“No, it wasn’t fair,” Siena agrees. “But it’s true.”
I stand, smoothing my hands over my jeans. “I should go. I have to open early tomorrow.”
“Sophie—”
“Thank you for the concern.” I keep my voice light. “Really. But I’m fine.”
Siena groans as she rises and squeezes me tight. In my ear, she whispers, “I just love you. That’s all. I can’t lose you, too.”
I hug her back and give her a big smile I don’t feel.
26
Vin
The couch spring doesn’t jab me in the ass anymore.
I fixed it three days ago, along with the wobbly chair that leaned to the left like a drunk, then refinished the coffee table and side tables Sophie probably rescued from a dumpster. I assembled her new bed, the one I ordered after breaking hers, and spent two hours refacing every scarred cabinet and drawer front in this cramped shithole.
Why? Fuck if I know.
Sophie hasn’t spoken to me since the cannoli cream incident. She leaves for work before I wake up, comes home after I’ve already eaten whatever I order in. If we’re here at the same time, she disappears into her room and shuts the door. I was sleeping in her bed, but the past couple nights I’ve been sleeping on the couch.
No food. No conversation. No teasing me with that big ass of hers. No sparkling eyes lighting up when I walk into a room. I fucking hate it.
I shouldn’t. I should be thrilled she’s giving me space, staying out of my way while I work this clusterfuck with my father. But instead, I’m standing in her kitchen at two in the afternoon, phone pressed to my ear, sanding down a cabinet door that doesn’t need sanding while Matti drones on about safe houses.
“You could stay at Dragovari Tower,” Matti suggests for the third time this week. “We’ve got security, space, and Siena wouldn’t mind—”
“Your wife wants me gone from Sophie’s, not living under her roof,” I cut him off, running my thumb over the smooth wood grain. Perfect now. “Besides, this is a good safe house. Aurelio knows nothing about it. Dragovari Tower’s too visible, and no offense, but your wife is—”
“Are you fucking her?”
The question lands like a brick. I remember Sophie’s voice when she said,You don’t have to lie to them.
“No,” I say.
It’s technically true. We haven’t fucked in days, haven’t even touched. What I don’t say is that not fucking her is making me edgy and restless, that I catch myself listening for her key in the lock, watching the door, wondering what she’ll cook tonight or if she’ll cook at all.
Which is fucking ridiculous because she’s the fucking enemy, working with Salvatore against me, playing me like Valentina did.
Except Sophie carved a scar into my father’s face when she was 12 to save her mother, while Valentina sucked his cock for status. They are not the same.
I shake off the thought and shift the phone as I grab my pack of cigarettes, tapping one out as I head for the door. “Look, I’m good here. You ready to pull Ronan in or what?”
We’re supposed to have a conference call with Ronan MacCuinn, a long time friend of mine in the Irish mafia. He and I have always bonded over having similar situations: he too is the oldest son and the heir apparent in his family, and his father is a fucking dick who can’t rule for shit, like mine. It surprises no one that our fathers are intermittently friends, and Ronan and I have long conspired to overthrow them and take over.
Matti pauses. I can practically hear him deciding whether to push the Sophie issue. He doesn’t. “Yeah. Give me two minutes.”
I step outside into the weak afternoon light, the crumbling concrete steps rough under my feet as I light up and inhale.
The phone clicks as Matti patches Ronan MacCuinn into the call.
“There he is,” Ronan’s Irish lilt fills my ear, warm and familiar. He’s one of the few people in this world outside of my brothers I actually trust. “Vincenzo fucking Demonio. Thought you dropped off the face of the earth, mate.”
“Been laying low,” I say, exhaling smoke into the gray Brooklyn sky. “War’s keeping me busy.”
“War.” Ronan snorts. “So it’s true: your old man’s still breathing, then?”
