Why did she go to dinner with him in the first place?
The question has been eating at me since Yuri's call. Since I crushed that vodka glass and cut my palm open on the shards. Since I drove to that restaurant with murder in my heart and no backup plan beyondget her away from him.
I pull out my phone. The screen illuminates my face in the darkness.
My thumb hovers over the message icon.
This is stupid. It's nearly midnight. She's dealing with her family. The last thing she needs is me demanding answers like some jealous?—
Fuck it.
Why did you go to dinner with him?
I hit send before I can talk myself out of it. The message shows delivered. Then read.
Three dots appear.
Seriously? That's what you want to ask me right now?
Answer the question.
You just announced our engagement without asking me. You walked into my family's restaurant like you owned the place. And THIS is what's on your mind?
Yes.
The dots pulse for a long moment.
Vittoria:You're unbelievable.
Me:So I've been told. Answer.
I had a plan, okay? Pietro and Nico wanted me to meet with him. I was going to use what I knew about his secret fiancée to humiliate him. Make him back off permanently.
Of course she did.
Goodnight, solnyshko.
I pocket the phone and push away from the desk. My legs feel unsteady beneath me.
The hallway stretches dark and endless as I make my way toward my private quarters.
The master bathroom is cold when I step inside. White marble and chrome fixtures gleam under the harsh overhead lights. I strip off my jacket, my shirt, my pants.
Tomorrow I face Pietro Sartori across a negotiating table.
Tonight, I'm just tired.
The shower spray hits my shoulders like needles of ice before warming to something bearable. I brace my palms against the tile and let the water pound against my back.
I press my forehead against the cool tile.
The elevator doors slide open and I step into the Sartori Import & Export building. Sunday morning. The lobby sits empty except for the guard behind the reception desk who straightens when he sees Igor and me approach.
"Mr. Baganov." The guard's hand twitches toward the phone. "They're expecting you."
I nod once and keep walking. No civilians today. No secretaries typing away at their desks. No businessmen shuffling papers and pretending they don't know what really happens in this building.
Sundays belong to us. To the real work.
