Any thug would love to get their hands on my bike—especially in this shitty neighborhood—but word’s gotten around: You don’t touch my bike. Ever. Something Yosh learned the hard way. He thought he was slick; he waited until I was inside, hands deep in code, before he slipped around the block and tried to hotwire her. Got maybe three wires twisted before I was behind him, silent as death.
He still has the scars—I made sure they would be visible to any prick who thinks he can best me—but I didn’t kill him. That would’ve been too easy. Instead, I gave him something worse: a job.
I broke his wrist first, clean, loud, and brutal. Made sure the bone snapped in a way that would never fully heal, effectively taking his ability to hotwire anything away. Then I took my time carving a reminder into the inside of his forearm: a thin burn mark in the shape of aT, for thief, using the still-hot end of the throttle grip he tried to steal, and I made him adeal: He gets to keep breathing, in exchange, he sits outside the shop. Every day. Every night. Every hour I ask. Rain, snow, blistering summer. It doesn’t matter. He guards the Ducati like a dog chained to a penance. If anyone approaches my bike, Yosh has a story to tell—a living reminder of what happens when you try to take what’s mine. If that isn't enough, he calls me, and I deal with it.
Now? People cross the street when they see the Ducati parked. Even cops slow down when they pass.
"Now?" Yosh appears sullenly.
"Now," I confirm, parking the Ducati and walking into the shop, knowing Yosh will keep his vigil like he always does.
The same day…
I have no idea how I keep my composure. None. It's like walking through a nightmare. I feel something prickling at the back of my neck. Something I haven't felt in a long time and look up. Right intohisface. My heart stops. Actually stops for a second or two. I can feel it sitting there, unmoving and heavy in my chest. A hard rock, and for just a moment, I let myself think that this is it. This is the end. I embrace that thought. I long for it. Seeing his face right before I die… It's a blessing I never thought to ask for.
But life is cruel, and so is my heart. Because just when I think it's truly over, it starts to beat again. Not in its usual rhythm, the one you’re never really aware of. No, it pounds to life.Boom. Boom. Bang.
My mouth goes dry, and tears burn my eyes as I drinkhimin. Him. Raffael DeSantis. I haven't seen him in… what, three years? I'd half convinced myself that he was dead. Which he is obviously not. He's standing there, just like I'd seen him a hundred times before. The way I always preferred seeing him. Not in the suit they made him wear, but in his washed-out jeans, a shirt that's open over the chest, exposing his pecs that seemed to have grown since I last saw him, and the outline of a tattoo that I can’t make out. His trademark black leather jacket is swung over his shoulder, and his blue eyes stare straight at me. But for once, his expression is unguarded, and I read the same surprise on it that is moving through my body and soul. There is a scar on his face, one that wasn't there before. It's ragged and brutal. Before I can look any further, Roberto says something, and I feel his ever-present hand on the small of my back tighten. My signal to laugh. Which I do. Automatically. My head even moves to the side, looking at him with that trained puppy dog expression that he expects.Good girl, Sophia, I pat myself on the back sarcastically. I'm glad for that snarky part inside me. It means I'm not completely gone yet. Roberto hasn't fully beaten myself out of me.
The rest of the day is a blur. My body responds to Roberto automatically. I laugh when appropriate, nod, or lower my lashes. I walk by his side, let him show me off to his business partners, and eat lunch with them. Normally, I would listen, file away information—for what I'm not sure—butnot today.
Today, my head is reeling.
My heart hasn't stopped beating hard since I laid eyes onhim.
I should feel elated that he's alive. But I don't. Instead, I'm pissed at him. No, not pissed,furious. Anger I haven't felt myself capable of in years churns inside my gut. Hot and burning. How dare he? How dare he show his face now?
I pick up the salad fork, and when I notice how hard it's shaking between my fingers, I lay it back down, carefully.
"If you would excuse me, please," I say carefully, keeping my voice from trembling with the last shard of willpower I can muster and pushing away from the table.
"Are you alright, my love?" Roberto inquires. "You look pale."
"I'll be alright," I assure him, sending one of the smiles I've been told looks brilliant at the other three men, and make a beeline for the ladies' room. Sure, they'll forget all about me within seconds.
It's only when I'm safe and secure inside one of the stalls, with my back to the closed door, that I allow a deep, ragged breath to be dragged down my throat. It sounds pitiful, and there is nothing I can do to keep it down. Then I fold over myself, arms crossed over my waist, my long hair kissing the ground.
Colors swim in front of my eyes, breathing becomes harder, and I know I'm about to have a panic attack. Ialso know that I can't allow it to happen. Roberto might allow me five minutes to myself in the ladies' room, but not a second longer. I'll pay the price for it later if I'm not back on time.
Reluctantly, I work myself into an upright position to dig through my purse for a valium or a Xanax. Either one will do the trick. I only take them in case of an absolute emergency, and if this moment doesn’t qualify, I don’t know what will. My little stash of pills is carefully hidden among breath mints and painkillers. Some as strong as OxyContin, all courtesy of Doc Brown, the only way he knows to help me besides the quarterly Depo shot.
I dry swallow a pill—not my first rodeo—and lean my head against the door behind me. Taking a deep breath, I repeat the box breathing technique Clara taught me until the lava in my veins cools down.
I allow myself a minute to think about Raffael. The way he stood there, just as surprised as I was. The old familiar tingling has turned into something else, something deeper. Even though I've never known how a man makes actual love to a woman—Roberto takes whenever and however he feels like it—something warm and syrupy gathers between my legs. An immense longing courses through me, igniting more burning in my eyes. For just a moment, I'm back there. I'm back to being eighteen years old, in the arms of the man I've crushed on for so long, feeling his lips on mine. That kiss. That kiss is everything that I've had to cling to over the past three years. Thatkiss is everything that Roberto should be and isn't. It's a reminder that there are other things out there besides pain and humiliation.
I take another deep breath, feel it stuttering in my throat, while I fight the tears back. Can't ruin the makeup. Raffael.
His name, as always, is like a beacon of hope. Like the light a ship's crew longs to see at sea in the middle of the night during a hard storm. But I also know that his light is wrong, that Raffael is nothing like a beacon or a lighthouse. He's a wrecker, just like the people who lured the ships against the cliffs. He betrayed me just as much as my father or Roberto. No, worse. He let me believe he cared for me, only to hand me over to the worst years of my life without a fight.
I know that I'm being unfair. But it's so much easier being mad at a man who isn't my husband. My feelings of anger have to go somewhere, and I can't direct them at Roberto. I can't. I wouldn't be able to hide them from him. Raffael is safer. So he bears the brunt of them, even though he has no clue.
It's time. I can feel it. My allotted five minutes are almost up. I take in another deep breath, satisfied that it doesn't stutter, and step out of the stall to wash my hands. The temptation to spray some on my face is high, but again: makeup.
I stare hard into the mirror.You got this. Don't let him get to you. Again.
I nod at myself, push my chin out, square my shoulders, plaster mywinningsmile on my lips, and walk out. Back to Roberto, pushing thoughts of Raffael and how different my life would be with him out of my mind.
Two days later…
