Oddly, she doesn’t sound like she’s fucking gloating, but the words still hit me like ice water, sobering me up.
“What the fuck does that mean? Is she with that Irish fuck?”
“You mean Gavin,” Siena says calmly, “who owns a linen company. And treats her well.”
“I fucking hired that company for her.”
“Then you did two things right,” she says, sitting back in her seat and holding up two fingers. “Getting out of her life and introducing her to someone who is a good match for her.”
“Fucking Irish fuck.”
“Isn’t your fiancée Irish?” She tilts her head. “You should probably get more comfortable with the family you’re marrying into.”
“That’s business.” I look at her directly for the first time since she came in. “As in my business, not yours.”
“Fine. But don’t judge what Sophie’s doing when you’re doing the exact same thing.”
“It is not the same thing.” Why the fuck does no one seem to understand this? “I have to marry this woman. I’m not dating her. I’m not sleeping with her. I’m not sleeping with anybody.”
“Bullshit.” She gestures at the bottles on the windowsill. “You fuck at least one woman every time you drink this much, and it looks like you’ve been drinking for weeks. And my understanding is that you did fuck her. Isn’t that how you bought yourself more time with the Irish?”
“We didn’t—” I stop, and shake my head. This is none of her fucking business. ”You know what? Fuck you. I don’t owe you an explanation. Get out.” I stand and point at the bowl. “Take the soup with you. I’m not a goddamn invalid.”
“Vin, I came to say something to you.”
“I don’t give a fuck!”
Something in me just snaps, and I pick up the bowl and throw it. It hits the wall across the room and explodes, broth sheeting down the plaster.
The silence afterward is loud.
Siena looks at the wall for a moment then back at me. She’s not scared. If anything, she just looks tired and a little bored.
“You’re an idiot, Vin,” she says, quietly. “You had the attentionof the most incredible woman in the city and you threw it away.”
“I didn’t have a choice.”
“Really. Because I thought you were the boss.”
I don’t answer.
“Not yet,” I finally say. Not until after the fucking funeral.
She nods slowly, like something just clicked for her. “Is that what this is? Is it fear? Of finally sitting in your father’s seat?”
“I’m not scared of a God damn thing, prin— Siena.”
She blinks, then almost smiles. “Vin, I think that’s the first time you’ve ever called me by my name.” I roll my eyes, and she sighs. “Okay, then so why won’t you do what you have to do to get ready for the funeral? And everything that goes with it?”
Her gaze is direct and intense and I hold it defiantly. If I’m honest, I respect her for being brave enough to face me. There are few men strong enough to do that.
I still don’t answer, though. Not because I’m refusing to, but because I don’t have one. I’ve been telling myself it’s about Ashlyn, about the marriage, about the events that the wedding sets into motion. But I see what she’s saying. It’s clearly more than that.
You’re a fuck-up, Vincenzo.My father’s thick accent, sounds off in my brain. Like it always does. Like it always has.
My biggest fear is proving him right.
Siena reaches into her bag and pulls out a piece of heavy cream-colored paper and drops it on the couch cushion next to me: a funeral program with Aurelio’s name printed across the front.
