Chapter 11
TOMMY
How could silence be awkward? Silence is simply the absence of someone else intruding on my thoughts, vying for my attention. That sort of peacefulness has never bothered me. I thought I was immune to what others describe as the discomfort of an awkward silence.
I thought wrong.
Two hours pass before Danika retreats to her room.
Two long hours of warring thoughts bombarding me with demands to say something—do something—fix it.
I hate how inept I feel at navigating this standoff.
Danika isn’t telling me everything. I know there’s more to her story, but I can’t find a way to coax the truth from her.
I told myself to put fear into her when I confronted her in her bedroom—that having her fear me was worth our safety. Fear and pain are powerful motivators, but I couldn’t bring myself to do it. I couldn’t hurt her with those wide evergreen eyes staring back at me.
So where does that leave me?
I have no fucking clue, which made the silence between us so undeniably frustrating.
I felt this oppressive pressure to say something that would convince her to trust me, but without any idea what words might work, that pressure had no outlet.
The atmosphere between us felt dense and stagnant like ocean air trapped on the coast before a storm pushes through.
I couldn’t even be relieved when she retreated to her room because it left me with no choice but to make the call I’d been putting off all afternoon.
I’d used her presence as an excuse. Now, I have none.
It’s time to tell my brother what’s been going on, especially after today’s adventure with DiAngelo, though Renzo has probably already been given a debriefing, considering how close those two have become since I left for Sicily.
I take a minute to put a precooked meal in the oven before dialing Renzo’s number.
“Yeah?”
“You have a minute?” I ask.
“Sure, I’m just leaving Terina’s place. What’s up?” Renzo has kept an eye on our sister ever since she lost her husband and then our dad died within a matter of months. That was years ago, but she’s never fully recovered.
“She okay?”
“Yeah, she’s fine. Just checking in with her. What did you need?”
“I wanted to talk to you about what’s going on with the Russians.”
“Yeah.” He sighs. “That doesn’t seem to be going away. D and I were just talking about it earlier.”
Interesting. DiAngelo, or D as my brother calls him, must not have told my brother about our excursion this morning, or Renzo would have mentioned it right off.
“What’s your take on the situation?” I ask.
“If I had to put money on it, I’d say Biba’s on the brink of war with Reaper’s crew. I’m curious if the two have met and whether we can find out what Biba knows about the guy. I’d rather be two steps ahead should the dominos start falling in our direction.”
“You think we’ll feel the effects?”
“Don’t see a way around it. Something that big is bound to spread. Why’re you asking?”
I weigh my words carefully. “I’ve got some information, but I don’t know how it fits in the picture. It may not be relevant at all except that it has to do with Biba.”
“Okay…” he prompts me to continue.
“Two days ago, a woman broke into my place.”
“No shit?”
“She told me Biba was after her for taking something from him. She claims she knew the guy who owned my apartment before me and the fact that she happened into a Moretti home is pure coincidence.”
Renzo stays quiet. If there’s one thing we can agree on, it’s that coincidences are bullshit.
“I wasn’t ready to release her until I knew more about the situation, so I did some digging. Turns out Biba’s got a million-dollar reward out for her.”
“Fucking Christ, tell me you don’t still have this girl stashed at your place, Tommy. The last thing we need is to involve ourselves in Biba’s mess.”
I’m fairly certain anything he could have said would have irritated me, but his quick reprimand and dismissal of my judgment on the situation are especially abrasive.
“For all I knew, she was sent by Biba or some other faction in an outright attack. You saying I should have just sent her on her merry way without asking a few questions?” Each word cuts with my growing anger.
“What I’m saying is you should have run it by me. Something that sensitive needs to be handled carefully.”
“And I’m not competent enough to do that on my own, is that it?”
“That’s not what I said,” Renzo bites back.
“Check again, big brother, because that’s exactly what you fucking said.” I’m too pissed to keep talking. I hang up, knowing it won’t help matters, but I’m unable to care.
Fuck him.
He and our father, back when the man was alive, always questioned my abilities and motives.
In their eyes, if they couldn’t understand my rationale, it must have been wrong.
If I didn’t have the right words to explain myself, I didn’t know what I was talking about.
Even compulsive behaviors irrelevant to my critical thinking skills somehow became excuses for dismissing my opinions.
I didn’t have the understanding or confidence to rebuke them back then. I’m not a kid anymore, and I’m done being overlooked and dismissed. If Renzo wants me to prove myself, then I will. I’ll prove myself by not rolling over. I’ll show him that I’m just as capable as he is, and I’ll do it my way.
All that leaves me to do is figure out what my way entails.
Fantastic.
