I don’t hate the word. Coming from him, it’s romance. But it isn’t just his praise and attention that keeps me here. It’s devotion.
I want to show him what it means to have someone completely dedicated to him. Someone who will do whatever he says, no matter how difficult, no matter how uncomfortable. Someone who waits, even when waiting is the worst agony.
He’s never had that. I know he hasn’t. All his women want something from him: sex, money, status. And he uses them right back. Valentina clearly taught him that love is just another transaction.
But I’m not those women.
My answer to you is always yes.
I meant it when I said it. I mean it now, even as my body begins the slow slide from pain into numbness. My left calf has gone completely dead, a strange floating sensation like it’s no longer attached to my body. My right isn’t far behind.
The butter he poured over me has long cooled, some of it pooled and congealed on the coffee table under me.
I try to focus on my breathing: in through my nose, out through my mouth. It’s the same breathing exercise I use when my back starts to hurt after hours of standing in the kitchen. This is just another another test of endurance, a labor of love.
A whimper escapes my throat before I can stop it. I bite down on my bottom lip hard enough to draw blood. I cannot quit. I won’t.
I refuse to fail him.
My arms are shaking now, violent tremors running from my shoulders down to my wrists. Any second, they’re going to give out completely. Any second, I’m going to collapse onto this table and ruin everything.
Please, I think desperately.Please come back. Please don’t let me break my promise to you.
The oven clock ticks. And ticks. And ticks.
My vision swims. Black spots dance at the corners of my vision. I suck in a breath, tasting salt. I didn’t realize I was crying.
Just a little longer. He’ll come back. He promised he’d come back.
My left arm buckles. I catch myself, gasping, my elbow locking just before my face hits the table. The sudden movement sends fire racing through my dead limbs, pins and needles exploding everywhere at once.
A sob tears out of me. I can’t. I can’t do this anymore. But even as the thought forms, I reposition, force my trembling arm to straighten, to hold.
Because my answer to him is always yes. Even when yes is impossible. Even when yes is agony.
32
Vin
The car I called meets me a few streets up from Sophie’s house. Blood drips from my wrists onto the steering wheel as I floor the gas pedal, weaving through traffic like I’m possessed. Matti’s voice is crackling through the car’s sound system, but every word is fucking sandpaper on my nerves.
“Vin, slow down and listen. This is fucking serious.”
“I don’t have time for this shit.” I blow through a red light, horns blaring behind me. My hands are shaking, from adrenaline or blood loss, I don’t fucking know. All I know is that Rocco is heading to Sophie’s, and she’s vulnerable.
I shove down the fear I can’t deny, and force myself to focus on the road blurring ahead of me.
“The Irish are pressing,” Tommy cuts in, his voice sharp with irritation. “They say you made a promise, Vin. A fucking promise that’s holding up the port deal.”
My jaw clenches as I swerve around a slow-moving sedan in front of me. “What promise?”
“That’s what we’re asking you!” Matti’s frustration bleeds through the phone. “Patrick Donovan is losing his shit. He says the Irish won’t move forward until you deliver on whatever the fuck you told them.”
I slam on the brakes to avoid hitting a car that cuts me off, tires screeching. Patrick Donovan is a politician with ties to the Irish mafia and has been working with Tommy for years on getting this port deal done. “I didn’t promise them anything!”
“Nothing when you were drinking?” Tommy presses. “Come on, Vin. You and Ronan get wasted together, shit gets said—”
“We don’t talk business when we’re drinking,” I snap, cutting him off. “And we never talk details about the port deal. That’s all you.”
