Chapter 31
LENI
I don’t understand men.
Or maybe it’s just Romero that I don’t understand.
He’s a very confusing man.
Actually, scratch that. He’s not just confusing—he’s completely impossible to read.
One minute I’m falling asleep in his arms feeling like the luckiest woman alive, basking in the afterglow of a week where he worshipped my body like I was something precious. The next, I wake up and suddenly he’s distant, cold, telling me our honeymoon was a ‘waste of time’.
What did I do wrong? What did I say?
I’ve replayed every moment from our last night together, searching for some clue, some misstep that would explain his sudden transformation. But there’s nothing…
Then he fucking abandoned me for the entire flight back home. Five agonizing hours alone, my thoughts twisting deeper and darker, obsessing over what I’d done to deserve his icy distance.
And as if the universe is mocking me, we arrive home and an adorable little tabby cat comes running to greet us. A cat that definitely wasn’t here when we left for our honeymoon.
“Kitten, what did I tell you about wandering off?” A dark-haired man strides towards us with an annoyed frown on his face.
Sandro. I met him briefly at the wedding, though I’m still not entirely sure what he is. Romero’s bodyguard? Secretary? Investigator? Honestly, it’s hard to tell.
I drop to my knees without thinking twice and scoop the tiny orange furball into my arms. He’s warm and soft and exactly what my heart needs after hours of Romero’s silent treatment.
“Hey, baby. Have you been giving Uncle Sandro a hard time?” I coo, glancing up in time to see Sandro’s face go pale at the word ‘uncle’. My lips tug up, and I can’t help but chuckle at his horrified expression. Poor guy looks ready to file a formal complaint about his new family title.
The kitten squirms for about three seconds before finding the perfect spot against my chest, letting out this cute yawn that makes my ovaries practically explode. His whiskers tickle my wrist as he settles in, and I’m already completely smitten.
“Well, now that you’ve arrived, my job as a cat-sitter is officially over. Thank God.” Sandro dusts his hands down his clothes. “Good luck with that furry tornado and all the destruction she leaves in her wake.”
She. It’s a girl.
My chest does this weird fluttery thing when he confirms what I already suspected—this little princess is all mine. “What’s her name?”
“No name yet. Romero wanted you to handle the honors yourself.”
My eyes snap to my husband, who’s been standing there watching this whole scene unfold without saying a word. His jaw flexes, and when his green eyes finally meet mine, something unreadable flickers there. “It’s a gift,” he says gruffly—then walks off.
Sandro’s frown deepens, his gaze bouncing between us like he’s trying to solve a puzzle with missing pieces. After a moment’s hesitation, he follows Romero, leaving me alone with my new companion.
A gift.
I stare down at the kitten in my arms, and despite the confusing ache in my chest, a wide smile spreads across my face. He remembered our conversation. The fabric of my shirt brushes the diamond in my navel as I walk, and the thought hits me: He seems to remember everything about me.
My heart squeezes as I glance up at the direction he disappeared. Maybe something horrible happened with work? That would explain why we had to leave the island so suddenly and why he shut himself away the entire flight home. He did mention important work…
I cradle my kitten as I climb the stairs towards my—well, our—bedroom. “Now, what should I name you, sweetie?” I murmur, stroking her impossibly soft fur. She shifts against me, a low purr vibrating through her body.
“You like that?” I keep petting her until I reach the room, then gently place her on the chair. She immediately starts exploring her new cozy lookout while I grab clean clothes. “Hold on, I need to take a shower and change. After that, we can get to know each other properly, okay?”
Lady Heathcliff.
That’s what I call my cat. Named after my favorite fictional character—a character who reminds me painfully of my husband. But as the days pass, I realize how perfectly fitting that name is, because she apparently thinks she’s some sort of anti–hero and I’m her devoted servant.
Every morning, without fail, she climbs onto my chest at some ungodly hour, meowing indignantly and pawing at my hair until I surrender to her demands for breakfast. And boy does she eat. In a single week, she’s nearly doubled in size.
But I’m so grateful for her demanding presence. She distracts me from obsessing over my husband and wondering what the hell crawled up his ass and died.
Is he tired of me already?
Should I have never suggested marriage, just stayed with him for the two months he asked for?
The questions circle in my brain relentlessly, but I shove them down, focusing instead on the warm sunlight on my face—only to spot my mischievous cat at the edge of the small pond I discovered behind the house.
