“Stubborn,” I mutter under my breath, pacing behind the desk before pinning her with a hard stare. “You think remaining in your home is a sign of strength, but it’s not. It’s reckless.”
“And what?” she demands, crossing her arms now, matching me inch for inch. “Moving into your loft isn’t reckless? Living under your roof like some…some protected urchin, waiting for permission to breathe? No, Mr. Moretti. I’ve spent enough years being caged. Never again.”
The words hang there between us, sharp and raw, her chest heaving, my pulse pounding. What the hell happened between them during her marriage with Matteo? Was she caged? Unable to do what other twenty-something-year-olds got up to, married or not. Did he stop her from having friends, from having a life outside of his own?
I hated the bastard even more for making her miserable.
“You’re going to get yourself hurt,” I say finally, quieter than before.
“Or,” she shoots back, “I’ll get my life back once and for all.”
I stare at her, a thousand retorts tangling in my throat, but none of them land. Because damn her, she’s right — and that terrifies me more than anything Romero could do. She deserves to live as anyone would, with free will.
She thinks she can fight this alone.
I know better and it’s only a matter of time before I’m proven right. But I’ll burn Manhattan to the ground before I let Matteo Romero break her a second time.
NINE
BRIAR
The subway rideblurs past in a haze of noise and fluorescent lights, the day’s weight pressing down on me until my bones ache. My brain won’t shut off, cycling endlessly through my boss’s clipped voice, Matteo’s mocking smile, and the gnawing sense that I’m standing on the edge of something sharp that’s going to cut me if I get too close.
My stomach rumbles, reminding me that I missed lunch and all I want is food and to veg out in front of the TV and to forget the shit show of my life as it currently was.
I toss my bag onto the sofa when I finally walk through the door and lock it behind me, double-checking the deadbolt before I even take my shoes off. It’s become a habit — one I didn’t think I’d need again after divorcing Matteo.
Apparently, I was wrong.
I head into the kitchen, drag open the fridge, and pull out the leftover chicken I’d defrosted that morning and the bag of Caesar salad. I don’t even bother seasoning it beyond a splash of oil and salt before sliding it into the air fryer. Something simple, which is exactly what I need right now.
The sizzle of chicken, the crunch of lettuce under the knife, the hum of the TV I switch on in the background — it all helps, a thin illusion that maybe tonight I can breathe without looking over my shoulder.
Wishful thinking in truth. Matteo won’t leave me alone. Not now that he knows where I live and that I’m back in New York. Maybe I ought to take up Mr. Moretti’s suggestion that I move in with him until all of this settles down. But will it settle? Matteo wasn’t known for forgiveness, and he hated to lose.
That he lost me I know would still piss him off.
By the time I sit down on the sofa with my chicken salad, the room is bathed in soft lamplight, the city muted behind the curtains. A rerun of some sitcom plays on the TV, laugh tracks filling the silence. I spear a piece of chicken with my fork and try to let my shoulders loosen.
Then comes the knock.
Sharp. Sudden.
I freeze mid-bite, the fork suspended halfway to my mouth. My attention flicks to the door. Nobody visits me. Stacy texts when she wants to come over and I buzz her up, and Mr. Moretti would never — would he?
The knock comes again, harder this time.
My throat tightens. Slowly, I set the fork down on my plate and place it on my coffee table. I cross the room on bare, silent feet and peer through the peephole.
No one.
I frown, unlocking the deadbolt, but leaving the chain in place. “Who is it?” I call, voice steadier than I feel.
No answer.
I swallow hard and go to close the door, and before I can get the door closed a man slams his shoulder into it. The door flies open, hitting me in the face and throwing me backward. I hit the floor hard, my breath knocked out of me. Before I canscream, a heavy boot lands hard into my hip, pain flaring white-hot through my side.
“Matteo says to have a good evening,” the stranger growls, leaning down near my ear, his voice rough, his breath sour.
