Chapter 69: The Interlude

The suite was quiet when Steve woke. Gray light seeped through the curtains, painting soft stripes across the ceiling. Margaret lay curled against his side, her breath slow and even, one hand resting flat on his chest. Heather was on the other side, still dressed from the night before, her silver hair fanned across the pillow.

Steve lay still for a long moment, listening to the rhythm of their breathing. His body ached in ways that felt earned. His mind, though, was already running ahead—plans, contingencies, names and faces.

Margaret stirred. Her lashes fluttered, then her eyes opened, unfocused at first, then sharpening as memory flooded back. The grief. The confession. The surrender.

She didn’t pull away. She pressed closer.

“Morning,” Steve said.

“Morning.” Her voice was hoarse but steady.

Heather shifted, propping herself on one elbow. “We need to get you back home,” she said, not unkindly. “Before Henri starts asking questions. We’ll tell him you’re visiting a sick friend. Give you time to think.”

Margaret nodded slowly. “And then?”

“And then we figure out the rest,” Steve said. “But first, I need to talk to Luisa.”

--- He found her in the suite’s small kitchen, leaning against the counter with a cup of coffee. She straightened when he entered, her dark eyes already alert.

“Walk with me,” he said, tilting his head toward her bedroom.

She followed without a word. He closed the door behind them, the latch clicking into place.

“We need to talk security.”

Luisa’s lips curved. “It’s about time.” She set her coffee on the nightstand and crossed her arms. “With the family you have, you’ll need a fairly large team.”

Steve sighed, running a hand through his hair. “I was afraid you’d say that.”

“You were hoping I’d say you could handle it alone.”

“I was hoping you’d say Henri was a minor threat and we could ignore him.”

Luisa shook her head. “Henri is a problem. But he’s not the only one. You’ve got Reverend Walker. You’ve got the interventionists. You’ve got a public profile that’s about to get a lot bigger. And you’ve got—” She paused, choosing her words. “—a lifestyle that makes you vulnerable. Multiple partners. Multiple locations. Multiple points of failure.”

Steve sank onto the edge of the bed, elbows on his knees. He stared at the carpet. “I don’t want this.”

“Nobody does.”

“I mean it. I don’t want to walk around with a target on my back. I don’t want my family—” He stopped, swallowed. “I don’t want them to feel like they’re in a cage.”

Luisa moved closer. She didn’t sit. She just stood in front of him, close enough that he could see the faint scar above her left eyebrow, the one she’d never explained.

“You think security is a cage,” she said. “It’s not. It’s a fence. There’s a difference.”

Steve looked up at her.

“A fence keeps the wolves out,” she continued. “A cage keeps you in. I’m not interested in building cages.”

He exhaled slowly. “How many people do you have?”

Luisa’s expression shifted—something like pride flickering behind her professional mask. “You’re grandmother never told you why she hired us?”

“She said you came highly recommended.”

Luisa laughed, a short, sharp sound. “Highly recommended. That’s one way to put it.” She walked to the window, pulling the curtain aside just enough to glance at the street below. “I only employ women.”

Steve blinked. “What?”

“I only employ women,” she repeated, turning back to face him. “You know how hard it is for women to break into this industry? The glass ceiling in private security is made of reinforced concrete. The FBI, the CIA, the NSA—they train some of the best operatives in the world, and then they sideline them. Pass them over for promotions. Stick them behind desks while the men get the field assignments.”

Her voice hardened. “I worked for the Bureau for six years. I saw it happen over and over. Women with better instincts, better marksmanship, better field craft—ignored because they didn’t fit the old boys’ club.”

“So you started your own company.”

“So I started my own company,” she confirmed. “I recruited the ones who got passed over. The ones who were told they weren’t ‘team players’ because they wouldn’t sleep with their supervisors. The ones who were too aggressive, too smart, too much for the men who ran the show.”

She crossed back to him, stopping just out of arm’s reach. “I’ve got twelve women on my roster right now. Every one of them has military or federal training. Every one of them has been vetted six ways from Sunday. And every one of them would take a bullet for this family—not because they’re paid to, but because I asked them to.”