???????

38 - No Saints on This Side of Hell.

"Why?" I asked, deadpan.

That only pissed him off more. "What do you mean, why? Jesus fucking Christ, Frankie, we're out here locking down security, dealing with threats coming from every goddamn direction, and you disappear like it's some kind of game?"

Oh. That.

I exhaled through my nose, forcing the tension in my jaw to ease before speaking. "You're right. I should've said something. But I wasn't about to leave Noah unprotected—not without the only person I trust to watch his back."

Sawyer narrowed his eyes. He wasn't stupid. He knew when I was playing him. But fuck if he didn't like hearing it anyway.

"When did you learn to kiss ass like that?" His scowl cracked, amusement slipping through despite himself.

I smirked, dry and unbothered. "Look, Sawyer, I know you worry, but you're more than just muscle. You're the reason I can move the way I do. I see it. Don't think for a second I don't."

He stared at me for a beat, jaw working, then finally let out a rough exhale and dropped into the chair across from me. His hands landed heavy on my desk, tension bleeding out of his shoulders.

"I'll give it to you," he muttered. "That was pretty fucking slick."

I leaned back, smirking. "I'll take that as a compliment."

Sawyer had a way of snapping me out of my own head—gruff, blunt, sometimes downright fucking abrasive. Not a bad thing, mind you. I needed it. Otherwise, I'd spiral too deep, get lost in the storm of my own thoughts.

"Alright," I exhaled, shaking off the tension. "What are we dealing with?"

"We've got extra men on board now," Sawyer reported. "No dropping the fucking ball, especially you. We need to be ready for whatever the bastard throws at us."

I nodded, meeting his gaze. "I hear you. No more sneaking around without giving you a heads-up."

"Make sure you keep to that." His voice was gruff, but there was an edge to it. Then his eyes drifted to the photo in my hand.

Lifting it slightly, I gave him a clear look. "Found this in my dad's stuff. It's been driving me up the fucking wall trying to figure out the connection between him and Salvatore Lombardi."

Sawyer's reaction was immediate—too immediate. His practiced mask, the one he'd worn for years, cracked at the edges. It was subtle, but I caught it. The flicker of recognition. The hesitation.

And just like that, a new kind of tension coiled between us.

I'd known Sawyer for three years, long enough to understand that getting a read on him was like trying to solve a goddamn Rubik's cube blindfolded. But we had a bond—something solid, something unspoken. We didn't need words to communicate.

But this was fucking new.

His eyes betrayed him. He knew something. And he was holding back.

A sharp pang of disappointment twisted in my gut. Sawyer, keeping something from me? That wasn't supposed to happen. It was a crack in something I thought was unbreakable, and even if it was a small fucking crack, it was enough to sting.

He moved to leave, and for a second, I let him.

Then I snapped out of it. Focus.

"One more thing," I said, stopping him just as he reached the door.

He turned, waiting.

"I need four more men for our operation. Two to keep watch over Nadia and the kids. The other two to tail Jamie everywhere he goes—like his own fucking shadow. But not our usual guys. Jamie would spot them a mile away. I need people who blend. And you're the only one I trust with this."