Chapter 33
SIERRA
The rumble of Matteo’s motorcycle cuts through the quiet evening, and I don’t move from my spot on the couch.
This confrontation is happening whether he likes it or not.
I’ve been watching from the living room window like some kind of pathetic girlfriend in a rom-com, except this isn’t funny and I’m not laughing. It’s been two more days of cold sheets and grunted hellos and him not being around.
I’m done playing this game.
So I’m parked on the couch, arms crossed, legs crossed, the whole “I’m not moving and you can’t make me” package. Nell can handle the bar without me for a little while. This is happening.
The front door swings open, and there he is. All broody and gorgeous and tense in that way that used to make my stomach flip but right now just makes me want to throw something at his head.
His eyes find me immediately. I watch him clock my posture, the way I’m clearly not heading out the door to work, and for just a second, I swear he looks... nervous?
Then it’s gone, and he’s back to being a brick wall with cheekbones.
“We need to talk,” I bite out.
He’s still got his hand on the doorknob. “Don’t you have work?”
“That’s why you’re here right now, isn’t it?” I glare at him. “You’ve been timing it. Waiting until I’m walking out so you don’t have to see me.”
His jaw does that clenching thing. He closes the door and moves into the living room but doesn’t sit, just stands there like I’m a bomb he’s trying to figure out how to defuse.
“I’ve been busy. There’s a war going on.”
“Who’s Santino?”
He stops breathing. Just for a second, but I catch it.
His eyes cut away from mine, and for a moment, I see it. Pain, raw and jagged, before he buries it again.
“How do you know about him?”
He turns toward the window, giving me his back. I watch his shoulders bunch up under his shirt as he scans the front yard, checking for threats that aren’t there because that’s what he does when he needs to feel in control.
“Doesn’t matter how I know.” No way am I getting his mom in trouble. “Just tell me about him.”
“Nothing to tell.” He shrugs, but it’s the least convincing shrug I’ve ever seen. “He was someone I worked with. He died.”
I wait, hoping he’ll give me something, anything.
He doesn’t.
I get up from the couch, restless with frustration. “Someone you worked with? That’s all you’re going to say? You want me to believe his death doesn’t matter to you?”
He turns back around, and his face is showing absolutely nothing, like he’s pulled shutters down over every window. “People die. I respected him. Knew him a long time. But he’s gone, so… ”
He trails off like that’s an explanation. Like that’s enough.
I know it isn’t. I’ve seen this man soft and gentle. I’ve felt him shake when he told me about his stepfather. I know what Matteo looks like when he’s burying something that hurts too much to look at directly.
I step closer to him. “You can talk to me, you know. I’m here. I want to be here for you.”
For a second, just a second, I think I see him waver.
Then he steps back. Away from me.
“Don’t do that.” His voice is sharp, cutting. “I’m not looking for someone to confide in about my problems. That’s not what this is.”
My heart drops straight through the floor. “What does that mean? What is this, then?”
“You know exactly what this is. You know why we’re doing this.” He’s looking at me like I’m a stranger.
I did know. A fake engagement. A way to draw out Viktor. But somewhere along the way, it stopped feeling fake. At least, it did for me.
“Just because I told you about my shitty stepdad doesn’t mean I’m an open book.” His voice is flat, but his hands are in fists at his side. “I don’t need you to hold my hand every time I’m upset. I was fine before you came along.”
I actually take a step backward.
It’s stupid. It’s not like he hit me or even raised his voice. But the coldness in his words, the deliberate distance he’s putting between us, reaches right into my chest and squeezes.
And I hate, really hate, that my brain immediately goes to Viktor.
Viktor was sweet too, at first. Attentive. And then one day he just... wasn’t. And I spent months trying to crack him back open, certain the real him was still in there somewhere if I just tried hard enough.
I can’t do that again. I won’t.
“It must be lonely,” I say quietly, grabbing my purse from the side table. “Carrying all that weight by yourself.”
His breath leaves him in a rush, but I don’t wait to hear what he has to say.
I grab my purse, and I’m out the door before I can do something humiliating like beg him to let me in. The night air is cool against my hot face, and I keep walking, one foot in front of the other, muscle memory carrying me to my car because my brain is too busy screaming to be useful.
I make it inside. Close the door. Get my hands on the steering wheel.
They’re shaking.
God, I’m so stupid. I’m so incredibly stupid. I saw what I wanted to see because I wanted so badly to believe I could trust someone again. I wanted to believe that the way he touched me, the way he looked at me, the way he held me after he told me about his past, all meant something.
Maybe it didn’t. Maybe I’m just the bait in his trap for Viktor and nothing more.
My chest hurts so much I have to press my hand against it, like I can hold myself together from the outside if I just push hard enough.
I start the car because I don’t know what else to do. The engine rumbles to life, and I pull out of the driveway, blinking hard against the wetness blurring my vision.
I’m not crying over him. I’m not.
But the thought keeps circling, keeps pecking at me like something hungry and mean.
What if I’m the only one who fell?