Hours later, and a long drive across town, I get my ass in gear and give in to my needs. Not those needs—the needs that bring me closer to Ivy. No, I squash those like a bug beneath my shoe and opt for the hard way. Option B. A plan that will drive a wedge between us like a stake through Dracula’s heart.
Parking nearly a block away is a trivial security precaution, but it gives me time to take note of my surroundings. The quaint area on the outskirts of Chicago is a smattering of cozy, little houses, joggers, and dog walkers, and it has just enough green space per capita for raising a family and playing catch. Suburbia at its finest.
I double-check the address and knock on the door.
Footsteps close in from behind it. “Be right there,” she hollers in her soft, southern drawl. The familiar sounds of rattling have my ears perking up. Even in a middle-class sanctuary like this, a five-dollar chain lock is hardly protection.
A point in my favor if I ever need to bust down the door.
The door swings wide, and I’m greeted with big, green eyes and a cheery smile. Identical to her photograph.
“Good afternoon, ma'am. Are you Grace Everly?” The fair-skinned redhead, affectionally referred to as “Aunt Grace” by Ivy, nods.
“Why, yes I am.” Her natural sweetness is charming. “Are you going to tell me that I just won the Publishers Clearing House? Because if there’s a camera crew coming, I need to fix my hair.” She runs her fingers through her hair, tugging an errant roller from her red locks with genuine concern.
Amused, I smile back. “I wonder if you might have a moment for some questions. I’m doing an employment background check on Ms. Olivia Ann Palmer.”
She stares blankly, her face void of recognition. I double-check my notes. Out of nowhere, she smacks my arm, her eyes wide with delight. “Oh, you mean Ivy.” Worried, she frowns. “Has something happened?”
I shake my head. “No, not at all. This is all part of a very routine background check.” The lie rolls off my tongue easily. I fish out my wallet and hand her my card.
“Chief of Security…Z.?” she reads aloud. “Is that your actual name?”
“It’s what I’m called.” By most of Chicago, anyway. “I'm part of a private security firm.” I flash a boyish grin.
“So, it’s like a callsign or a codename?” She sounds impressed.
“What can I say? I guess that makes me a diva. But the phone number under it is to my direct line. You can call or text me there any time, day or night.”
“Night?” she asks, giggling. “Well, with your good looks and sense of style, that's quite the offer. Though I'm a little old for you.” She winks. “Ivy’s the one you should hand your card to. I'm sure the two of you would have a lot to talk about during the night.”
“I'm sure we would,” I agree, though the last thing Ivy and I would do alone all night is talk.
“May I come in?”
Cautiously, she plants herself in the door. “How long will this take?”
“I'll only take as much time as you're willing to give me. And if this is a bad time, I can always make an appointment and return.”
“I’ll let you in on three conditions.”
Conditions? What possible conditions could this woman have? “All right. Name them.”
“You have to stick around for at least an hour and a half.”
A ninety-minute hostage situation? I check my cell. It’s not like I have anything better to do for the next two hours. Plus, I’m not used to this. If anything, most people do their damnedest to get rid of me. The thought of someone wanting me around, asking questions to my heart’s content, is oddly refreshing.
Thinking it through, I rub my chin. “You drive a hard bargain, Ms. Everly, but I’ll give you my time unless work calls me back.”
Her arms cross tightly. This must be her serious look. “Ninety minutes or nothing, security guard.”
That's chief of security for a multi-billion-dollar global conglomerate, but correcting her would be a waste of time. Time that I need to spend charting every square inch of Ivy’s past.
My smile stands pat. “Agreed. And your second demand, Ms. Everly?”
She opens the door wider, waving me in. “That you call me Grace.”
Easy enough. “Grace, it is. And your final demand?”
“That I get to read your palm before you go.”
“Read my palm?” I ask, now scouring the room for assorted crystals and voodoo dolls. “I don’t really believe in…that.”
She ponders my words, a finger tapping her chin. “Then there’s no need to share the premonitions I see, correct?”
I frown. “Whoa. Hang on now. If you’re going to go through all the work anyway, you might as well let me in on my future. Just because I didn’t buy the ticket doesn't mean I won’t enjoy the carnival ride.”
“Deal,” she says, quickly ushering me in and closing the door. The chain lock I was so concerned about is barely hanging on by a screw, but thankfully, she secures it diligently. I make a mental note to fix it before I go.
