Fifty-six

Yuma, Arizona

Rather than walk through the lobby, Sabrina took the back stairs that fed directly into the department’s employee parking garage. A quick Google search told her that Saint Rose’s confession hours were from 10 a.m. to 5 p.m. It struck her as slightly ridiculous that a church that didn’t even have electricity would have a website but she wasn’t about to complain.

You think you’re gonna get that old fool to tell you the truth? Think again, darlin’. He’s just as guilty of killin’ as the rest of us.

Entering the parking structure, she looked at her watch. It was almost four thirty. By the time she got to the church, confession would be wrapped up and Father Francisco would be preparing for evening mass. That meant she’d have about an hour to get some answers. Looking up, she saw the sleek, dark outline of a limousine parked next to the car she and Church shared.

Her first thought was Livingston Shaw. She should have listened to Church. Believed her when she warned her about the danger of being out in the world, unprotected. The realization reminded her of the man she’d seen at the hotel and later, at Saint Rose.

She took a step back, ready to retreat into the stairwell but she didn’t get far. Colliding with a broad, solid chest, strong hands bracketed her biceps. She took a step back, planting her foot between his, hands cranked into fists. Before she could make her move, the limo door swung open.

“I wouldn’t do that if I were you.” He stepped through the open door and stood, an amused smile on his face. “She doesn’t take kindly to being manhandled.”

The man behind her suddenly released her. She wanted to believe it was because of the warning that had been issued, but she knew better. It had everything to do with who issued it.

“Hello, Phillip,” she said, relief sapping the steel from her bones. “I told you not to come.”

“I believe,” he said with a shadowy half smile, turning toward the open car door, gesturing her inside, “your exact words were, whatever.” The man behind her stepped to the side and she caught an imposing glimpse. Wide shoulders. Expensive suit. Tattoos peeking out from under his collar and cuffs. Phillip Song’s underlings were as easy to spot as Livingston Shaw’s.

She complied without protest. Even if he was the last person she wanted to see right now, Phillip Song was her friend. Sliding across the soft leather seat of the car, he followed her inside, closing them in with a soft click. “You look well, Sabrina,” he said, angling himself on the seat toward her while studying her. “Different. Not like yourself at all. Your hair. Your eyes. The shape of your face, even. I almost didn’t recognize you.”

“How did you then?” she said, forcing herself to submit to his appraisal. “Recognize me.”

“Nan naega jangnim hadeolado, dangsin eul bol geos-ibnida,” he said quietly. For some reason, the words made her uncomfortable.

“No fair,” she said playfully, resorting to what worked between them. “You know I don’t speak Korean.”

“My apologies, yeon-in, I tend to forget there are actual limits to what you’re capable of.” The corner of his mouth lifted in a wicked half smile. “It was your walk—it’s always been full of purpose. Like you’re perpetually charging into battle. I’d know it anywhere.” He reached over and powered up the glass partition that separated the front seat of the limo from the back. As soon as it was closed, he continued. “Eun is worried about you,” he said, reaching into the breast pocket of his suit. The movement pulled the crisp cotton collar of his shirt away from his neck to reveal the flat, sinewy scales of a dragon inked into his skin.

“Just Eun?” she said, falling effortlessly into their old rhythms, and he smiled.

“There is no point in worrying about what you can’t control, is there?” He removed the red silk pouch and the gap fell closed, hiding the tattoo completely. “With this comes a warning.” He held it out to her. “My poor cousin still holds onto hope that you’ll actually listen to her.”

She reached for the pouch, frowning. “I listen.”

“Yes, you listen—but rarely heed,” he said, his hands reclosing over the pouch before she could take it from him. “His prolonged banishment will have angered your Gae Dokkaebi. Made him dangerous.”

“Tell Eun I said thank you,” she said, forcing her mouth into a reassuring smile. “And not to worry about me so much. I’ll be okay as soon as this is all over and I can go home.”

Song nodded once before placing the pouch of tea into her outstretched hand. “There is another solution, yeon-in,” he said softly, his fingers closing around hers while his other hand reached out to skim fingers along her jawline. “Let me take you home … your real home.”

She closed her eyes for a moment and imagined it. Returning to San Francisco under Song’s protection. He was head of Seven Dragons, the Korean mob’s most powerful family. Even a man as connected as Livingston Shaw would think twice before crossing him. She could go back. To Val. To Riley and Jason. Strickland. It would almost be like she never left.

Almost.

She reached up, closing her hand around Song’s to pull it down, holding it in her lap. “Michael is my home.”

“Eun says he is your senteo.” Song rocked back in his seat, pulling his hand from hers. “Your center—that he holds you still. Keeps you balanced,” he said, that wicked smile going sad around its corners. “Fills the empty places inside you.”

She smiled. “As usual, Eun is right.”

His dark eyes glittered, something unreadable passing quickly across his face. “All I see is someone who has stolen you from the people who love you and places you in harm’s way, time after time.”

“He can’t steal something that already belongs to him, Phillip.” She shook her head, holding her hand up to stop him when he started to speak. “And no one places me anywhere. You of all people should know that.”

He chuckled softly. “I care deeply for you, yeon-in,” he said, leaning toward her. “And I know you care for me. You know I can protect you. Come back. Not only to me but to everyone who—”

“Michael and I are married,” she said quietly. Reaching into her shirt, she pulled out the length of chain Michael gave her before she left. Dangling from it was the platinum band.

As soon as he saw it, Song slumped back against the seat. He was a lot of things and she’d wager he’d done a lot of horrible shit, but if she knew anything about Phillip Song it was that he lived by a strict code of honor. Being another man’s wife made her untouchable. She tucked the chain away before reaching for the door handle to let herself out. “Thank you for coming all this way to bring me tea,” she said, giving him one last look.

“Naneun dangsin-eul dasi bol su jiog eul geol-eossda geos-ida,” he said, watching her go.

“Still don’t speak Korean,” she said bending over to look at him through the open car door.

Phillip inclined his head, giving her another slight smile. “I know,” he said, before closing the door between them.