Remy

17. Olivia

OLIVIA

I stareat the reddened flesh of my fingertips, the first-degree burn throbbing as I’m driven toward the suburbs.

I don’t know what to think. How to feel.

Every time I’m certain this situation can’t get worse, the universe says, “Hold my beer.”

“You did good,” he murmurs from behind the wheel.

I’m not sure I agree. I was terrified, Lorenzo’s faux charm having no calming effect on me.

“I’ve never been more scared in my life,” I admit.

Remy hits me with a skeptical look. “Even with me?”

Yes. Even with you.

The realization is yet another unsettling part of this nightmare.

I’d been defiant with Remy. Combative. I even dared to shove him in the retort, for Christ’s sake.

In contrast, I’d struggled to breathe through my terror while in the presence of Lorenzo and Salvatore.

It makes me wonder if I’ve truly feared Remy at all. If our brief moment at that dive bar may have frazzled my self-preservation where he’s concerned.

Case in point, right this very moment, what I currently feel toward him holds no resemblance to apprehension and seems overwhelmingly like appreciation.

I’m grateful… to a murderer… who previously threatened to unalive me.

I return my attention to my throbbing fingers. “You inspire a different sort of fear.” One that mingles with attraction and dances freely with stupidity.

“Well, given Lorenzo’s dictate, you can rest easy knowing we never have to see each other again.”

My stomach tumbles as I raise crossed fingers. “Here’s hoping.”

He snatches my wrist, frowning as he drags my hand toward him and inspects my damaged fingertips. “Have you got something for the burn?”

My breathing stutters, his hold sending a wave of tingles up my arm. “I’ll be fine.” I drag my wrist away.

“Just FYI,” he drawls, “fine is never a comforting descriptor.”

Why does he have to do that? To show just how much he listens to me. How intently he takes notice. I don’t want to like him.

“Sorry. I should’ve said, ‘Your concern is wasted on me when you’re the reason I’m in this mess.’”

His hands tighten on the steering wheel.

I will not feel guilty for being a bitch.

Besides, there’s no room for that emotion amongst all the adrenaline, fear, and gratitude flowing through my veins.

“Can I put some music on?” I reach for the display screen, my gaze catching on the digital clock.

Shit.

I’m so fucking late for work.

I yank my cell from my pants pocket, contemplating whether I should text Ivy when the screen alights with the notification of her six missed calls.

She’s going to kill me. But not without interrogating me first.

“Problem?” Remy growls.

“I should’ve been at work forty-five minutes ago.”

The car speeds up, the rapid acceleration thrusting me back into my seat.

“I’ll get you there in fifteen.” He weaves in and out of traffic, the psychotic killer doing me yet another favor.

I turn away from him, hating the renewed influx of appreciation.

“You’re welcome,” he mutters under his breath.

I double down, refusing to feel guilty over my lack of verbal recognition… but the remorse festers, eating me from the inside out.

He fought for me. Burned his hand. Threatened to walk away from whatever presumably lucrative position he has.

“I’m going to be asked where I’ve been. Why I’m late…” I talk to distract myself. To curb the urge to apologize. “What should I say?”

He takes a corner too fast, my body turning toward him with the momentum. “It’s your job to figure it out. Lie like your life depends on it because I assure you it does.”

“And if I can’t come up with something believable?”

His eyes meet mine. “Tell them you got lucky. That you spent the night with a guy you met at a bar.”

“I’d never do that.”

“The Ollie I met six months ago would’ve. In fact, she begged for the privilege.”

My cheeks heat, the warmth spreading down my neck. This is why I promised never to rile him again. He retaliates with sexual grenades that seem to detonate between my thighs.

“Keep it simple,” he murmurs. “The less detail you give, the better. And if all else fails—gaslight.”

My stomach sinks.

I’m not a gaslighter. Not a combatant. Well, not with anyone other than him.

“Your colleagues will pay the price if you fail.” He continues dodging in and out of traffic with ease, as if the murder of my friends would be little more than an inconvenience. “Be cruel to be kind, pyro, otherwise that cremator of yours is going to be putting in some overtime.”

I stare at my tangled hands in my lap. “Has anyone ever complimented you on your spectacular pep talks?”

He turns onto the street of the funeral home and pulls to the curb half a block from the parking lot, leaving the engine to idle. “Has anyone done the same with you and your abundant show of appreciation whenever someone saves your life?”

