“That’s not what they’re saying,” Tommy grumbles. “I’ve got my end handled.”
“You do and you don’t.” I blow through another intersection, ignoring the chaos erupting behind me. “If the Irish don’t agree, Donovan can’t do shit. He’s a fucking politician, Tommy. Not connected. The judges, the cops—they’re inourpockets, not his.”
“He has more power than you think—”
“I don’t give a fuck!” My vision tunnels on the road ahead, on every second ticking that Rocco could be hurting my woman. “Figure it the fuck out. Find out what promise they think I need to keep because I don’t fucking know and I’ve got more important shit to deal with right now.”
“More important than the ports?” Matti’s voice sharpens. “Vin, this is everything we’ve been working toward. If the Irish pull out—”
“You’re my fucking underboss and myconsigliere!” I roar into the phone. The car fishtails as I take a corner too fast, tires squealing. “Handle it!”
“Vin—”
I punch the disconnect button and turn hard, passing the Arsenal on my left. My heart sinks. There are no cars in the parking lot, and it doesn’t look open. Because Sophie never came into open the restaurant this morning. Because she’s home waiting for me.
Rocco’s threats echo in my ears. I crush the accelerator, and the engine roars.
I haven’t prayed since I was kid, since before my mom died, but I’m praying now. Praying that she got tired of waiting and got dressed. Praying that she wasn’t in the house when he came looking for her.
Praying she’s not on that table, knees spread, pussy exposed, marker arrows pointing to every place I promised to fuck her. That Rocco is nowhere near my woman.
The prayer shocks me even as I think it. I don’t pray. I don’t fucking ask for anything. I take. But for her—
White-hot rage floods my veins, burning away the pain in my wrists and shoulders. I don’t care about the ports. I don’t care about the Irish or their mysterious fucking promise. I don’t care about Donovan or Tommy’s carefully constructed political alliances.
All I care about is getting to Sophie before Rocco does.
The brownstone buildings of her neighborhood blur past. Two more blocks. One more block.
I slam on the brakes, the car screeching to a halt in front of her building. I’m out before the engine dies, sprinting for her door, hitting it like a battering ram. It doesn’t budge. Locked. That’s a good sign, right? I locked it when I left, and it’s still locked.
“SOPHIE!” My voice cracks as I fumble for my keys with blood-slick fingers, nearly dropping them, jamming them in the lock until it gives.
I burst through the door.
33
Sophie
My knee slips suddenly, sweat dripping down on the wood coffee table. I shift my hands under me, leaving wet streaks.
How long has it been?
The oven clock ticks. My arms tremble. Have been trembling for—I don’t know. Forever. My muscles scream. My shoulders feel like they’re pulling apart, separating from the sockets, but I just keep breathing.
He said to wait. So I’m waiting. I’m his good girl.
Thoughts slide through my mind like oil: what if something happened? What if he forgot? Or what if this was a test I’ve already failed by staying too long, being too much, too eager, too—
A sob catches in my throat and I swallow it down. No. No, I can do this. I can show him what it means to have someone whodoesn’t quit, who doesn’t give up, who will wait as long as he needs her to wait.
My answer to you is always yes.
I mean every word, even as my body rebels, even as my vision tunnels and the edges go soft and gray.
The table tilts beneath me. No, that’s me swaying, my body finally giving up the fight to stay upright. I lock my elbows, or I think I do, but I can’t feel them well enough to know if it worked.
When the door finally crashes open, I try to move but nothing happens. Strong hands find me and a voice, his voice, rough with fear, says my name over and over. When he lifts me, my limbs hang heavy and useless. I want to apologize, to explain, to tell him I tried. I tried so hard.
