20. Vian
VIAN
Not even a full day without her, and I am pacing my living room, a restless wild animal in a cage. Trapped by the unforgiving past, shackles locked around my ankles and thumping against the floor with each step, I’m reminded that I am moving in place.
This wasn’t fucking supposed to happen. I stayed away for four years to let her mind rest, shoving everything into her subconscious so nothing could escape, but now she gets more flashbacks, reliving things even if she can’t name them.
It’s only a matter of time, and I am running out of seconds faster than expected. Time slips through my fingers like grains of sand in an hourglass, and I can’t hold on to it, can’t stop the wreckage from unfolding again.
I slam a fist into the window, but it doesn’t crack while everything in me shatters.
Palming the glass, I stare out. Clouds gather in the sky, carrying a storm with the potential to rain hail on my head.
I hear the ping of the elevator, and when I look over my shoulder, my uncle steps inside.
I haven’t answered his calls. After I drove Zara to the airport, kissing her as if it were the last time, I came home and locked myself in to spar with my demons.
He observes me, a cautious expression etched in his eyes. “You should tell her.”
I shove my hands into my pockets so I don’t lash out. “You should tell your daughter first. Neither of us stands on moral ground here.”
He lets out a dejected sigh and goes to the bar, pouring himself a glass of whiskey.
“Should you even drink that?” I jerk my chin toward the glass, annoyance thick in my voice.
“You should worry about your life. Mine is ending, and I accepted that.”
I’ve always had difficulty accepting things I can’t change. Accepting that we’re nothing more than puppets on someone else’s strings. We falsely believe we’re in control, yet we’re not. Life and death are interconnected. We’re just here for the journey. Pathetic.
He takes a seat in the armchair, sipping from his glass. “What are you going to do?”
Turning around, I lean back against the cold surface.
I’ve asked myself this question since she reentered my life, but the answer still escapes me.
I don’t know the right move, considering the fatal consequences—to my heart, which won’t survive losing her again, and to my will to continue living without her.
A part of me wants to confess. The other to keep the past buried.
Her memories have a pattern, revealing tidbits of our shared past without disclosing that he is, in fact, me.
Maybe she is ready to accept my side of the story. That I didn’t do the unthinkable—killing her beloved father—without a valid reason.
It’s this city and my love that coax the memories out. How long until that one event blasts through? How long until she unravels the coincidences as facts? That the unidentified man hasn’t switched to my face for no reason.
I should have opened the damn gates and shown her inside, but pictures of us decorate the walls; we picked every little detail with care. It was supposed to be our home. We spent just one weekend there before it all went to shit.
He casts an intent stare my way. “You have a responsibility.”
“Don’t fucking tell me something Father ingrained in me since birth,” I snap, on the verge of a mental breakdown.
“You love her too much, son.”
Is there any other way to love a woman? I love her with every sinful fiber of my body and every sullied beat of my heart—with everything in me. Completely. Endlessly. I wear her from the inside out. She’s tattooed on my skin and stitched into my fabric.
I glare at him, and he lifts his palms in a nonthreatening gesture. “I saw you then, thinking I had lost you, too. This time, I won’t be here to guide you.”
I curl and uncurl my hands in my pockets, needing to expel this pent-up energy, though I can’t promise him not to worry. My uncle is the only person with whom I don’t have to play a role or pretend.
I am the worst actor with the people I love. It’s a wonder she hasn’t connected the dots with how often I slip, but she senses there’s more. She simply prefers to ignore it so she can love me with no shame, no guilt. That would disappear if the truth were revealed.
I lost her the first time. It’s my story versus his. I am up against a man she worships, a father who could do no wrong in her eyes. Yet he was a coward, letting his ego win and causing carnage.
My uncle grunts, pain marring his face, which turns ashen. “Everything hurts, son. I’m ready.”
I sink into the armchair in front of him, raking a hand through my hair. I fucking hate being helpless.
He pushes himself forward and looks me dead in the eye. “You’re the head of the family. While everyone else gets to make mistakes and take time to grieve, you can’t. So, whatever happens, fucking promise me you’ll get your shit together.”
He stretches out his hand for me to shake on it.
“You’re an old bastard.” I take his hand and shake it, aware that I will lead a miserable life. Nothing fucking new.
I accompany him to the elevator and bend slightly forward so he can press his forehead to mine.
He pats my back. “I love you as if you were my own.”
“I love you too,” I say, choking on the potent emotion.
