Page 90 of Cruel Kiss

I'm planning on making chicken marsala to celebrate the conclusion of the kids' first full week back at school—my world-famous chicken marsala, the one I used to make for Todd, except now, I make it for a house full of people who actually deserve it—and Ronan is running late at the office. I go to grab the garlic and the mushrooms and discover, to my dismay, that I have neither.

"Are you kidding me?" I scold the empty fridge, as if it's the one to blame.

I text Ronan.Out of garlic and mushrooms. Running to the store. Taking Anton.

He texts back in under a minute.Straight there, straight back.

Yes, warden.

Cali.

I'm KIDDING. Straight there, straight back. I promise.

Anton is one of the men who rotates on the corner. He's big, quiet, a little sad around the eyes. He drives me the six blocks to the grocery store and parks up front where he can watch the door.

"I'll wait here," he says. He grabs a gun from under his coat and thumbs off the safety.

Jeez. Everyone's a warden.

I go in, grab a basket, and head for the produce section. I figure I'll pick up some avocados while I'm here, because after a summer-long pancake fest, Isabella has decided this week that she only eats things that are green.

The avocados on the top of the pile are all bruised to hell. The good ones are pushed to the back, on the high shelf, just out of reach even when I go up on my toes.

"Allow me," says a voice beside me.

I turn to see an old man. Seventy, maybe more. Silver hair combed neat, a soft gray cardigan, a cane he doesn't seem to actually need. He reaches past me—he's taller than he looks—and pulls down two of the perfect avocados from the very back.

"These are the ones you want," he says, and hands them to me in a faint, unrecognizable accent. "The ones in front, they bruise them handling. The good ones, they always hide in the back."

"Thank you," I say. "That's very kind."

"My wife taught me. God rest her. She would squeeze forty avocados before she chose a pair." He smiles, grandfatherly and unthreatening. "She said the produce men could not be trusted. She was usually right when it came to that sort of thing."

"Woman's intuition," I laugh as I tap my temple.

He doesn't laugh with me, though. "You are cooking something nice?" he asks.

"Chicken marsala. And guacamole, apparently, for my daughter, who is six and a tyrant."

"Six." He nods slowly. "A wonderful age. My granddaughter is six." He sets his hand on the edge of the shelf. "And your son is nine, yes, Calista?"

The avocados tumble from my hands. It's only all this time with Ronan that keeps me from freaking out completely.

Don't lose your composure. Not until you understand what's happening.

"Nine," I agree as I force myself to smile. "He's a handful, too. But I must be missing something: Have we met before?"

"No," the man says. "But I've been dying to make your acquaintance for quite some time, Ms. Meadows."

"You have me at a disadvantage," I say. "You know my name. I don't know yours."

"You know it," he says gently. "You are a smart woman. Smarter than any of them give you credit for. I think you already know."

Yeah. He's right about that.

"You're Lev."

He inclines his head like I've paid him a compliment. "At your service."