Crazed: A Blood Money Novel (23 page)

“Stay down, and don’t shoot.” The words felt torn from him, but the two of them could not take on a six-man ops team, not when it would put both Adam and Arlo at grave risk. “Let them...let them take him.”

Finn cursed a blue streak.

Tucking Arlo’s face into his shoulder, Casey strode into the main aisle of the stables, shielding his daughter from the sight of her dead caregiver. With grim determination, he listened to the thumping blades of the helicopter, the gunfire having ceased, and eased through the door leading into the courtyard. Just in time to watch the sliding hatch to the enemy chopper slam shut on Adam’s bleak expression.

Pain pierced his heart as the helicopter lifted into the air and disappeared all too swiftly into the night sky. Footsteps sounded as Finn dashed across the courtyard to where Casey stood beneath the overhanging stable roof. “Eastern bearing,” he said, his voice unrecognizable to his own ears.

“I’ve already got Della working the satellite feeds.” Finn’s hand landed on his shoulder, squeezing in reassurance. “We’ll find Adam again, don’t worry.”

But worry was all Casey could do. Without quite realizing what he was doing, he sank to the ground, his back propped against one of the smooth posts reinforcing the hanging roof. “Finn, there’s a dog just over there...it was alive when I went into the stable.”

“I’ll check it out, boss.” Finn jogged away to look after Cerdito.

Which left Casey alone with Arlo. Rubbing a hand in what he hoped was a soothing manner over her small back, he stared up at the empty sky. So much darkness, so much death. Not only here, but across the city. Pipe was gone, Medellín’s most prominent cartels suffering devastating blows they might not recover from fully.

And Adam. Brave, stupid Adam, who’d protected Arlo better than any of them.

Suddenly, Arlo wriggled in his hold, pushing against Casey’s chest and whimpering loudly. He grabbed for her middle, but she wasn’t trying to get away. No, she was signing at him, words he didn’t understand, and he laid one hand over both of hers, shaking his head. “I don’t know,” he told her, enunciating carefully in case she was reading his lips. “I don’t know what you’re saying.”

Frowning fiercely at him, she tugged her hands free and pointed to the sky where the helicopter had been. Then she signed again, and this time Casey recognized one of the motions from the night before. The one for
friend
, as Ilda had explained.
“Si,”
he told her, nodding before he mimicked her sign. “That’s where he went.”

Fresh tears welled, and she sort of...crumpled in his lap, sobbing raggedly as she leaned into his chest. At that moment, Casey felt every bruise, every blow from the past week, his body one giant ache. With a shuddering sigh, he gathered Arlo close and began to sway ever so subtly against the post, humming tunelessly low in his throat. He rubbed her back and buried his face in her hair, breathing in the scents of barn and dust and kiddie shampoo that clung to her, and he’d never been so bone-shakingly relieved in all his life as he was in this moment.

His daughter. In his arms. Safe from all physical harm.
Jesus fucking Christ
.

Exhaustion swamped him, and he squeezed his eyes shut, listening to Finn speak to someone from a few yards away, either in his comm or on his phone. After a while, Arlo’s sobs faded to hiccups, her little body growing heavier against him as her overwhelmed senses got the better of her and she drifted toward unconsciousness. Casey simply held her, content to sit here in the dirt as the night drew in around them.

Eventually, the sound of approaching vehicles in the south courtyard roused him, but he didn’t move, able to tell from Finn’s relaxed posture that it was their people who’d finally arrived. Car doors slammed, voices raised in worried exclamation, and—

“Casí?”

He looked up to see Ilda racing toward him in her blue gown, bare feet flying across the cobblestones, and stood, a sleeping Arlo draped over his chest. “Ilda.” Her petite body hit his, frantic hands seeking, clinging to them both.

“You’re all right. She’s all right?”

“Yes.” Wrapping his unencumbered arm around her, he held the two most important people in his universe to him, ignoring the sting of emotion behind his eyes. “Everything’s all right now.”

A throat cleared to his right. Casey looked up to meet Tobias’s somber gaze. “Casey.” His brother’s voice was so calm, so cool that it hurt. “Where’s Adam?”

Chapter Twenty

One Month
Later
Chicago

So this was what it felt like to live without fear.

