Like…“like…”
Your…“your…”
Mom.
I cut him off before he can finish that sentence. “I’m going home.”
The door slams behind me. Outside, I pause to take a deep breath. My hands are shaking so hard I have to clasp them to make them stop.
Then I look out to find Bella standing next to my car, crying.
I rush over to my sister, pulling her against me and smoothing her choppy, bleached hair. “It’s okay,” I whisper. “You’re okay.”
“I’m worried about you,” she sobs, and I pull away enough to look at her.
“Isabel. Why are you worried about me?”
“Because you’re trying to take care of us and we’re a mess.”
I cup her face in my hands and use my thumbs to wipe away the mascara trails. My baby sister is nothing if not alternative, and I love her for it.
“You arenota mess. He is a disaster and that is not your fault or my fault or anyone else’s. But I am going to get you out of here. I’m going to start looking for another place for the three of you to live, okay? Close to your school and Gianni and Eliza’s jobs. You hear me?”
Bella nods and I hug her again.
I wait until I am back in my car driving home to break down. The sobs come fast and hard, almost so hard that I need to pull over. It’s worse than I thought, and the guilt is unbearable.
As I head back to the penthouse, away from the cesspool my siblings are living in, I realize that I can’t give up. I can’t walk away from this job or the salary that comes with it or the man who owns my soul. The stakes are high, and the people I love most need me.
And I need them to be okay.
36
RANSOME
I never talk about Nik.
Ever since my brother died in a street race turned hostile, his name has only been mentioned a handful of times. And it’s usually paired with other words, likereckless, foolish, unfortunate,andshame.
All those, of course, come from my father. Like Nikky’s death was an inconvenience. Like he lost a chess piece in the game of Bratva and not a son.
I also can’t help but think he believes Nik’s death was my fault. That because I was two years older I could have somehow prevented it. Of course, anyone who knew Nikky knew that he wasn’t the type to stay under anyone’s thumb. He did what he wanted (usually something bad) when he wanted (all the time) and how he wanted (recklessly). He was the prince of YOLO and a pain in my ass. A pain I miss every goddamn day.
The fact that I told Amara about it is not something I am proud of. That kind of shit is deeper and darker than even the most locked-up Rozanov secrets because it’s something laced to mycore. To parts of myself that I never share with anyone and don’t plan to. Not even Amara.
She’s making it really fucking difficult to be angry with her, though. I know I shouldn’t be mad at her for running my mouth. I shouldn’t be mad at her for my own mistake of letting her in. But I am. Or at least, I’m trying to be.
But it’s kind of hard when she shows up to work in a simple black dress that looks like something you’d wait Casino tables in, the way it flounces off her perfectly taut ass.
She’s also early. Very early. By the time I walk into my office, my schedule is in place, my meetings are arranged, my coffee is hot, and my dry cleaning is hung. That last part doesn’t even make sense, because they don’t open till eight and it’s a quarter to seven.
“I name-dropped,” she says when she notices me eyeing the suits on the hanger. “Turns out you’re important everywhere.”
“Yeah.” I nod and take a sip of my coffee, which is also perfect.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Rozanov,” Amara says.
My eyes slice up to her. “What are you sorry for?”
