A tear rolls down my cheek. “I love you, Papa.”
“And I love you. Always and in all ways.”
The screen goes dark.
I sit on the edge of my bed, phone in my lap, staring at nothing.
I love you to the moon.
He’s in danger. Real danger. The kind he spent my whole life shielding me from, and now it’s here, and the only thing I can do is sit in this apartment and pretend I don’t know.
I can’t tell Art. Percy’s words keep circling my skull like vultures.He’s in it, just from a different seat.And even if Art’s not the one pulling the strings, he could get stuck in the crosshairs.
And if my father’s right, if his words are telling me what I think, that I need to act normal, then telling Art’s a risk I can’t take.
I can’t go home to Boston. I can’t run. I can’t call the police because I don’t even know what I’d report.Hi, my dad’s a mob lawyer and someone’s been watching me and I found a suspicious email in my boyfriend’s desk that’s also above a fighting ring that nobody here knows exists.
Which leaves me alone in this apartment with a cold stove and a crumpled blanket and the lingering sting ofdon’t confuse obligation with me giving a shit.
I look at the throw on the floor. The one that still smells like leather and campfire. The one that belonged to the man who told me he doesn’t care about me two hours after staying awake all night to make sure nothing happened to me.
I’m still angry.
But I’m also terrified. And I’m out of people.
Lance is already inside whatever this is. He knows about the cage, the fights, the people in charge. He told me himself he’s on a leash. Which means telling him what my father said wouldn’tbe dragging someone into danger. He’s already there. He’s been there longer than I have. He’s the only one I can trust.
And I hate—hate—that he’s the only person I can say that about.
I pick up the blanket, fold it, and set it on the chair. And then my stomach lurches. I barely make it to the bathroom before my knees hit the tile and everything comes up.
Coffee, fear, and the last shred of the life I thought I had.
Chapter 19
Genevieve
I hear the car before I hear the knock.
Gravel crunching, an engine cutting, a door slamming. My body is moving toward the window before my brain catches up, and I hate that. I hate that I’ve been sitting here waiting, and my first thought ismaybe Lance came backinstead of something rational like it could be anyone, it could be the man from the woods, it could be nobody.
It could be Art.
But it is Lance. He takes the steps two at a time and knocks twice, and I stand in the center of my apartment with my arms wrapped around my stomach and my toothbrush still in my hand and try to figure out how to be a person who hasn’t spent the last two hours throwing up and crying on her bathroom floor.
I open the door.
“What are you doing answering the door without checking who it is first?” he snaps.
“What the hell are you doing here?”
He studies my face and frowns. “Can I come in?”
“Depends. You going to call me a little girl and tell me I’m not built for this again?”
“No.”
“Okay, then.”
