Chapter 32
TERINA
Present
When I saw Tommy slip away after DiAngelo, I had to follow. I wish I hadn’t. The first words out of my brother’s mouth drench me in ice-cold mortification.
I knew that Tommy likely assumed DiAngelo and I were screwing. DiAngelo is supposed to be guarding me twenty-four seven, after all. But a part of me had hoped Tommy might think DiAngelo had brought in another woman for sex. That little delusion has died.
If Tommy knows it was me, does that mean he heard me, too?
Oh dear God.
I’ll never be able to look him in the eyes again.
I should go. I should walk right out of this hospital and bury myself under a rock where no one will ever find me. I want to, but I can’t. I can’t make myself budge when I hear DiAngelo’s vicious response from where I stand, hidden around the corner.
“You’re talking about things you don’t know shit about.”
“I know you, and I know what I heard.”
“Oh yeah, what do you know about me?” DiAngelo’s voice goes deadly calm, like a jungle cat quietly readying to pounce.
“I know you get off on dominating women.”
Hearing him say that makes me feel so small and embarrassed, yet I never felt remotely belittled by DiAngelo, even when I was on my knees.
Quite the opposite. Every second of his attention was founded in reverence and admiration.
I felt cherished in his eyes, so much so that the implication of him doing those things with other women sends a jealous heat from my neck to my face.
“That right?” DiAngelo snaps back. “And here I was believing Renzo when he said you’re the smartest man he knows.”
“You saying you’re not taking advantage of her just because she’s weak and alone?”
My entire body recoils at Tommy’s assessment of me, though I don’t have time to dwell because next I hear sounds of a scuffle. The thud of a body slamming into a wall hits my ears. I can’t resist a peek.
DiAngelo uses his impressive size to pin my brother up against the wall, balanced on his tippy-toes. “You say whatever the fuck you want about me. I can take it. But I won’t hesitate to rip out your goddamn tongue if you talk about your sister like that again. You understand me?”
I’m stunned speechless.
Considering DiAngelo’s cool demeanor since the phone call, I didn’t expect such an ardent defense. It’s oddly soothing. Nothing’s changed, but knowing D doesn’t think I’m pathetic helps.
The two men begin to talk quietly such that I can’t hear them. And when DiAngelo lowers Tommy back to his feet, I decide it’s time to disappear. I hurry back to the waiting area and start scrolling on my phone as though I’d been doing that the entire time DiAngelo was gone.
When he returns, he brings me my water, then sits on the opposite side of the room and doesn’t look at me. I know because I keep checking. I can’t help myself. His normally olive complexion is noticeably red, and his muscled shoulders look coiled with tension.
What I wouldn’t give to eavesdrop on his thoughts right now.
His declaration that our sexy exchange was a mistake felt like a rejection. I had to agree because I didn’t want to sound wounded and weak. Plus, a part of me knows it’s probably for the best we’re not together. But would I have said it was a mistake? I’m not so sure.
Is that truly how he feels?
Does it matter? This is for the best, remember?
Ugh, I don’t know. It’s definitely embarrassing for my family to know. And I don’t want anyone to think I’ve degraded myself, including me. But if what we did was wrong, why did it feel so right?
I don’t have any concrete answers, though I do obsess over the questions between updates on the progress of Shae’s labor. Being the badass that she is, she has the baby surprisingly quickly. We should have known.
Liora Aine Donati is born at 8:55 p.m. at 6 lbs, 5oz.
She’s absolutely perfect with jet-black hair and a round, cherubic face that brings tears to my eyes. The new parents are blissfully happy and equally exhausted, so we don’t hang around for long.
Back home at DiAngelo’s apartment, I’m suffocated by a flood of emotion. Something about being alone with him again, and the haunting lack of distractions, has a rising panic constricting around my chest.
What happens now?
Will he ignore me?
Do I want him to?
Has Tommy told the rest of my family?
Am I forming feelings for DiAngelo?
What if I am, and something happens to him?
Don’t forget, it’s almost the anniversary of Craig’s death.
What if DiAngelo ends up dead because of me, as well?
Would his murder be just as gruesome?
My ears begin to ring, and nausea roils in my stomach.
Before I know it, I’m in the bathroom with the door locked.
The closet light shines into the room, but I keep the main overhead light off.
It feels safer that way. Tucked away in the back of the apartment, sitting on the woven shower mat, I stare at the candle I retrieved from my suitcase.
I told myself I wouldn’t do this.
I want to be strong enough to weather the storm, but the walls are closing in on me, and I need to make it stop. When desperation hits like this, there is nothing I wouldn’t do to escape it.
I need the burn.
I need to believe that everything will be okay.
I need relief from the crippling fear.