I can’t disappoint him. It’s his legacy as well.
Locking myself in my office, I go through the reports my team sent me. Even if I have people for this, it’s my company, and I request daily updates on every new acquisition and merger.
A control freak? Possible, but I prefer to call myself a professional.
Thinking about her, I stare at the therapist’s contact Conrad gave me. Subconsciously, she knows something—or someone—is keeping her from finding out the truth.
I’ve threatened every doctor. Finding out what her father did would destroy her.
What happened in that warehouse was a betrayal of the worst kind.
My refusal to die stemmed from sheer will not to sentence her to a life that would have snubbed her essence.
Bleeding and beaten, I crawled my way through hell, just to make sure nothing bad could happen to her.
Yet it was I who pushed her into sorrow’s abyss—a cruel, twisted irony that made me lose her.
I stood there, watching the compound burn to ashes, just like her memories of me.
It’s better like this, I tell myself. Without a second thought, I press call, not caring that it’s ten p.m.
A nasal voice grates on my ears. “Who is this? And do you know what time it is?”
“Vian Giancana. If my name doesn’t ring a bell, I suggest we keep it that way.”
“Are you threatening me?” she asks haughtily, not even slightly afraid.
This woman, a renowned psychiatrist, might break my record of intimidating people by just opening my mouth.
“My wife, Zara, made an appointment. I demand you say the hypnosis isn’t working.”
She lets out a mortified gasp. “Mister Giancana, you might love to keep your wife in the dark to control her, but—”
I cut her off, gnashing my teeth. “I’m not doing such a thing.”
“This discussion is over,” she says and hangs up, leaving me staring at the phone for long minutes.
Fuck. Fucking hell. I guess the fine doctor will leave this world prematurely.
I lift my gaze and spot my cousin in the doorway. “What if she’s ready, Vian? You should trust her…”
I drag a hand down my face, leaning back in the chair.
Nothing will hurt her again. Zara suffered too much.
Is it so fucking bad that I want her to be happy?
It’s enough that I live with the guilt, plagued by nightmares day in and day out.
I would gladly carry the weight for the rest of my life so she doesn’t have to.
“It will happen, and not even you can stop it.”
I refuse to believe that. I can’t risk it when I’ve just gotten her back.
“Can’t sleep?” I jerk my chin toward her.
When my cousin Noemi starts a new piece, she doesn’t eat, barely sleeps. She functions on a muse that talks solely to her.
She shrugs, searching my eyes. “Dad’s dying, right?”
Women are simply more intelligent. That’s something I can accept. They must be. We would have set this world on fire long ago, forgetting we live in it.
I don’t want to lie to her, but I don’t want to betray my uncle’s trust either.
“Your silence is answer enough,” she whispers.
My cousin has these bouts of depression when nothing matters. She compensates with her vivid appearance. She loves colors, she loves life, but a part of her doesn’t, and I am terrified that one of these episodes will become too much.
“Stop looking at me like that,” she snaps, hating the reminder.
“You come to me when it gets hard. Together?”
“Together.” She approaches my desk, crossing her arms over her chest. “Lew is an asshole.”
“What the fuck?” A plethora of thoughts runs through my mind.
“He commissioned a sculpture of himself, the narcissist, yet the asshole visits daily to point out things he doesn’t like. Who does that?”
Good question.
“He won’t bother you again.”
I grab my phone from my desk, and I am about to press call when she says, “Don’t you dare. I’ve dealt with men who think they are top tier since birth.”
“Ouch. Only think?”
She purses her lips, but doesn’t correct herself. “I can deal with him. Just wanted to inform you in case I murder him and need your help to hide the body.”
I chuckle, feeling some relief. My cousin is tough. The toughest of the bunch.
“Have to go back to work. I plan on making a dick that is disproportionate to the rest of the body, because he sure thinks he’s bigger than it is.”
That was information I truly didn’t need about my frenemy. My face scrunches up. “Noemi, no…”
“I bet it’s tiny to balance his colossal ego.”
“Don’t let him get into your head too much. That’s his thing.”
Her eyes spark. “Let me have my fun. Ruffling his feathers is the best part of my day. You should see the vein pulsing in his neck.”
She kisses me on the cheek and, on her way out, says over her shoulder, “Zara loves you. She has always loved you. Nothing could change that. Have faith.”
Faith was stabbed to death with my first kill.
Hope was smothered when my mother died.