Tilting her head back to stare up at the bright blue patch of early summer sky overhead, Ilda adjusted her sunglasses and shifted on the bench. The sound of her daughter’s happy laughter hit her ears, a carefree giggling followed by excited canine yipping. Cerdito may still be limping from his brush with danger, but the mutt had relaxed into contentedness alongside Arlo and Ilda in this new city they were exploring together every day.

Chicago was as urban as any other major metropolis, but something in the cool, dry air had infected Ilda with an innate sense of safety. That sense was completely at odds with the logic telling her Chicago carried the same troubles—crime, poverty, overcrowding—as Medellín, but she no longer felt caught in the crosshairs every waking minute, as she had living in Pipe’s fortress on the hill.

In the end, it hadn’t been much of a fortress, just as the safety she’d craved over the years had been a mirage. But here in America, surrounded by Casey’s people and existing amongst friendly Midwesterners, Ilda breathed easy.

There were no Orras threats. No enemies pointing guns at her or her daughter. No guards at the gate or cameras in her home or lies being told so she could keep her conscience clear. The only concern plaguing her was helping Arlo play catch-up after having enrolled her in the Holy Trinity Deaf Program at the Children of Peace Catholic School. The administration had permitted Arlo to join one of the toddler playgroups, despite her being a full year older than the other children, while at the same time offering one-on-one education to get Arlo up to speed with basic signs, with Ilda learning at the same time. They had been lucky that so many of the LSM signs Ilda had co-opted into her and Arlo’s private language were synonymous with American Sign Language; Arlo wasn’t nearly as behind as Ilda had feared.

Today, Ilda had hooked a leash to Cerdito’s collar and popped Arlo into her sleek stroller, and the three of them had left the luxurious townhouse she’d signed a lease for in Benton Place a week after their arrival. The three-level attached home overlooked a small green oasis in the middle of the city, complete with playground and dog-friendly areas, and a sense of seclusion that reinforced Ilda’s feeling of security. In the mornings, she would take her two charges downstairs to the park and watch as they played together, no fear weighing her down.

It was glorious. Unexpected and rare. And she knew exactly whom to thank for this immense privilege.

Which was, of course, why she and Arlo and their furry protector had agreed to meet some of the Faraday clan in the Art Institute’s North Garden, another verdant paradise tucked away in this concrete jungle. Beth Faraday, Casey’s younger sister, worked as an assistant curator at the museum, and in the short weeks that Ilda and Arlo had been in Chicago, they’d shared several midday meals with the stunning young woman, as the Art Institute was only a few blocks from their townhouse. Arlo already adored her sophisticated aunt.

As far as Ilda could tell, the feeling was entirely mutual, though it appeared Beth also had a severe soft spot for the gimpy Cerdito, who Beth insisted on calling “Piglet.”

But it wasn’t just Beth they’d met for lunch today in the North Garden. Beth’s fiancé, the bearded man named Vick who had been party to their rescue in Colombia, held the end of Cerdito’s leash as Beth and Arlo focused on integrating a set of plastic lions and tigers—courtesy of a recent trip to Brookfield Zoo—with Arlo’s existing stable of dinosaurs. Casey sat cross-legged in the grass, Arlo comfortably in his lap, another of his employees—friends?—lounging on a bench beneath a shade tree, blue gaze watchful whenever he glanced up from the paperback he held between scarred, tattooed fingers.

However, it was the Faraday seated next to Ilda on another bench, some distance from their grassy picnic, who held Ilda’s attention. Sofia Abtan Faraday, the family matriarch, had flown in from Boston a mere day after they’d escaped Colombia. Because, as the older woman had explained, “Granddaughters don’t grow on trees.”

Adam had been right—Arlo had indeed inherited her unusual light-gray eyes from her grandmother. Sofia’s features had softened in her sixth decade, but Beth might as well be a carbon copy, and Ilda could clearly see what Arlo would look like as she grew older—an elegant beauty.

For now, though, Arlo remained Ilda’s innocent little girl, her brush with violence having no obvious lasting effect. There had been no nightmares, and while she had initially signed several questions asking where Pipe was, Arlo appeared to have accepted that he wasn’t
here
, wouldn’t ever be
here
, and while she might not know why, her fast-growing bond with Casey had begun to reverse the paternal deficit.