I wince, the guilt renewed.

I sit in silence, gratitude twisting my stomach.

He doesn’t deserve to hear it. I can’t soften to him. Can’t crumble.

Goddamnit.

“I’m grateful,” I whisper.

He doesn’t respond. There’s only the slightest squeak of his hands around the steering wheel.

“I know you’re the only reason I’m still alive.” I pick at the quick on my thumb. “How you fought for me in front of your uncle and brother was…” How do I describe it? Surprising? Oddly passionate? Confusing? “Appreciated.”

I look to him, our gazes colliding for the briefest second before his jaw ticks and he turns his stare out the windshield. “You need to get going.”

I know.

I shouldn’t want to spend a minute more in his presence, but there’s still so many questions.

I unclasp my belt. “Will I see you again?”

He huffs a sardonic laugh. “You’ve asked me that before. The answer hasn’t changed.”

Not if you’re lucky.

The relief that takes over my chest feels different. Empty and cold. But it is relief. It has to be.

“You’re still going to continue to use our equipment, though, right?” I ask.

“Right.” He releases the steering wheel and inspects his palm. His own burns. The sacrifice he made for a stranger.

I want to see. To grab his wrist and drag his arm toward me so I can inspect the injury he received on my behalf.

Instead I return my hand to my lap and squeeze my fingers tight. “It’s not comforting to feel appreciation toward a man who’s forced you to do the worst?—”

“I’ve told you that the alternative was?—”

“I know.” I raise my voice slightly, cutting him off. “I’m not trying to cause an argument,” I say, softer. “I’m just…” I drag in a breath and let it out slowly. “Thank you, Remy. I have no idea what it cost you to fight for my life like you did, but I do appreciate it. More than I’m ever going to want you to know.”

He returns his hand to the steering wheel, his knuckles white from the tight grip.

It’s weird. Since the witching hour Saturday morning I’ve prayed to get away from this man. And now that the opportunity is here, I’m finding it hard to open the car door. “Will you tell me about this new guy? Is he actually going to do his job or is he merely there to?—”

“Wesley will do his job, and he’ll do it well. If he doesn’t, I’ll hear about it.”

“Just not from me,” I assume. “You and my father will continue to communicate behind my back.”

He doesn’t respond.

“What happens if I slip up? If I say something I shouldn’t, or get caught in a lie?”

Hard eyes meet mine. “You won’t.”

“But—

“You won’t.” He returns his attention to the street, his jaw ticking. “If there’s any chance of that happening, I have a responsibility to my family to turn this car around and take you back to Lorenzo.”

My insides squeeze. “Right. Understood. No messing up allowed.”

He sighs. “I don’t enjoy scaring you, Ollie. But I’d hate killing you even more.”

Squeeze. Squeeze. Squeeze.

“I get it.” I push open the car door. “I’d wish you all the best with your future endeavors but that seems highly unethical, so…” I shrug. “I guess I’ll just say goodbye.”

Dark eyes turn to mine, his expression stark. “Goodbye, Ollie.”

The finality stabs through me.

I swallow it down, grab my coat, and climb from the vehicle, not looking back in the fear my seesawing emotions will notch another confusing level of unhinged into my psyche.

I ignore the tingle up the back of my neck. The thoughts of Remy. The memory of his touch. Instead I focus on moving forward. On thinking about how my father might be feeling. On the importance of keeping my nose clean.

The frigid winter air chills my lungs as I finger-comb my hair one final time, then push through the front door of the funeral home.

I stop dead in my tracks at what looks to be an impromptu staff meeting in the reception area. Everyone turns to face me—Dad, Ivy, Allison, and a suit-clad man with warm brown skin, eyes dark as night, and a relaxed, carefree energy deceptive enough to momentarily make me forget he must be the one who’s here to watch me on behalf of the mafia.

“Where the hell have you been?” Ivy gapes. “Alexandra’s service starts in less than ninety minutes.”

“It’s okay.” Dad holds up a placating hand, his skin pale, his hair styled to cover whatever is left of his forehead injury. “We’ve got it under control.”

Allison grimaces. “Now we do. It didn’t feel that way when Hugo came storming in.”

“Hugo was here?” I walk farther inside, letting the door fall shut behind me.