I sit at the kitchen bar and lay out my situation as objectively as I can.
Biba is after Danika. He’s so intent on getting his hands on her that he’s offered a million-dollar reward.
His motive must be substantial, which means she didn’t just take something insignificant.
But she refuses to tell me what she took. Why?
The most logical reason for her silence is fear.
Fear of what? That I’d take the item from her?
That I’d turn her over to Biba if I knew what she’d taken?
At this point, she’s seen that not even a million dollars is incentive enough for me to turn her over.
What then? What has her scared enough to risk her own life because that’s what she’s doing.
I could have killed her multiple times over, yet I haven’t laid a finger on her, and it still hasn’t been enough to convince her to surrender her secrets.
The only way any of it makes sense—the only thing worth protecting with your life—is the life of someone you love. Maybe what she stole isn’t a what; maybe it’s a who. Could she be hiding someone?
Man trouble.
The realization hits me with the force of a city bus.
Was I mistaken in assuming the man in her “man trouble” was Biba? Could she have been referring to a lover instead? Someone whose location she’s protecting with her life?
How had the thought not occurred to me? I’m absolutely livid with myself. With her. With the entire world. Danika Dobrev is not allowed to belong to someone else. She can’t come crashing into my world on behalf of another man. I won’t allow it.
She can’t belong to another man, not if she stays here with me.
With that sentiment echoing poignantly in my head, I take dinner out of the oven, make a plate for her, then take it to her bedroom. “Dinner,” I announce flatly, setting the plate on the dresser with a clatter.
“Oh, thanks.” Uncertainty coats her words.
I take a subtle look around. She has everything she could need in here for the night, so I don’t feel bad when I leave the room and lock the door behind me.
I bought the lock so I could sleep without feeling in danger.
That still applies, except now there’s more to it.
Now, I’m locking her in because I don’t want to risk losing her.
“Tommy?” The sweet innocence in her voice freezes me mid-motion.
“Just locking the door for the night,” I explain, hoping to keep her from panicking.
“You’re locking me in?” she asks, her voice moving closer with each word until I know she’s only a step away. The door handle jiggles. “What if there’s a fire or something?”
“There won’t be.” And even if there were a fire, I’d burn alongside her before I’d let her die alone.
For the first time since she careened into me in front of that police station, I’m blanketed by a sense of certainty. Of purpose.
I want Danika Dobrev.
Everything else is superfluous. Her motives and secrets. The danger surrounding her. I don’t care whether my reason for wanting her is rational or not. Even my obligation to my family pales compared to my driving need to protect this woman and make her mine.
I’ve only experienced a similar sensation once before, and it led me to spend four years of my life away from home because I knew I needed Sante in my life more than I needed anything else.
I don’t regret that decision one bit. I listened to my gut, and I’m glad I did.
It’s time to do that again. I’m done making excuses.
Feeling a renewed sense of certainty, I eat my dinner before allowing myself to give in to my curiosity.
A new door lock wasn’t the only thing I bought earlier today.
I gave in to a rare impulse and bought a nanny cam.
Is it an invasion of privacy? Sure, assuming someone has a right to privacy.
Danika signed away those rights the minute she broke into my home.
Besides, if she won’t give me answers, she’s giving me no choice but to go in search of information.
I open my laptop in my office and launch the software I installed right after placing a tiny camera in the fake floral arrangement on her dresser. It was the only viable option given the short notice and my minimalistic decor preferences. Regardless, it works perfectly.
The second she appears on my computer screen, something primitive deep inside me uncoils. Danika sits on the side of her bed looking at a phone. She’s texting someone.
The darkness lurking within me bristles.
Who is she texting? If she’s protecting a man, could she be texting him?
There goes any semblance of a good mood.
I want to snap that phone in half, then hunt down this asshole to punish him for putting her in so much danger.
What kind of worthless sack of shit would hide and let his woman act as a shield for him?
The sort who doesn’t deserve that woman in the first place.
She eventually sets aside the phone and stands at the window at the edge of the camera’s reach.
I glance at the wall of windows nearby and see that the sun’s departure has left tangerine ripples across a sapphire sky.
I wonder if that’s what she’s looking at or if she has her sights and thoughts focused elsewhere.
What I wouldn’t give to know what she’s thinking.
Rather than assuage my curiosity, the camera seems to be making it worse.
I didn’t think I could sleep knowing she was free to roam my house. Now I know I won’t be able to rest until she’s already fast asleep. I don’t want to miss a moment of her movements. How could I possibly sever the one tenuous connection I have to her?
I can’t, which is why I end up with soap in my eyes while showering with the laptop on my bathroom vanity. Probably serves me right for watching her. I still don’t fucking care.