The home is tidy with well-loved furnishings that are well-blended with touches of Ikea. A living room window is in desperate need of repairs, and the overloaded power cord makes this shack one charge away from a five-alarm fire. Everywhere I look is a reminder that whatever this woman does for Ivy has nothing to do with money.
“So, other than Ivy, what will we be talking about for ninety minutes, Grace?”
“Oh, I just wanted to see if there was enough time for me to bake us a pie while we chat. You look like a city boy who could use a little down-home cooking.”
“You had me at pie.” I loosen my tie. “How can I help?”
On the way to the kitchen, I notice a picture on a small table next to the couch. Their family is huge with five-or-six-year-old Ivy front and center. Her bright eyes and sweet smile are radiant. And that streak of silver stood out even then. Grace notices me staring. “She and Brooke have been best friends since the first grade. She's always been part of our family.”
Grace beams with pride, lifting the photo and handing it to me. Brooke and Ivy are holding hands, Ivy’s dark skin a striking contrast to the sea of fair redheads and blondes surrounding her. “She looks loved,” I say honestly, handing back the frame.
“How could you not love a girl like Ivy?” she muses, sentimentally and almost to herself. My heart squeezes. Her innocent question hits me like an archer’s arrow straight through the heart.
The small kitchen is immaculate with fresh wildflowers from the garden in a cheap vase centered on the table. It brightens the unassuming space with splashes of yellow and pink.
Grace begins removing bowls from the cupboard. “How can I help?” I ask.
“You can make yourself comfortable for starters. And feel free to ditch the blazer. I already know you're packing.” Her comment catches me by surprise. “My family is all military and law enforcement. And I'm no priss around a double-barrel shotgun.”
My eyes widen. “A woman after my own heart.”
She pulls down an assortment of ingredients from the pantry, readily handing them off as if I were her child. “Set these on the table, will you?”
I do as I’m told. “And what are we making?”
“Had I known I was having company, I might have tried to whip up something extra special. But as it is, I think we're going to settle for a good, old-fashioned apple pie. You all right with that?”
I slip off my blazer and toss it to the chair. Holstered weapon and all, I roll up my sleeves. “Perfect. I might have made an apple pie or two in my life.”
“You bake?”
“My girl and I do. All the time. Maybe you know her.”
“What’s her name?” she asks excitedly.
“Rachael Ray.”
“Oh, she happens to be my girl, too. In fact,” she taps a finger to a magazine, “this is her recipe.”
We get to work, naturally sinking into our divided roles. Grace works on the dough while I take ownership of the apples, peeling and coring with ease. “How long have you known Ivy?”
“It feels like all my life. I met my little Ivy-vine forever ago.”
“Ivy-vine?”
A warm smile rises high, twinkling her eyes. “Ivy and I got along right from the start. She would cling to me like a vine. An ivy vine tangling herself around my heart. That little girl was so starved for love, you wanted her to never go without. Lucky for me, I had plenty. Whenever I'd visit my brother and his kids, Ivy was the shyest among them. Every time I left, I hated letting her go.” Her smile twists with sadness. “I tried to adopt her.”
Her admission is almost a whisper. “Does Ivy know?”
She shakes her head. “My husband and I were rooted in Chicago. I could only get back to North Carolina every few months. Her mother agreed to let us adopt her, then changed her mind. Demanded the kind of money we didn’t have. I even tried to raise the money. I got close, and I let her mother know.”
Grace trails off, concentrating harder on working the dough, slicing it, then losing herself in weaving the inch-wide strands into a lattice pattern.
My hand goes to her arm. “What happened?”
Her eyes stay down. “Her mother demanded the funds in cash. Like idiots, we gave it to her. That’s when she upped the price. It took us two-and-a-half years to try to raise that kind of money. We never did get Ivy. In the end, we got a heaping pile of debt that served to feed Samara Palmer's addiction.”
“You said you come from a family of law enforcement. Why didn't they do something?”
“Because if we did, Samara threatened to do things to Ivy. Unconscionable things.”
I don’t pry. Samara’s rap sheet had enough to fill in the blanks. She was probably days from outright selling Ivy when her liver failed.
Grace pats my hand. “She’s in my life now. And living close by, though I haven't been able to see her since she started her fancy, new job.” Hopeful, her face brightens. “Do you ever see her?” I nod. “How’s she doing?”
I tell her the truth. “I just saw her today, actually. She's impressive. She has a way with people that we've never seen before.” I'm diligent not to mention Trinity's name. Her privacy and the privacy of all the D’Angelos is always at the forefront.
