my rear views - there’s no one even remotely following me. Still, I can’t help but feel uncomfortable driving through here. I look at the clock on my dash.

  I don’t want to keep Shorty waiting too long, but heading in without a plan will get both of us killed.

  If I can save us at all.

  No. Don’t think like that. I try to erect my usual court walls, which separate my emotions from my actions. If I lose control, if I panic now, we’re as good as dead.

  The next street spits me out into a more industrial area - great cement office complexes with large parking garages on both sides of the street. Okay. I breathe a tentative sigh of relief - I’m a bit more exposed but I’m not bringing more innocents into potential harm’s way.

  I pull up alongside a curb and stop. I’m not far from the address but far enough. I hope.

  I don’t know if Shorty’s put any listening devices in my car. It’s impossible to tell, and he’s one of those people that can get illegal things done entirely too easily. I step out, pull out my cell, and walk to a nearby tree. The street is quiet, but I can’t help but feel like prying eyes could be spying.

  I don’t have much time and have to trust that I can pull off this phone call quickly, which I don’t even know is possible. It depends on too many things that are entirely out of my control, least of which being luck.

  I hate relying on luck.

  I dial the number, my hand steady on the phone. If anyone looks my way, they’ll see me being calm and composed, like I’m just calling up my maid to make sure my dry cleaning gets picked up.

  Years of intense court proceedings have taught me that half the battle is in keeping your emotions in check - making sure you don’t show how much something terrifies you, refusing to allow your behavior to betray your fear and worry, always keeping your cards close to your chest.

  But, I’m under a new level of strain knowing this bastard has my Laura - the mother of my child and the foundation of my soul. How could I have let this happen? My poker face is deeply ingrained, but I can feel it cracking.

  Under the pressure of potentially losing Laura, damn right I’m cracking.

  “Barley Heights,” the crisp voice answers.

  I don’t hesitate. I can’t. I must take command of this situation right away, or I will lose control completely - there’s no halfway measure here.

  “This is John Harris,” I wince, hating to use John’s name. But I need a known lawyer, and from my firm, well, John is known. He can be a jackass, but he’s an effective and well-known jackass.

  “I’m representing Lucien Malcon Sr.; I must speak to my client immediately.” (you can’t have defense and prosecution lawyers from same firm at same trial

  There’s a pause, and I’m put on hold. This will play out one of two ways. Chances are that they’ll do their due diligence, check my credentials, and refuse to transfer me. That’s a likely option, unless what I’m counting on has happened.

  That Lucky’s taken over the jail from within already.

  Barley Heights is a terrible place to keep a man like Lucky. I’d checked into it after he’d been so damn relaxed about me having tossed him in prison. He acted as if he didn’t care - with good reason, apparently. He could run his empire from there without interference.

  We’d argued against Barley Heights, but he’d been sent there regardless.

  Now to see if Lucky is as effective as I believe him to be, as rumors make him out to be.

  I wait, the line quiet on the other end. They don’t exactly have a musical hold at the high-security prison. Or the so-called high security prison, I should say.

  My palms are gett
ing sweaty, and I don’t want to pull the phone from my ear to check the time. I should have bought another watch but haven’t bothered to yet. Time seems more fluid with Laura. My phone has been enough because I haven’t been counting minutes until meetings and court dates. Instead, I’ve been living a more relaxed lifestyle in the company of my family.

  My family. I still can’t quite wrap my head around that. I never expected to get all of this - to have a family, especially not one that I love so deeply. But, even though I never imagined knowing such a blessing in my life, I now simply can’t imagine my life without them.

  Laura and Jane make my world complete.

  I run my hand in my hair, realizing that it’s definitely not the first time I’ve done so since standing here.

  So much for keeping my emotions in check.

  I’m still wearing the suit from the office, and it feels constricting. I want to undo my tie, tear my jacket off, and roll up my sleeves - crack my knuckles, even, and introduce them to Shorty’s jaw. But this won’t be won with fists. Intellectually, I get this.

