Chapter 29 #2
The next thing I know, he’s standing up, his hands at his zipper.
His shirt’s already half off, and his tattoos are slithering across the part of his chest I can see. His belt’s open. His hand’s at his fly. His eyes haven’t left mine.
He looks like the devil. Dark. Sinful. Gorgeous. And despite myself, I’m tempted. No, more than tempted. Desperate.
Guess I belong in hell, right next to him.
I’m about to reach out to him when his phone buzzes. Lust drains from my body. My eyes close.
Here we go again.
Of course.
Don’t.
He doesn’t listen.
The phone is picked up, and when I open my eyes, the first thing I see is him reading the message.
“I have to go downstairs,” he grumbles.
“It hasn’t been twenty minutes.”
“This isn’t—”
“It hasn’t been twenty minutes, Raffaele. You said twenty. You can’t even do twenty.”
“Someone’s at the gate.”
“Someone’s always at the fucking gate.”
He’s pulling on his pants. His gun’s already in his hand.
“Stay here. I’ll be five minutes.”
“Don’t lie to me.”
He pauses at the door, looking back.
“I love you.”
The words are like a cold breeze. They blow the door shut behind him.
Then I’m alone. Again. I lie there, staring at the ceiling. Who knew those three words could feel so empty.
I count three breaths before I get up, not allowing myself to wallow. That’s too dangerous. So, I pull my pants back up and tighten my loosened robe and follow the devil’s ghost out of the bedroom and down the stairs.
We’ll see what’s so important, I think. So much more important than the woman you supposedly love.
I follow his smell to the extravagant foyer. The front door’s open a crack. Cold air slips through. I stop in the entryway, behind the wall, and look out.
Raffaele’s on the porch.
He has his gun raised. It’s pointed at someone in the driveway I can’t see from this angle. I move closer, leaning in to get a better look. Then I see who’s there.
Shit.
Victor Moreno Jr. is standing in the driveway.
Hands raised, palms out. He’s in a dark coat. There’s a single black sedan behind him with the headlights still on. He’s smiling—that smile from the restaurant, the gala, the night he put me in his car and Raffaele’s face twisted with jealousy.
“I’ll ask you one last time. What the fuck are you doing here?” Raffaele shouts.
Victor’s smile doesn’t flinch.
“D’Amico. May I lower the hands? It’s awkward.”
“Answer the fucking question.”
“I found you. Obviously. Can we just skip the part where you’re impressed and get to the part where we talk?”
Raffaele unclicks the safety on his gun. “Talk.”
“About Nico.” Victor tilts his head. “We’ve got something in common now, you and I. Both our fathers in a basement. Both our houses without a chair. I think there’s a conversation here that’s worth our time.”
Raffaele’s gun doesn’t move.
“You came alone. To my property. In the middle of the night.” Raffaele lets that sit. “You drove yourself, even. No driver, huh? That’s either very brave or very stupid, and I haven’t decided which yet.”
“I’d like to think brave.”
“Right. You know what’s nice about this property, Victor? The water. Right there. Private beach, private dock. I could walk you down, we could take the boat out in the moonlight. Real peaceful this time of night.” Raffaele snarls. “You’d love it so much you might even wanna stay there.”
“You could do that.” Victor’s hands are still up, but he doesn’t look afraid. “But you need a partner, D’Amico. And so do I. And there are very few rooms in this city right now where we both walk out alive together. I’m offering you one.”
I realize I’m not breathing, so I force myself to sip in tiny mouthfuls of air before I pass out.
“Tomorrow,” Victor continues. “Neutral ground. Bring whoever you want. Bring an army if you like. If you don’t like what I have to say, you can shoot me at the end of it. I’m only asking for the meeting.”
“Or,” Raffaele says, “we skip all that, and I save myself the gas, and we go for that boat ride right now.”
“D’Amico.”
“I’m only offering once.”
A pause. Victor doesn’t lower the hands, but he doesn’t move toward the car either.
“You come alone,” Raffaele says finally.
“Alone.”
“Any sign of your men…”
“There won’t be.” Victor lowers one hand—slowly, telegraphing it—and reaches two fingers into his coat. Raffaele’s gun comes back up the two degrees it dropped. “Easy. Paper. Just paper.”
He draws out a folded card and holds it at arm’s length, then crouches and sets it on the gravel.
“Address. Time. It’s all on there.” He straightens, hands going back up. “A man should get an invitation he can hold. Feels more sincere.”
Raffaele doesn’t move toward it.
“Don’t be late,” Victor adds. “I went to the trouble of picking somewhere with parking.”
Raffaele rattles his gun in the air. Victor takes it as a yes and starts to back toward his car. Then he pauses, looking past Raffaele… and right at me.
“Miss Mendez.” He inclines his head, the smallest little courtly bow. “You’ve come a long way from reception. The beach house suits you.”
Raffaele steps sideways, putting himself between Victor’s eyeline and me, but he doesn’t turn around.
“Leave.”
Victor raises his hands one more time, a small chuckle drifting through the night as he goes. The car door closes behind him, and the engine grumbles to life. A moment later, the headlights swing across our lawn, and then away.
The night swallows him.
When the sound of his retreat disappears, all that’s left is the low whistle of a light breeze. For a long moment, Raffaele doesn’t move. The gun stays locked in his hand as he glares at the empty driveway.
Part of me wants to go to him; the other part knows better.
Still, I can’t help but wonder, What happens now?
I don’t ask.
I don’t think I want to know.