Casey, who was trying so hard. Casey, who hadn’t let a single day pass without spending time with his daughter, who had attended all of the classes at Children of Peace with Ilda, who had found Cerdito a top-notch veterinarian and installed new locks on all the doors and windows in the townhouse...and, most importantly, had respected Ilda’s quietly voiced wish that he keep his distance from her, Ilda.

The past few weeks had been a lesson in humility, and the cost that fear extracted on one’s life. She’d needed as much emotional and physical distance from Casey as possible—without infringing on his parental rights—in order to come to terms with just how, exactly, she had spent the last four years of her life.

For instance, Ilda had money.
Money
money, more than she’d need in a lifetime, but until Pipe had died and his solicitor had contacted her, Ilda hadn’t realized precisely how much money she had, nor what Pipe had done with it when she’d first been hospitalized after the chapel fire.

He’d invested it—wisely. A significant percentage of the royalties from Almángel’s post-mortem album had been funneled into high-performing funds, all free of the taint of Pipe’s illegal drug trade. He’d also set aside a portion in a trust for Arlo, which included the proceeds from Théa’s estate, and which he also had added to on a quarterly basis with money he earned in legitimate business from the commercial real estate he’d owned in Medellín, Bogotá and Barranquilla.

That money—Ilda’s and Arlo’s—was completely protected from seizure by those who would make claims on his empire, now that he was gone. No international or government agency, nor any rival cartel leader, could touch those investments. For that, Ilda would be forever grateful.

But Pipe had stolen from her, too. He’d hidden her away at the hacienda, limiting her forays into Medellín more than she had realized, having buried her head in the sand with her grief over Théa and Casey and funneling the entirety of her emotional energy into caring for her daughter. He’d kept her dependent on him for every tangible cent. It wasn’t until she’d arrived in Chicago, taken a good hard look at her assets and, for the first time, dug deep into the legacy Almángel had left on the music world that Ilda recognized her personal potential hadn’t died along with Théa.

She was only thirty-one years old. Her vocal cords worked just fine. A career here in the States, a fresh start, wasn’t beyond her power.

For now, though, Ilda wanted nothing more than to bask in this precious safety, and the new freedom she reveled in.

“You’re a quiet one, aren’t you.” Sofia’s voice broke into her thoughts.

Ilda straightened on the bench, shifting to look at the woman who would be her mother-in-law, if Casey had his way. “No, actually.” She spoke in English, as she had almost exclusively for the past month, a small smile tugging at her mouth. “I am not known for keeping my mouth shut.”

“Then it must be me who’s bringing down the mood.”

Despite the teasing note in Sofia’s words, Ilda sensed a question lurking, and knew it was time to come clean about the guilt that had been plaguing her for weeks. “Your son. Adam. He...he saved my daughter.”

“Of course he did.” Sadness tightened the corners of Sofia’s beautiful eyes. “I raised a good man.”

Ilda’s throat hurt when she swallowed. “But that is the reason he is not here with us today.”

“Oh, sweetie, no.” For the first time since they’d met, Sofia initiated physical contact with Ilda, one slender arm slipping around Ilda’s shoulders and tugging her close. It was maternal and soft and warm and wonderful, and something inside Ilda melted as she leaned into the older woman’s embrace. “The reason Adam isn’t here is because he made a choice. And he made the
right
choice, to protect our little Arlo above all else.” Sofia squeezed Ilda gently, and the melting sensation increased tenfold. “Is this why you’ve been so careful around me?”

“I am...if I were you—” and it was important that she get her words exactly right “—and my child were somewhere in the world, with someone who intended him harm, and I could not find him, I would... I would be a mess.” Her throat hurt again, her eyes suddenly damp.

Another squeeze. “You’ve got your one baby, and she’s still a baby. You haven’t gotten to see her grow up yet, into the strong, independent person she’s going to become.” Sofia’s mouth curved, the solemnness leaving her gaze as she smiled at Ilda. “My babies are adults, all of whom have witnessed the scariest the world has to offer—the nature of their work. Yes, I’m terrified for Adam. Yes, I will do anything in my power to get him home again. Yes, I intend to lock him in his childhood bedroom for a year as soon as he
is
home. But I have to trust that my son is smart enough and tough enough and brave enough to handle whatever comes his way. Including this.”

