And sitting here in my empty house, surrounded by all the trappings of my old life, I finally understand what Dante saw so clearly.
I’m not fine. I’m not healing. I’m not moving on.
I’m obsessed. Completely, helplessly, destructively obsessed with someone who tried to kill us both rather than face the possibility of living without me.
And the worst part is that right now, in this moment, I almost understand why he felt that way.
Because living without him feels a hell of a lot like dying.
Chapter thirty-five
Carlo
The club is packed tonight, music pounding through speakers that Ginni arranged, lights strobing across bodies that move in perfect rhythm to the beat. From my position in the VIP area, I can see everything. The beautiful people spending beautiful money, the carefully orchestrated chaos that generates enough profit to make this entire operation worthwhile.
Everyone here knows who I am. They nod respectfully when they catch my eye, keep their voices down when they pass my table, make sure I never have to wait for a drink or ask twice for anything. It’s the kind of automatic deference that comes with real power, the kind that’s built on reputation and fear rather than just money.
None of these people would ever dare chain me to a bed. None of them would look at me like I was something precious they couldn’t bear to lose. None of them would drug their own wine rather than face the possibility of living without me.
I take another sip of my whisky and try to focus on the numbers scrolling across my tablet. Revenue projections, staffing costs, inventory reports. The cash that is carefully cleaned. All the mechanical details of running a successful business that should ground me in reality, remind me of who I actually am instead of who I was pretending to be for two weeks in a basement.
But the numbers blur together, meaningless marks on a screen that can’t hold my attention for more than a few seconds at a time. Everything feels hollow. Even here, surrounded by the proof of my success and the respect of my peers, I can’t shake the feeling that I’m just going through the motions.
A commotion near the VIP entrance catches my attention. One of my security guards is trying to block someone’s path, but the man pushes past him with the kind of authority that suggests he’s not used to being told no.
Marco.
Fuck.
I haven’t returned any of his calls in over a week, haven’t responded to his increasingly concerned messages. I’ve been avoiding him because I can’t trust myself to ask about Ginni without giving everything away. And because this man is dead to me but I can’t tell him why. Not without letting everything slip.
“Why the fuck have you been ignoring me?” Marco demands as he strides over to my table, his usually immaculate appearance slightly disheveled. His hair is mussed like he’s been running his hands through it, and there’s something wild in his eyes that immediately puts me on alert.
I take a long, slow sip of my drink, using the time to arrange my face into something resembling calm indifference. “Good evening to you too, Marco.”
“Don’t give me that shit.” He drops into the chair across from me without invitation, his movements sharp and agitated. “I’vebeen trying to reach you for days. Where the hell have you been?”
“Busy.”
“Busy?” Marco’s voice goes up an octave. “I called twelve times yesterday alone. Twelve times, Carlo. And you couldn’t be bothered to pick up once?”
I shrug, still maintaining the facade of casual disinterest even as my heart pounds against my ribs. Something’s wrong. Something’s happened. I can see it in every line of Marco’s body, hear it in the edge of panic underlying his anger.
“My phone’s been acting up,” I lie smoothly. “What’s so urgent that it couldn’t wait?”
Marco runs a hand through his hair again, the gesture so familiar it makes my chest ache with unexpected recognition. Ginni does the same thing when he’s nervous, that unconscious attempt to impose order when everything else is falling apart.
“Ginni’s been arrested.”
The words knock all the air out of my lungs. My glass slips from my suddenly nerveless fingers, whisky splashing across the polished table as I choke on the sip I’d just taken.
“What?” The word comes out as a croak, barely audible over the pounding music.
But Marco hears it, and his eyes narrow as he takes in my reaction. The way I’ve gone pale, the way my hands are shaking as I pick up my dropped glass, the complete absence of the casual indifference I was trying so hard to project.
I’m on my feet before I realize I’m moving, my chair scraping back across the floor. “What the fuck happened? When did this happen?”
Marco also jumps to his feet and actually takes a step back, clearly alarmed by the explosiveness of my reaction. His gaze flicks over my face, cataloguing details, filing away information that I can’t afford for him to have.
