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the stereotypical black family. Poor. Uncle was hooked on booze and drugs. Beat anything around him that moved.”
    Why was he still talking? He needed to shut up, and yet his mouth kept working, spilling out the whole painful history.
    “I was seventeen, a lanky kid, and he comes home one night high as fuck. Starts hitting his wife. He was a piece of trash. Is a piece of trash. I got it in my head to get involved because I was a man. He broke my arm in two places and started hitting his baby girl. Megan. He beat her so bad when CPS came the next day they didn’t bother asking questions. They just took her. Never saw her after that, not even after they stuck his ass in jail. A week later, I went down to the Navy office, because it was the closest, and enlisted with my cast still on.”
    He stared at the white tablecloth, one foot in each world—then and now.
    “I don’t know why I just told you all of that. I don’t usually talk about it,” he said after a few moments.
    “You’d be surprised the things people tell me.” Her thumb swiped over his fingers.
    Abigail was holding his hand. He wasn’t sure when that had happened, but her long, delicate fingers were wrapped around his, grounding him.
    Never again would he be that boy and stand back while someone else was hurt.
    The waiter delivered their dinner in a flourish. The fancy food, the wine, hell, even the linen napkins were all things the kid he’d been would have thought were for someone else—never him. But he’d learned. He’d found his way into a better life, and damn it if he was going to let someone like the Smiths screw him over.
    “What happened to your aunt?” Abigail asked after several minutes.
    “She divorced my uncle, finally. I helped her fill out the paperwork and file it. She always deserved better than him.”
    “Do you keep in touch?”
    “Yeah, she got remarried to a good guy. Things are working out for her.” He’d even gone to her wedding and gave her away in place of the father she hadn’t known. She’d always be family.
    “You’re a good man.” She wiped her mouth with her napkin. “I don’t think they’re finishing dinner.”
    Luke glanced up, and she was correct. The Smiths were pushing untouched plates back, standing and shaking hands, the food forgotten.
    “I’ll see about getting the food delivered to their rooms—”
    “I’ll see about them.” Luke stood and crossed to the clients, waiting a good four feet away until Mr. Smith flicked his fingers at Luke.
    “Dinner?” he said.
    “Abigail’s on it.” Luke had to hand it to the lady, she’d picked up on the Smith’s habits fast. “Are you going out or—”
    “We’re retiring for the evening.”
    Luke glanced to where Abigail had her head together with the maître d’ . He caught her eye, jerked his head up, and she gave him a short nod. That taken care of, he texted Ethan to let him know they were on their way up. All the bases covered, he hung back, content to follow his clients at a snail’s pace out of the restaurant and through the lobby. Abigail swept up from behind before they got within ten feet of the elevator.
    While the Smiths bid their guests goodbye, Luke surveyed the lobby and snapped a few pictures.
    Their hotel had obvious security posted at each entrance and he had yet to see a single staff person with a hair out of place. He was willing to bet the casual person had to pass a bank check to even gain entry. All in all, it was one of the nicer places he’d stayed. What was even better, was that the staff like him were so very out of place, which would make a threat easy to spot.
    If all went well, the rest of this gig would be smooth sailing.
    They rode to the top floor in silence, save for Mrs. Smith inquiring about their dinner delivery.
    Luke glanced at Abigail, catching her eye.
    Could he interest her in a round two? This time without losing his head and talking about all the family junk better left unsaid.
    Ethan was waiting by