  Which suits me just fine. I’ve spent my life winning battles with my words and wits, and this would be no different. If I can keep it to an arena won by brains, I have a chance to win.

  However, if Shorty manages to drag us into an arena of brawn, well, I would give it a good shot. I’m not weak and keep in good shape. But I don’t have much in the way of weapons or training and I know my limitations - I won’t last long if this whole thing comes down to sheer firepower or a street fight.

  “Come on, pick up,” I mutter into the phone. I can’t check the time, but I can feel the seconds ticking by, turning to minutes. I can’t afford to lose time, but I also can’t afford to go in without a plan.

  Unless this is a waste of time, of course.

  Which it might be. Maybe Lucky isn’t the man of his word that his reputation suggests. What if he’s just making me wait here, while they track my line so they can finish me?

  No. I can’t think like that. Besides, Shorty is the type who would want me to witness Laura die. Dread slams into the pit of my stomach as I draw this conclusion.

  My heart feels like it’s clenching in my chest. Like it can’t take this realization.

  Laura.

  I close my eyes, taking a deep, shaky breath.

  The line clicks. For a second, I think I’ve been hung up on. Then a voice finally speaks.

  “Mr. Heed,” the gravelly voice of Lucien Malcon Sr., unmistakable anywhere, reverberates across the connection. He knows it’s me, so I wasn’t wrong. They tracked my cell number and know it’s me.

  There are two styles of debate I like to lean on. One is measured. The other is not. For half a second, I hesitate over which one will be more effective.

  “Mr. Malcon,” I reply. Both styles can be just as aggressive as the other - whichever I choose, I’ll have to be careful. Lucky is not a man to tolerate a lack of reverence easily. But, well placed, he’ll respect some aggression. Or at least some directness.

  “What can I do for you, Mr. Heed?” he asks, as though controlling the situation. Which he is, at this moment. He hates losing control, I realize. This is why he wasn’t terrified of Barley Heights - he knew he could control it easily and quickly.

  I know how I’m going to tackle this - directly, without hesitation.

  I try not to think of what the consequences might be if I’ve misread the situation - that doesn’t bear thinking about.

  “I thought you were a man of your word, Mr. Malcon,” my voice is crisp and sharp in my ears, even though I swear I can hear my heart hammering to the beat of my worry.

  Lucky doesn’t answer right away. I can feel his glare from across the phone line. How the man managed to retain control of his crime syndicate is easy to understand after even a brief exchange with him. He’s the one in prison but his power emanates over the line as if we are standing in the same room together.

  “I am a man of my word,” he answers. I realize that his pause is the same as mine. Weighing options on how to proceed, measuring the battleground and deciding how to march forward. He continues, “Have I given you a reason to doubt it?”

  I realize I’m not breathing. I’m holding my breath, each of his words grating my lungs into emptiness. I exhale, inhale, then speak, “My…” I hesitate. Laura’s my wife, in my heart, but it’s not formal yet. It should be. I should have proposed to her when I got back, when I saw she was pregnant with my child. The second we touched again. When her gaze caught mine across the room.

  I should have proposed to her years ago. I should have started paying attention to her when we were teenagers, instead of always focusing on my career. Instead of talking with Dan, I should have been getting to know his little sister.

  So many shoulda, coulda, woulda-s. They’re useless to me now.

  Only a split second has passed, but Lucky must be registering my hesitation. I push on, there’s no point in stopping now. She’s not my wife, no. But she is my partner. My soulmate. My love.

  “My partner, Laura,” hearing her name from my own mouth hurts. Is this the last time I’ll say it while she breathes?

  The thought slams into me, and I stop. Damn it. I can take on the worst situations in court, but the second Laura comes into play, I can’t think anymore. I can’t even speak her name.

