Before I could react to that, the weaselly voice from the police radio called out to us, “Thank God you’re all right, Kathleen. I’ve been worried sick.”
Kat and I turned toward the voice at the building’s entrance, finding her cousin flanked by ten private security guys, all dressed in black suits, ties, and shirts. Once more without thinking, I stepped in front of Kat. Also without thinking, I sized them up, the lot of them. They arranged themselves in standard formation, but didn’t seem to be on high alert. That was good.
Also good, not five seconds after Caleb and his black suit gang left the building, I spotted Alex, Quinn, and another dozen of our team emerge right behind them. And then I had to do a double take, because among them were Sandra, Steven, Nico—Elizabeth’s husband and world famous comedian—Ashley Winston, and her guy, Drew Runous.
Ashley and Drew were in town to visit the new babies; we’d just spent the evening with them at Greg and Fiona’s. I’d forgotten they were staying with Elizabeth and Nico for a few days.
Caleb opened his arms as he opened his mouth, like the little fucker was planning on giving Kat a hug, but then his steps slowed until he eventually stopped, still a good distance away. He and his crew halted, glancing behind them.
I almost laughed when the little shit’s shoulders stiffened, probably when he caught sight of freaking Nico Moretti. Or maybe he caught sight of Drew, who—I kid you not—was the size of a mountain, looked like a Viking, and wore a murderous expression to match; I wouldn’t have been surprised to see him carrying an axe. Or maybe it was the death glares coming from Quinn and Alex.
Whatever it was, Caleb and company didn’t take another step in our direction. But bad news, now his guys were on high alert.
Quinn made it to us first, quickly assessing the situation. “We have more on the way.”
“We have fifteen, I think this is enough.” I lifted my chin to the Chicago PD. “Things won’t get ugly, but this makes for a good show of strength.”
He and I traded a brief nod as Nico, Alex, Steven, and Drew flanked me and Kat. Sandra and Ashley greeted Kat and then assumed positions just behind her, their arms crossed, eyes narrowed, looking like they were hoping someone would give them a reason to kick ass. As was my habit, I checked their hands for knitting needles and tequila bottles, which seemed to be their weapons of choice when faced with goons.
Caleb was shooting his cousin a confused, slightly maniacal smile, his fingers coming to his suit jacket. He unbuttoned then re-buttoned his coat.
“Uh, what is this?” His tone was light and condescending as he motioned to all of us. “Are you in some sort of gang? Again?”
Kat stared at her cousin, her features clear of expression. She didn’t respond.
I took that as my cue to—as she’d told Eugene earlier—do most of the talking.
Clearing my throat, I stepped forward, Alex, Quinn, and Nico close behind me. Sticking out my hand, I gave him my most shit-eating grin. “You must be Colin. You can call me Mr. O’Malley. I’m Kathleen’s husband.”
His smile diminished by degrees and his pale blue eyes narrowed into slits. He looked down at my hand like I was offering him shit and his nose twitched. He didn’t take it.
Yeesh, this guy looks even more like a weasel in person.
Really, it wasn’t the way he looked. It was who he was. He was a weasel, and so he looked like a weasel.
Lifting his chin, he gave me a spasmodic smile. “Kathleen’s husband?” He laughed, definitely forced, and glanced around at his security team. They didn’t laugh, likely because they weren’t in on the joke, nor were they paid to play the role of sycophants to a psychopath. “I find that extre-e-e-e-mly unlikely. How much did she pay you?” He took a step closer, lowered his voice, but not enough to keep from being overheard, “Or what did she promise you? Hmm?”
I let my hand drop and glanced to the officers who were standing off to one side, like referees on a football field. They seemed to be engaged in deep conversation, probably trying to figure out what to do.
I pulled out my phone. “Listen, Colin—”
“Caleb.”
“What’s that?” I glanced up from where I’d navigated to my emails.
“My name.” His eyes were hard and flat, soulless weasel eyes. “It’s Caleb.”
“Okay, sure. That’s nice for you. Whatever. The thing is,” I tapped open the document Eugene had sent, scanning it quickly and lifting my voice so the officers would hear, “I just received this from my legal team. This is a motion to dismiss your petition for guardianship, and your judge just signed off on it since, you know,”—I shrugged—“Kathleen and I are married. And that means, correct me if I’m wrong here, but guardianship over her person and property, if needed, passes directly to her spouse. Which is me.”