Grace relaxes her shoulders, sighing with relief. She butts her elbow into my ribs. “I knew she’d kick ass.”
“She’s an amazing ass-kicker. And absolutely everyone adores her.” Myself included, though she doesn’t need to know.
Talking with Grace is effortless. In the time it takes to stage, assemble, and bake the pie, I’ve learned more about Ivy than I probably know about anyone on the planet. From her favorite books, food, and movies to her favorite color—a distinct shade of purple common to passion vines. Grace even dishes the dirt on Derrick, the asshole who cheated on Ivy. Or Daredick as her niece, Brooke, aptly named him.
Luckily for everyone, he just moved to the top of my shit list.
As Grace fixes me a cup of tea, I pry further. “What was it that brought you and your husband here?”
“My husband was offered a job. It was a few months after I first met Ivy at my brother’s place of work.” She takes a nervous sip from her own cup, and I instantly connect the dots.
“What was a child of Ivy’s age doing at the county jail?”
Grace is taken aback. “How did you know it was at the county jail?”
It’s my turn for a long sip of tea. The sweetness coats my throat, the combination of peaches and sugar or honey or—what is that—agave? Whatever it is, it’s surprisingly refreshing and gives me a moment to think.
“Lucky guess,” I finally say. “You said military and law enforcement. In North Carolina, that puts her at either a base or with the local sheriff.”
My explanation seems plausible enough that she continues. Grace lowers her voice as if sharing unsavory town gossip. “Ivy was just a child. Her mother would leave her for days, and it was reported to my brother—the sheriff. That little girl made the best of it. The first time my brother found her, her mother picked her up right away, not wanting trouble. Ivy didn’t have any bruises, so he couldn’t keep her. She was lean but not entirely malnourished. He did keep an eye on her, though.”
She trails off, and I probe for more. “Each time got worse?”
Her brow pinches, pained. “The next few times, Ivy explained it away, making it look like everything was fine. Nothing to see here, folks. When my brother found the cereal, he knew he had to do something.”
“The cereal?”
Grace twists her expression. “Do you know what a dime bag is?”
“Yes,” I say slowly. In the literal term, it’s a small plastic bag that holds a gram of drugs and sells for ten bucks. The fact that the sweet homemaker before me knows what it is surprises me. Even if cannabis is her thing, I imagine she’d be into gummies and lollipops. Hell, she’d have a nice little side hustle with edibles. Brownies, cookies…I take a sideways glance at the half-eaten slice of pie and the over-the-top sweet tea. “How do you know about dime bags?” I ask
She takes a deep breath. “Ivy had separated an entire box of cereal into dime bags.”
“Why?”
“So she wouldn’t eat too much of it at once. Three of those a day is what she held herself to.”
A lump forms in my throat. Ivy wasn’t denied a childhood. She survived one. “Why didn’t your brother do something?”
“We tried. Ivy was bright beyond her years. She didn’t want to go. She’d do anything to stay exactly where she was.”
Realization hits me like a battering ram to the chest. How similar Ivy and I really are. Covering for the sins of our parents to preserve the only thing we cherished.
Family.
My brothers and I told any lie to keep from being reported. We wouldn’t be separated. Couldn’t be separated.
I don’t share my background, though, on some level, Grace expresses her understanding. “Ivy was an only child.” I square my jaw. “Why would she cover for Samara, trying not to get reported?” I ask, confused. “What was she clinging to?”
Grace heaves a sigh, shaking her head. “From an outsider looking in, maybe. But Ivy had Brooke. From the very first time my brother took her in, those two were inseparable. Like sisters. She snaps her fingers. “Instant connection. The way Ivy is with everyone.”
It reminds me of her and Trinity. And her with me. Is it a survival mechanism—a chameleon doing and being what others need her to be? Or is it just who she is?
“You took her in?”
Her nod makes me wish we’d had an Aunt Grace. “As best we could. Sending her through the system crossed our minds. How she’d end up on the other side was a crapshoot. Most of the time, we just took her under our wing. She was the easiest child. Never wanted anything but love.”
Guilt chokes me. The one thing I refused to give her.
Ding.
Grace removes the pie from the oven and sets it before us. The smell is otherworldly, surrounding my senses and reminding me that I haven't had a thing to eat today.
I’m ready with a knife, prepared to dive into my first slice, when she smacks the back of my hand. “You have to let it cool. It tastes better that way.”
I scowl playfully. “You said ninety minutes. Your time’s almost up, and I’m starving.”
