I keep my voice light. I’ve spentthree fucking monthswaiting for an opportunity like this one. I don’t intend to waste it.
She eyes me, warier now, as her fingers clutch the stem of her glass, tight enough that it threatens to snap. “No.”
I hum. “Wise. It must have been quite a change for you, with Matteo taking over.”
That vacant look enters her face again. She stares down at the pale liquid, not answering.
Joseph Corvo’s widow.
My voice softens in realization, and it’s not intentional, not rehearsed. Sitting beside her, I keep a respectful distance between us. “What happened?”
She catches my glance down, the question in my words. Her hand wraps around her stomach. Herflatstomach. “What do you think? Matteo took over, and he eliminated thecompetition.”
There’s bitterness there, bitterness and rage beneath her words.
My heart feels heavy. So many victims of this fucking war, all for the sake of control of the Cosa Nostra. “I’m sorry, Amie. Truly.”
But she’s shaking her head. Her hand trembles badly as it moves to her back again, reaching for that zip. “Just… getonwith it. Please.”
A plea. A small sound echoes in her throat when I capture her hands, pulling them down to her lap. Amie stares down as I kneel in front of her. “I’m not going to fuck you.”
It’s not relief that lingers on her face, but panic. “But Matteo, he’ll –please—,”
“He won’t know. He’ll believe that we did exactly what he expects to happen. I’ll make sure of it.”
Her shoulders relax an inch, even as she frowns. “Why would you do that?”
I hesitate. “Because this iswrong. And because my heart belongs to someone else.”
She swallows. “And where are they now?”
“She’s married. To Salvatore Asante.”
Amie’s reaction doesn’t disappoint. She pales, the tiny hint of color in her cheeks leeching away as she glances toward the door. “Cat. You’re searching for Cat?”
“Have you seen her?”
I have to ask, can’t stop the words from slipping free. Desperate for any little piece of her, even though only three days have passed since our last meeting. Three days to torture myself with her empty stare, her whispered words.
What that fucker has done to her… my chest constricts.
Breathe.
When I move to get up, her hands cover mine, and I glance up.
There’s trepidation there, but something else too. The first hint of life that I’ve truly seen from her. “You love her?”
“More than my own life.” I give her that honesty, let her see a glimpse of the pain that haunts me every fucking moment of every day.
She looks down at our hands. “And are you… looking for anything else?”
She frames it in such a way that it could easily be taken as an invitation.
But every muscle in my body locks up, tightens, as that hope rushes back in.
“Yes,” I breathe, almost silently. “I am. Is she here, Amie?”
Please. If there is any fucking god up there – please.
