Page 81 of Out of Control

“I meant what I said,” she murmurs, lips against my chest.

“What’s that?” I run a hand up and down the length of her back.

She hesitates. “This matters.”

“I know it does,” I say and hold her tighter against me. “It matters to me too.”

We leave it at that. At knowing there are stakes here but not defining them.

At knowing there are emotions but leaving them unnamed.

If they’re unnamed then no one can leave. And if they’re undefined, no one can claim I’m not good enough.

But she’s here. On my chest. Against me with the scent of her perfume clinging to my skin. She’s here. And I just keep telling myself that’s enough for me.

“Well, Bellissima. That sure is one way to kick off a race week.”

She laughs and presses her lips to mine. “It sure is. Now, about that Peach Ring . . .”

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

Rossi

“Let me guess,” I say stoically. “You’re not coming. Again.”

“It’s not you. It’s . . . work is busy, Oliver.”

I swallow forcibly, trying to rid the bitterness his excuses leave in my mouth. And I don’t know why I suddenly care, why it’s so important to have him at a race, but it is.

Maybe it’s to prove to Sofia that I’m normal. Or maybe being with her has made me realize how fucking alone I’ve been for so long. She has a fucked-up family and yet they’re still always together. I don’t know. I don’t think I want to know, but I answered this phone call looking for a fight. A fight I’ve held back for so many years and that I’m finally ready to have.

“Of course it is. When have you not picked work over me? Maybe that would be an easier thing to answer for me?”

“I don’t pick work over you, Oliver. In fact, it’s quite the—”

“Bullshit.”

“I pick certainty. I had a life where nothing’s guaranteed.”

“And I have one hundred million euros in the bank. A portion of that, I’ve sent you so you don’t have to work, and yet you still choose it over me. Every time. Without fail.”

“You’re wrong,” he says in that calm pacifying voice of his that agitates me.

But there’s something in its tone. A tremor in the vibrato that makes me give pause.

It’s brief though.

“I’m not wrong, Babbo. I’m far from wrong but you never show up. I send you tickets to every single fucking race, and you never show up. So tell me you’re working. Tell me you’re busy. I don’t fucking care anymore. I’m sick of trying and I’m more than sick of feeling like you’re still ashamed of me—”

“Oliver!”

“Nah. I’m done.”

I end the call and raise my arm to throw my phone, something, anything to allow me to alleviate the hurt rioting through me, when I see her in my periphery.

“I’m sorry,” Sofia says. “I heard the last part. I didn’t mean to. I . . .” She shakes her head as if she doesn’t know what to say. “I knocked. You didn’t answer so I came in.”

“No skin off my back,” I say.