The scrape of my lighter rips through the silence. As the flame takes hold of the wick, tingles of anticipation dance from my scalp down my spine—the same sort of tingles DiAngelo brought on.
I haven’t done this in a while. A part of me hoped it was a thing of the past. I should have known better. I’m too messed up to be miraculously normal.
As the words float across my mind, I scoot my butt away from the wall and lean back with my legs extended so that my body is curved. I roll my shirt up and tuck it under my bra and push my leggings down to expose my lower belly.
My breathing hitches.
Two hushed voices hiss in my mind, one pleading with me to stop, the other insisting that I need this. While my mind argues with itself, my hand holding the candle tilts, and the wax drips onto the discolored skin below my belly button.
I’ve learned this is the easiest place to hide the marks.
I’ve also learned that the higher I hold my hand, the less it burns.
Sometimes I need it to burn. But I try to start light, hoping to assuage the urge with minimal damage.
This time, my hand is high enough that the trail of drying wax won’t blister, but I still hiss from the sting.
My head drops back as relief washes over me.
However, like the ocean waves on a sandy beach, the sensation quickly drains away, leaving me dry and empty. Empty enough to be filled with a brand new serving of shame at my weakness.
I hate that I do this to myself.
I hate that a part of me revels in the pain.
All of it makes me wonder if I don’t deserve everything that’s happened to me. My husband’s murder. The threats on my life.
I am weak and pathetic, just like Tommy said.
Tears pool in my eyes, and I align my hand over my stomach again when a quiet knock sounds at the door.
“Rina?” DiAngelo’s voice is gruff but soft. Almost tender.
“Yeah?”
“I ordered us a pizza—you okay with meat lovers?”
The shift in gears takes me a second. “Yeah, yeah, that’s good.”
There’s no response at first, and I wonder if he’s left before he continues. “Also ordered one of those big cookies they make. I know you like cookies and thought you might want one.”
“You know I like cookies?”
“Noticed you had one of those tubs of dough in the fridge back at your place.”
I wonder what else he noticed.
“Yeah, that sounds great, actually. Thanks.”
There’s a muffled grunt, and then he’s gone.
I can’t deny the sense that this was some sort of apology. He didn’t have to come tell me what he’d done, after all. I would have figured it out soon enough when I returned to the living room, but he felt the need to come tell me.
The gesture is especially impactful considering DiAngelo doesn’t exactly go out of his way to be sweet.
He’s loyal, honorable, and probably has some other glowing qualities that I’ve yet to experience.
However, his edges are sharp enough that his softer side is hard to find.
He does have one, though. That much is more evident every day.
It makes me want to know how deep that well runs.
And why he keeps it locked away.
Looking down, I realize my hand has lowered and is now resting on the base of the candle on the stone floor. The flame, still flickering, doesn’t hold the same allure as it did moments ago. The wave of panic is no longer crashing over me. DiAngelo’s distraction worked almost as well as the candle.
Maybe even better.
I lift the candle and extinguish the flame with an easy breath. I need to get ready for the pizza and cookie. My stomach is still a little woozy, but it’s feeling better by the minute.
I clean up the wax and change into lounge pants and a camisole with a built-in bra—comfortable, casual, and even a little cute—not that I need to be cute. It just makes me feel better. I assure myself that DiAngelo has nothing to do with my clothing choices. I don’t care what he thinks.
When I see him in the living room, warmth radiates off my skin at the way his eyes rake over my body.
You’re such a liar. You care.
Nobody’s perfect, least of all, me.
I know I shouldn’t want him to want me, but I do. I crave it with every irrational bone in my body.
“Thanks for taking care of dinner,” I offer softly.
He looks down at the beer in his hand as though my words snapped him out of a trance. “Yeah, uh. You want one?” He raises the brown bottle.
I take a seat on the opposite side of the sofa from him. “Nah, I’ll probably just have some water.”
“That juice you wanted is in the fridge,” he tells me. “It accidentally got put in the pantry when the order arrived. I can pour you a glass.”
“Thanks, I’ll get it when the pizza’s here.”
He nods, then taps the remote, and an action movie flicks back to life on the screen.
We watch in companionable silence until the food arrives, then move into the kitchen.
I pour myself a glass of apple juice and am turning to get pizza when I bump him while he’s getting paper plates, sloshing the juice out of my glass.
“Oops! Sorry!” I squeak.
“I’ll get it.” He takes the glass and sets it on the counter, then gets paper towels.
I bring him the cleaning spray from under the sink. “You don’t want the floor to be sticky.”
He cleans the floor and wipes down my glass before returning it to me. Our hands touch in the process when he doesn’t immediately release the glass.
Time stretches thin like caramel off a freshly dipped apple.
I’m utterly lost in the landscape of colors in his eyes when his lips part.
He’s going to say something.
My heart stutters.
Please, please don’t push me away.