She’s crouched low in a perfect hunting stance, amber eyes locked on the tiny fish swimming below.
“Lady Heathcliff, no!”
She turns those amber eyes towards me for exactly half a second—just long enough to let me know she heard me and doesn’t give a damn about my opinion—then launches herself straight into the water.
“Shit!” I scramble to my feet as she immediately realizes what a spectacular mistake she has made. She yowls in panic while she thrashes around, sending water spraying everywhere, all over me.
“What did I tell you about thinking things through before you act?” I snap, grabbing her by the scruff—the only safe way to handle a wet, terrified cat without getting shredded—and hauling her out of the water.
She meows accusingly at my face, clearly convinced this whole mess is somehow my fault. Typical. I shake my head and hurry into the house through the back door with her soggy, shivering form clutched against my equally soggy shirt.
Upstairs in the bathroom, I wrap her in a fluffy towel, then plug in my hair dryer, setting it to the cool setting. The moment I start running the warm air over her damp fur, she transforms from angry wet gremlin to purring angel, her eyes slipping closed in bliss as she starts purring.
“Look at you. Such a drama queen,” I murmur, but I’m smiling despite myself.
She’s completely addicted to the hair dryer—I discovered this during her first bath, and now it’s become part of our routine. The spoiled princess never wants the pampering to end. Lucky for her, I’ve got all day to spoil her rotten.
My phone’s shrill ring suddenly cuts through our bonding session. I switch off the dryer—much to Lady Heathcliff’s vocal displeasure—and toss it safely into a drawer before she can get any dangerous ideas about investigating and hurting herself.
“Just hold on, your majesty,” I tell the spoiled kitten as I walk towards the nightstand to pick up my phone.
It’s an unknown number, but there’s something familiar about the sequence of digits. When I answer, I realize why. “Hello?”
“Leni, what the hell? I’ve been trying to reach you for the past twenty minutes.” Bree. My old neighbor from Brownsville. I’d recognize that nasally, condescending voice anywhere.
“What do you want?” I ask, already dreading the answer; Bree never calls with good news.
“Is that any way to talk to a concerned neighbor who’s trying to do you a favor? Who’s been desperately trying to reach you for twenty whole minutes to give you information you need to know?”
A lump swells in my throat, because I just know who this is about. My voice comes out almost a whisper. “What’s going on?”
“Your… mother is here. Next door. And she’s making quite the spectacle of herself in front of your former house,” she bites out, voice smug. “Thought you should know.” Then she hangs up, leaving only the dial tone buzzing in my ear.
My eyes squeeze shut.
Shit.
I glance down at Lady Heathcliff, who’s watching me with those intelligent amber eyes like she can sense the shift in my mood.
“Fucking hell, Lady. What am I going to do with her?” But there’s only one thing to do, really.
There’s always only one thing to do when it comes to my mother.
“Stay put, sweetheart. I’ll be back soon. ”
I fire off a text to Dean, who’s always on standby with the Maybach that’s practically mine now since Romero started using his sleek SUV for whatever mysterious business keeps him away from home.
Then, running a hand through my hair, I make my way out of the bedroom, making sure to leave the door cracked just enough in case Lady needs to use her litter box.
Dean is already pulling up as I reach the driveway. I don’t even wait for him to come around to open my door; I slide in myself. He already knows the destination from my text, so I just lean back in my seat, heart pounding as we leave Romero’s compound.
Just what kind of scene is Mom causing this time?
My mind races through increasingly horrifying possibilities as we navigate through Brooklyn traffic.
If she’s back at the old house instead of the beautiful house Romero set up for her and Ethan, then she must have been using again.
She’d been doing so well since our wedding.
Whatever Romero said to her the day after she slapped me has kept her sober for weeks, and I actually started believing things might be different this time.
Stupid me.
The second we pull into Brownsville, a familiar wave of unease presses down on me. I sit up straighter, staring out at the cracked pavements and graffitied mailboxes, the lump in my throat tightening the closer we get to the old house.
When the car slows, Dean glances back. “We’re here, ma’am.”
I nod wordlessly, then step out. And there she is—impossible to miss. Spread-eagled on the brittle grass in front of our old house. In just her underwear. Dirt smudged along her thigh. A half-burned cigarette dangling between her fingers.