Her lips purse to one side. “Fine.” She snatches the knife from my hand. “Cutthroat it is.” She retrieves two large, unmatched spoons from the drawer and hands one to me. “Dig in.”
“Caveman style? Don’t mind if I do.” The first bite is hot and satisfying. I sink into it like a starved man ravaging a Christmas feast. “Mmm,” I muffle through my mouth full of apples and cinnamon. “Ivy’s cooking skills must come from you.”
Her head tilts to one side. “She cooks? Is that part of her job?”
“More like a perk. There's an impressive chef’s kitchen there. She loves it.”
Her spoon taps mine. “I'd love to see where she works. Any chance you could make that happen?”
Grace bats her thick eyelashes and clasps her hands. I don’t give in, enjoying another bite without a word. That’s when her tactics turn dirty.
She produces a pint of Ben & Jerry’s Whiskey Biz ice cream.
This woman means business. “Maybe,” I concede. “In exchange for information.”
She pops open the lid. “Deal.”
Grace and I take civilized turns with each spoonful of ice cream. “What do you know about Ivy’s father?”
“Nothing much.” Her tone is honest and matter-of-fact. Disappointing, to say the least.
Grace thinks it over and takes a long time to wipe her mouth with a napkin before finally speaking. “Samara blew every penny she had on drugs. But about twice a year, she’d be rolling in the dough.”
“Like how much? Enough for food and rent?”
“More like a new car. Which did her no good. She’d blow through it and end up selling the car a few months later to keep her head above water. We all wondered if it might not be from Ivy’s father. We tried finding him. Maybe sway him to help us adopt Ivy. We never found him.” At this point, my spoon crisscrosses over the crumbs remaining on the pie tin. Getting to know Ivy’s Aunt Grace? Nice. Coming up empty on more of her history? Epic fail.
“But I think Ivy had a lead on finding her father. That’s why she came out here.”
“Ivy didn’t move out here to be with you?”
“No. Her roots were firmly planted in North Carolina. In fact, I had planned to go and see her in a few months. It was such a relief when she decided to come up here. My blood pressure has been acting up, and my doctor recommended not traveling.
The glint in her eyes is telling. “You would’ve gone anyway.”
“Damn straight, security guard. I’d never let my Ivy-vine down.”
“So, what was the lead?”
Elbows on the table, Grace leans in. “You’ll have to ask her that one yourself. I’m pretty sure 23 and Me isn’t part of an employee’s background check.”
She’s got me there. I nod curtly and notice the time. Two hours. “I better get a move on before I end up napping on your couch.” I gather our dishes and stack them neatly in the sink.
Before I can slide my jacket back on, Grace pipes up. “Not so fast.” She motions for the chair.
I pat the roundest part of my newly formed Buddha belly. “Have mercy. One more mouthful, and I’ll pop.”
“Well, that's what you get for treating my pie like an eating competition,” she scolds.
I chuckle. “It's not my fault. Apple pie is my favorite, and it's the only thing I've had to eat all day.”
“Then you need to take better care of yourself.” Her tone becomes solemn. “Now, give me your hand.”
I forgot about the third condition. Palm reading.
I return to my seat and roll my eyes. With an outstretched hand, she wiggles her fingers expectantly, waiting for mine.
Reluctantly, I lay my right hand in hers, palm up. “Don’t you need a crystal ball or exotic headdress to do this right?”
“Shh!” Deep in thought, she traces the lines with a single finger, chasing the unseen trail of my life.
She lifts my hand closer to her face, carefully inspecting the horizontal line near the top for who knows what. My past. My future. The innermost secrets of my soul. A rogue freckle that seemed to pop out of nowhere. She goes over it again and again as if analyzing the details of a treasure map.
I yawn.
“You care for a lot of people,” my psychic friend surmises.
I play along. “Correct,” I say, nodding ceremoniously. I’m not placating her because her knack for the obvious astounds me. But I might need to drop by again, and I wouldn't want to ruffle the feathers of the best damn baker this side of Chicago—psychic or not.
Her hand hovers over mine. My pulse ticks up just a hair. Her voice is an omen. “Oh, dear.”
What the fuck does that mean? Oh, dear. Am I about to get a colossal case of the runs or get shot? Fuck, don't tell me I'm going bald.
She bites her lip thoughtfully. “You're coming to a crossroads,” she announces.
I deadpan. Who isn’t? “You don’t say,” I reply, monotone.
Her nod is grave as she clasps my hand with both of hers. “Your fate is not yet decided.”
