Instead . . .
I head to my room, and when inside, I open the nightstand drawer, dropping it inside. Then slam the drawer shut so hard the wood rattles.
What the hell am I going to do?
I sit on the edge of the bed, shaking, angry, and most of all, humiliated. I’m sick of the fact that my heart is doing something it has no right to do.
He married me to ruin me.
And somewhere deep inside my ribs . . . in the place I swore was dead . . . my heart aches in a way I hate.
Not because I miss him.
Because I miss the version of him I loved so much, it almost killed me.
I bury my face in my hands, breath cracking against my palms.
The marriage may be a cage.
But the worst part?
Some broken part of me still remembers how it felt to love him.
And that part hurts most of all.
38
Lorenzo
The report hits my desk.
When I look up, I see it’s Rafe who dropped the folder in front of me. His jaw is tight, and his eyes are darker than usual.
I’m not going to like whatever is inside.
“Start talking,” I spin my pen between my fingers while I stare at the closed file.
Rafe drags a hand over his face and leans on the edge of the desk. “You remember how you asked me to find out who our little accounting genius was working for?”
“I remember asking for a head in a bag,” I correct, letting my mouth twitch. “But sure, let’s go with what you’re saying instead.”
He exhales through his nose. “We’ve been hearing rumblings. A new outfit is moving through the East Coast. Young guys. They’re trying to make a name for themselves.”
“Great,” I snort. “Adorable. Do they have a mission statement?”
“There’s chatter they’re tied to a Boston family, and that there is someone who knows our inside workings,” Rafe continues, ignoring me. “Nothing fully confirmed yet, but all of what I’m hearing makes sense.”
I flip the file open with my thumb. Photos, reports, transaction logs.
My pen stills. “Which one?” My voice drops.
Rafe jerks his chin toward the photo. “Southside. We found the place hit last night. Doors blown. Our guys knocked out cold, but alive.”
“And the product?”
He hesitates.
I look up slowly. “Rafe.”
