I'm at home when her text comes through.
Liana: At the port. Being followed.
I stare at the message, reading it twice to make sure I'm seeing it correctly. The port? What the hell is she doing at the port at this hour?
I read it again, focusing on those two words: "Being followed."
My first instinct is anger—sharp and immediate and flooding through my veins like poison.
She's doing it again. Playing games. Trying to manipulate me into reacting.
She wants me to panic, to drop everything and rush down to the port like some desperate fool. And when I get there, she'll either not be there at all, or she'll have "mistaken" a shadow for a man, a stray cat for a threat. She'll look at me with those wide, innocent eyes and say she was scared, that she needed me, that she didn't know what else to do.
And I'll look like an idiot. Again.
I set down my phone without responding and take a long drink of my scotch.
Why would she even be at the port? What possible reason could she have for being there at night, in one of the most dangerous areas of the city?
Unless she's meeting someone there.
Is that where she's been going when she says she's busy with things? Is she meeting someone at the port, someone she doesn't want me to know about?
And now she wants me to catch her, wants the drama of being discovered.
Or worse—she wants me to find her with someone else. Wants me to see it with my own eyes. To make me break the engagement so she doesn't have to, so she can play the victim while I look like the jealous, controlling bastard.
I drain my glass and pour another, the scotch sloshing over the rim.
I'm not playing this game anymore.
I'm not rushing down to the port to find her laughing with whoever she's been seeing, or to find nothing at all.
I grab my keys and head out the door. But not to the port. To the social club instead.
Bruno and Paulie are there when I arrive, playing cards at the back table in the dimly lit room that smells of cigar smoke and aged whiskey.
"Boss." Bruno looks up, surprise evident on his face. "Didn't expect to see you tonight."
"I needed to get out of my apartment before I put my fist through something expensive." I drop into an empty chair with more force than necessary. "You got anything to drink?"
Paulie pours me a generous glass from the bottle on the table. "Rough night?"
"You could say that." I take a long drink, welcoming the burn.
I tell them about the text, about Liana claiming she's at the port being followed.
"The port?" Bruno frowns, setting down his cards. "What would she be doing at the port at this hour?"
"Exactly my question. She won't tell me what she does all day, where she goes, who she sees. Just says 'things' and changes the subject. And now suddenly she's at the port? At night? Being followed?" I shake my head, disgust flooding through me. "She's messing with me. Testing me to see if I'll come running. I’m sick of this shit."
"Or she's actually in trouble," Bruno suggests carefully.
"She's not in trouble. She's manipulating me. Again." I take another drink, the alcohol doing nothing to ease the tightness in my chest. "This is what she does—hot and cold, push and pull. She removes all her stuff from my apartment, ignores my calls for days, acts like she doesn't care about me or this arrangement—and then suddenly she needs me? Suddenly she's in danger?"
"Could be real this time," Paulie offers quietly.
"It's not real. Trust me on this." I lean back in my chair. "If I go down there, I'll either find nothing, or I'll find her with whoever she's been seeing. Either way, I'm the idiot who came running when she snapped her fingers."