“So free will prevails.” I look at her blankly. “Can you tell me anything more?” I ask, trying not to sound too underwhelmed.
“You have a decision to make.”
“Is this where you hand me a red pill and a blue pill? I already know my answer.”
My wit is lost on Ivy’s poor Aunt Grace. Her trance-like state continues. “At a fancy affair. Elegant. A small gathering. Black tie, I think. But not a wedding…”
“Thank God for small favors.”
Her face contorts as she continues the reading. “You are of importance. Best man comes to mind…something about a throne…”
Erede al Trono… Could she mean Erede al Trono? Heir to the Throne?
Holy shit, is this woman for real?
Stunned, I mutter. “Yes.” Wide-eyed, I lean into the table, searching my palm for whatever it is she seems to see. “What else?” I demand, alarmed and impatient.
Is something going to happen at the event? Is it Trinity? Is someone in danger?
For the love of God, woman, talk!
Unhurried, she takes her sweet, southern time, a trait some find endearing. I find it aggravating and irksome, and I swear to God, I’m about to lose my shit all over the place.
Hmm escapes her tight lips, and fuck me, but I think she’s dragging this out on purpose.
Before I can threaten to rip every Rachel Ray magazine she owns to shreds if she doesn’t get on with it, she finally speaks. “Your heart…”
My hand lunges to my chest. “What about my heart?” Goddamnit, I knew it. My blood pressure is shot to hell, and the sugar, fat, and cholesterol brought on by her decadent apple pie sure as hell isn’t helping.
I wince, suddenly noticing a pain I never felt before.
“It’s…divided,” she says prosaically.
“Uh-huh. Okay.” I nod several times with a sigh. “My heart is divided into four chambers. Thanks for the reminder. I think I can live with that.”
Her head shakes with reticence. The small pinching in my chest returns as the psychic that I don’t believe in once again speaks. “You will have to choose between your sense of duty and your heart.”
“With me, they're the same thing.”
“Not this time, Leo.” She gives my hand several motherly pats. “Choose wrong, and you risk losing the only thing that matters.”
“Which is?”
“Your heart.”
I stand and button my blazer, flashing her a confident smile. Her charlatan tricks are over. “That’s where you’re wrong.” I pull back my hand, pocketing it. “That’s impossible.”
“What do you mean?”
I give it to her straight. “I have no heart.”
I decide to take the long way back to the D’Angelo estate. It’s been a solid half-hour of me processing my time with Grace. It isn’t until I’m halfway home that it hits me.
She called me Leo.
How did she know my name when the only name I gave her was Z? I take another look at my palm and focus on the line that stretches across the width of my hand. My heart line.
I ball my hand into a fist. There is no free will. If duty is at a crossroads with love, duty wins. It isn’t a decision. It’s history repeating itself.
The phone chimes once before I answer. Hunter. Right on time. “What do you have?”
“Nothing but a string of calls to North Carolina. Brooke Everly.”
“Her best friend,” I reply unenthusiastically. What was it Grace said? Brooke and Ivy are like sisters. I pump my fist on the wheel. Sisters tell each other everything. “Do you have an address?”
“Yes, sir.”
“I need an overnight bag and the jet ready. Meet me at the airport now. Let the pilot know the destination, and have a driver on standby.”
“Do you want any of the team with you? Or any weapons?”
“Nope. It’ll be quick.” Unless I find something.
“And if Smoke asks?”
I puff out an undecided breath. “Just tell him I'll speak to him tomorrow. That should buy me some time.”
“And Ivy?”
I take another look at my palm. I told Grace the truth. I have no heart. Determined to prove my point, I make a preemptive strike against the merciless fates, and fuck destiny in the ass. “Do what you do best, Hunter.”
Hunter pauses. “You…don’t mean that.”
“You heard me.”
Another pause. “I just want to make sure I heard you right. You…want me to kill Ivy?”
“What? No. For fuck’s sake.” I take a breath. “I want answers about Andre once and for all. Do what you have to do to get them.”
The uncertainty in his silence is fucking annoying. I don’t wait for his response. “Just do it!” I disconnect the call before I change my mind.
At the next four-way stop, I hang a left and head north. By the time I arrive at the airport, the pilot has my bag on board and the jet ready.
It isn’t until I’m seated and we begin to ascent that I take another look at my hand. There’s a clean cut across the inconsequential love line and a fork in the road at its tail.
“See?” I mutter like a madman. “Duty fucking first.”