  “Tell me,” Lucky’s voice comes back, the gravel softer, as though he’s an old friend ready to provide reassurance. I’m not fooled by any means, but I also know he’s my only hope.

  “She’s been taken,” I say.

  “How did you find out?”

  It’s not the question I anticipate. Not by a long shot. And there’s absolutely no point lying to him about anything. I will lay down all of my deepest secrets if it means Laura gets to come back home safely. I work to keep my voice steady, “Text message.”

  “Don’t make any more calls; don’t do anything for a few minutes,” Lucky says. “I’ll call you back.”

  “I’m on a timeline,” I answer.

  “I’ve no doubt,” Lucky replies, more hardness in his voice, “but this may save you both.”

  The line goes dead. I pull my phone away from my ear and stare at it. The call is dropped, gone. I’m alone, standing in the shade of a tree by an office building, staring at my phone, wondering why I’m wasting my time here and not running after her.

  Wait. Every one of my instincts is on edge. I know the feeling, though I hate it. It’s the feeling that something will change soon, and the tide will turn in my favor. But not yet.

  Patience is a virtue I hate but have cultivated over the years.

  Nothing is coming through yet on my phone, as far as I can tell, except it dawns on me that it’s hacked - of course, it’s hacked. I’ll have to get rid of it as soon as I’m done with this mess if I live long enough, that is. If Laura lives long enough...No, that is not an option to entertain. She will live. I will see to it; I am seeing to it. Hell, we are both making it through this. Together.

  In fact, Laura and I will have a good laugh about this. I imagine her, tossing her head back, laughing, her eyes twinkling with a new idea, linking it to the plot of her book, then chewing on her lower lip as she writes it down in her notebook...I’ll get you back.

  I swear.

  I bring up the text message, noting the address again. If there’s no call in the next minute, I’ll head to the place. I can’t wait any longer. I’m still not sure that he’s not just buying time for Shorty to do his worst.

  I gulp - as I’m staring at it, the text message disappears from my phone.

  Shit.

  They’re hiding the evidence that they contacted me. Next, I assume my call log to Barley Heights will vanish, too.

  But, if it had been their intention all along to simply delete their tracks, they would have done so before. They knew that they contacted me.

  Or someone did. Not Lucky.

  He’s either covering Shorty’s tracks or analyzing what I’v
e received - my phone rings, and I jump as a car drives by.

  Unknown number.

  I pick up.

  “Chris Heed.”

  “I am a man of my word,” Lucky says. I don’t think I’m imagining the frustration in his voice, “This is not my doing.”

  My heart sinks. I’ve already wasted ten minutes with this gamble - that Lucky would call off his people once called on it.

  “You can’t help me,” I say, my voice hoarse. I imagine Laura loving this conversation. She’d pepper me with questions on every detail. She’d be fascinated and love every nuance.

  Even the tired note of my voice would be something she’d want to know. The defeat.

  The hero always rises up again, she’d say softly and then we’d kiss.

  I want to kiss her again. I need to see her again.

  With or without help, I will find a way to save her.

  I will be her hero.

  “I can help,” Lucky whispers, “but it’ll take some guts on your part, Mr. Heed.”

  “What do I do?” I ask, ready to do whatever it takes.

  Even teaming up with my old enemy is better than losing Laura.

  21

  Laura

  They make it look so easy in the movies. You get kidnapped, and you can fight your way out of it. You can knee your attacker and escape before they shoot you. Wearing high heels, too!

  That’s not the case here. I’m so petrified by the time the driver opens the door, waving me out with a gun, that I can barely stand.

  “Keep your hands where I can see them,” he says, which is about as close to a movie as we’re getting. I hold my hands out and up a bit, but it feels awkward. My arms are shaking, too. I’m trapped somewhere between fear and exhaustion as I get out of the car.

  We’re in some kind of warehouse. I tried paying attention as he drove, but I froze up, thinking about Chris, and Jane, and the life we should have had.

  The life that would - more than likely - end today.