“So you do not resent me?”

“No, Ilda. I like you, quite a lot.” Sofia paused, considering. “But I
do
wish you would put my oldest son out of his misery.”

A fierce blush heated her cheeks. “Oh.”

“Oh.” Sofia’s smile widened. “Casey loves you, and Arlo. It lights him up inside, that love.”

Shoving the sunglasses to the top of her head, Ilda let her gaze wander to the man in question. As if sensing her regard, he glanced up, eyes locking with hers. She shivered in the banked heat she saw there, blasting her with sensual warmth from several yards away. “Will you watch Arlo for us, for a moment?”

Sofia laughed. “Take as long as you need.” With a final squeeze, Casey’s mother stood and walked to Beth, Vick and Arlo, leaning down to murmur something in her son’s ear.

Breathing suddenly became far more difficult.

Short seconds later, Casey stood in front of Ilda, hands shoved in the pockets of his jeans, broad shoulders tense as he stared at her. A wealth of emotion lived in those gray-hazel irises, so different than those of the rest of his family, different than Arlo’s, but utterly familiar in the best possible way.
“Hola.”

He was the only one who’d spoken Spanish with her since leaving Colombia, aside from Chandler McCallister—who, though having returned to London with Tobias, rang Ilda twice a week to check in on how she and Arlo were settling in and adjusting to American life. “
Hola
, Casey.”

Shifting his weight from one foot to the other, his gaze drank her in, the greed and hunger lashing her. Making her ache. “Would you walk with me, Ilda?” He nodded to indicate the gravel path to her left. “Arlo will be safe—Gavin’s keeping a watchful eye.”

Gavin, the man with the book, the blue eyes and the tattoos. “All right.” Smoothing the skirt of her yellow cotton sundress, Ilda stood and began moving slowly down the path Casey indicated, careful not to touch him. Just as he made an equally concerted effort not to permit his arm to brush hers.

Sculptures rose up on either side, bursting from the trimmed hedges, but she was blind to it. Every sense was attuned to the man at her side. His scent, fresh and masculine, filled her lungs. He filled her peripheral vision, big and bad in the most formal clothes she’d ever seen him wear, perfectly fitted jeans, a heather-gray henley and taupe topsiders. He looked every inch the successful weekending businessman—which, Ilda had learned, is who he was, when he wasn’t playing spy or soldier.

He looked
edible
, more than anything else, and her mouth watered for a taste. A taste she’d denied herself for weeks because figuring out who she was on her own, without a man casting a shadow over her everyday existence, was a necessary first step for the rest of her life. “Thank you,” she blurted out.

“For what?”

“Giving me the time I asked for.”

His shoulders hiked up, hands turning to obvious fists in his pockets. As though it was as difficult for him to keep from reaching for her as it was for her. “Ask me for anything, Ilda, and I’ll give it. That’s how this works.”

Frowning, she finally looked up at him. “How what works?”

“This. Us.” Casey halted in the middle of the path. “You already know what I want, baby. It hasn’t changed, but... I have.” When she stopped with him, he withdrew his hands, and together they stared down at the long blunt-tipped fingers, the broad palms with their visible calluses. Capable hands that cradled their child so gently, defended them so fiercely and pleasured her so thoroughly. “There’s a psychiatrist on staff. We’re required to talk with her on a quarterly basis, and for the past four years, I’ve been lying to her.”

“About what?”

“My mind. When I lost you—when I thought I lost you—I spiraled, big time.” Hesitating, he glanced around, and she saw the soldier in him take hold, assessing their privacy and, apparently, finding it lacking. Gesturing for her to follow him, he led her up a set of stone steps and around a corner, until they stood beneath the old-world arches marking the edge of the museum. His body acted as a shield, barricading them from any prying eyes of the outside world, no matter that it was the middle of the day with sunlight streaming down.

She shifted backward, until her bottom hit the balustrade, her bare shoulders brushing the greenery photosynthesizing its way up the wall. “You don’t have to tell me.” Except she was desperate to know, not because she wanted to revel in his suffering, but because she was finally ready to learn the portions of his past that might hurt
her
.