Can I?
"I'll be ready in five."
"Nico—"
"Five minutes." I hang up before he can say whatever sympathetic bullshit is forming on his tongue.
The bathroom mirror shows me exactly what I expected. A man who looks like he's been through a war and lost. I splash cold water on my face, drag a razor across my jaw, and try to remember what it felt like to give a damn about anything.
Sicily is settled, at least. Valentino stayed behind to watch over Aria, Ava, and his own mother. The family's European interests are secure. One less thing to worry about.
Maybe I should leave too. Disappear to the old country for a few months. Let the Mediterranean sun bake this hollow feeling out of my bones.
But that would require energy. Effort. The ability to care whether I live or die.
I'm fresh out of all three.
I pull on a clean shirt.
Dante's waiting in the hallway when I step out. His eyes scan me the way he'd scan a crime scene.
"You look?—"
"Don't." I walk past him toward the stairs. "What's our position on the docks?"
He falls into step beside me, accepting the subject change. "Pietro wants to hear their offer. Doesn't mean we're taking it."
We reach the garage. Liam's already behind the wheel of the armored SUV, engine running. I slide into the back seat and lean my head against the cold glass.
I shouldn't be doing this. I'm in no condition to negotiate anything more complex than which bottle of whiskey to open next. My judgment's compromised. My focus is shot. Every time I close my eyes, I see gray-blue ones staring back at me, filled with tears and accusations.
I hate you.
But I can't show weakness. Not now. Not when the Russians are sniffing around our territory and three crates are missing from Jersey and everything feels like it's falling apart.
I close my eyes. Just for a second.
Kristen's face appears behind my eyelids. Not angry this time. Laughing. That ridiculous feather-duster dance.
Stop.
I open my eyes. Focus on the city lights blurring past the window.
Two hours. I just need to hold it together for two hours.
Then I can go back to my room and my whiskey and my surveillance footage of a woman who's better off without me.
The SUV pulls up to Bellini's. I straighten my spine. Set my jaw. Become the man the Russians expect to see—cold, calculating, dangerous.
Time to work.
CHAPTER THIRTY-SIX
Kristen
Two weeks passed.
I grip Lily's hand as we walk home from kindergarten, her tiny fingers sticky from the juice box she demolished on the playground. She chatters about Maya's purple backpack and the worm they found during recess, but I'm only half-listening.
