Quinn crosses his arms. “That’s exactly why he’s extra dangerous right now.”
“I agree with Vitali,” Sasha puts in. “I get where you’re coming from, Quinn, but the meeting’s important. That said, I do think extra security would be a good idea.”
It’s clear that she means the extra security should be her, but Roman says, “I’ll do it.”
My breath catches. I don’t like that. Roman doesn’t do well in the chaos of the nightclub.
But then … he’s not doing well here either. He hasn’t been for a while.
I know that he’s trying. I can feel his effort, like this morning when he tried so hard to sit in the library with me. I felt it, too, when his hand twitched away from mine at the table and he overcame the impulse.
I want to simply give Roman credit for his effort, but as the day goes on, I find myself fixating on the fact that all these efforts are, specifically, efforts to be with me. And he jumped at the opportunity to leave.
I know that’s not really fair. Roman is part of the family business, and of course he wants to protect his brother. But … maybe he needs some space?
Idon’t question that Roman loves me. I know he does. I trust that completely. But what if something about me is bothering him? Am I being needy? Clingy? I thought maybe I should be pushing him to talk, but maybe I should be leaving him alone?
I don’t know what to do.
I try to hide my doubts and fears, but I know Roman senses a change in me. He touches me even more than usual, trying to check in without words. I try to communicate back, to tell him that it’s okay, that he can put his own needs first for once. But I don’t know if he understands.
I should speak. It’s on me. I’m not the one that words are hard for. But I find myself as silent as he is by the time we sit down for dinner at nine. Quinn has grilled the steaks to perfection, along with asparagus and roasted red peppers. I’ve made the garlic mashed potatoes and bread, the brownies too. It’s perfect, or it should be.
But I’m too caught up in myself. I’m aware of it. I hate it. I try to throw off the weight of my insecurities, but I just can’t.
And then it’s too late.
From the entryway window, I watch the red taillights fade down the long driveway to the gate. Roman is gone, and the silence now, without him, is empty.
THREE
Roman
Standing in Vitali’s office at Eclipse while the meeting wraps up, my hand keeps twitching toward my phone. I want Lucas. I want to … I don’t know. I feel like I want to talk to him, but I’m not sure.
Something was wrong. He was upset, but I couldn’t figure out why.
Maybe I should have stayed with him and let Sasha do this. But the house was bothering me. Sometimes it’s just too big and too small at the same time. It’s too nice and too clean and too much part of a life that I can’t figure out how to fit inside of.
But it’s not much better here. I don’t belong in this sleek modern office like Vitali does. My clothes—black slacks and a black button-up—lookright but feel wrong. They don’t fit anymore. Vitali, however, in his sharply tailored three-piece black suit, looks every bit as elegant and dangerous as he truly is. He looks perfect here.
Across the desk from Vitali, Benito Manzoni looks like a knock-off version of my brother. He’s not as handsome, not as stylish, not as smart. But he’s a good choice for an ally.
I can see that much, though I’m having trouble following the conversation. I’m tuning in and out as I stand to the side.
Before my capture, I used to be involved in these sorts of conversations. I would challenge people, rattle them. It was my role.
I still kind of do that, I guess. Just silently. Benito was startled by me when he first walked in. None of my scars show in these clothes, but I’m still big. And I guess my face is scary.
I tune back in when Benito and Vitali stand up. Vitali walks around his desk, smooth as silk, and shakes Benito’s hand. They walk across the office to the door. Vitali opens it, letting in a burst of the club’s thumping bass and a glimpse of the crowded mezzanine’s low lighting. As Benito vanishes into the dimness with his bodyguard, Quinn steps into the office and closes the door.
Vitali goes to the minibar and pours whiskey into two tumblers. I’ve refused enough times that he doesn’t ask if I want any. After four years of being imprisoned and sometimes drugged for fights, it’shard for me to imagine the version of myself that used to get drunk all the time.
“So that went well?” Quinn asks as Vitali hands him a glass.
Vitali sips his whiskey. “Everything is contingent on eliminating the DiMaggios, but yes.”
Quinn asks, “Is he planning to help with that?”