“Don’t worry. I spoke to him.” Dad turns to the group. “Liv, come meet our newest employee.”

It takes a conscious effort to drag my feet to my father’s side as I pray my novice acting skills will see me through this mess. “New employee?” I assume ignorance is the best way to play this. “You found someone to replace Hugo already?”

“I did.” Dad beams. “This is Wesley Robinson.”

The clean-cut man steps forward to offer his hand. “Olivia.” He eyes me with deceptive warmth, just like Lorenzo did. “It’s nice to meet you.”

“Likewise,” I force out, sliding my palm over his. “I hope you’re ready to hit the ground running. Today is one hell of a day to be introduced to the team.”

“So I’ve heard.” He inclines his head. “But don’t worry. I’m here to do whatever’s necessary.”

I withdraw my hand, a chill sweeping through me at the subtle threat.

“Given our added duties today, we need to get back to work.” Dad turns to Ivy. “Until we have time to go through day-to-day tasks, Wesley can help you with whatever has to be done.”

“Sure.” Ivy gives Wesley a flirty smile. “I’ll keep him busy.”

Jesus Christ. Not him, too. She really needs to start checking for red flags before gaining interest in a man.

“We’ll be setting up the chapel if you need us.” Ivy guides him toward the hall leading to the front of the building.

Allison walks around her desk to claim her chair.

My father starts for his office.

I’m stuck wading in existential dread. “Dad, wait.” I follow him, entering his office and gently closing the door behind us.

As soon as we’re alone, I want to crumple. The need only increases when he levels me with more remorse than what he’d shared in the hospital.

“I’m so sorry, Liv.”

I stumble the few feet of space between us and wrap my arms around him. Cling tight. Breathe him deep.

He returns the hug with equal desperation. “Are you okay?”

I nod. “Are you?” I pull back, meeting his gaze.

“Yes, fragolina.” He forces a smile. “I’m perfectly fine. There’s no need to worry.”

“You’re so pale.”

“Chemo hit a little harder this time.” He offers a final squeeze before retreating. “And the fall didn’t help. But I’m good. I promise. You don’t need to worry.”

Worry is all there is. All that exists. It’s now my entire personality.

“Ivy’s right, though.” He rounds his desk to sit in his plush cream leather seat. “You’re not looking your best. You didn’t even braid your hair.”

I slump into the armchair opposite him. “I didn’t even do my hair. This morning got a bit hectic.”

“What happened?” He inches forward to lean his elbows on the desk. “You messaged and said you were okay…I didn’t know if I should panic.”

I don’t know how to tell him. If I even should tell him.

“Liv?” His brows knit. “Remy told me you agreed to a communication ban. That you willingly handed over devices as a sign of good faith.”

It was a little more complicated than that, but… “Yeah, I did.”

“But?” He eyes me, concern bleeding into his sickly features.

He’s still extremely unwell. His posture lacks the usual professional confidence. His energy is at an all-time low.

“But nothing.” I paste on a smile. He doesn’t need the extra burden. “I wanted him to know there was no threat of me talking to anyone. So I gave him my phone and laptop.”

“Good.” He exhales with relief. “I wasn’t sure what to think at first. Then he sent photos to prove you were okay and?—”

“He sent photos? Of what?”

“You.” He leans back in his chair and retrieves his cell from his pants pocket. “Here. I’ll show you.” He unlocks the phone screen and slides the device across his desk. “We chat through an encrypted messenger app. It’s the one on the home screen with a big E.”

I’m reluctant to see what else Remy has been doing without my knowledge. But curiosity gets the better of me.

I snatch up the phone, navigate to the app, and then open the only chat available.

A photo of me drinking tea in my backyard is the last thing that was shared late yesterday afternoon. I’m in sweats, my heavy black parka draped over my shoulders, the steam billowing from my mug as I take the much needed outside time to get away from Remy.

I scroll to the image before that—I’m in the kitchen unpacking the dishwasher.

And the next—I’m asleep in bed, the dim light from the hall casting a slight glow over my relaxed features.

It’s a surprisingly favorable photo. Hair curtains one side of my face, my other cheek nestled into the pillow. And the front on view… He must’ve crouched down to my level to take the image head-on.

“I hope you don’t mind,” Dad murmurs. “I asked him to keep sending them just to make sure.”

I can see that. Can read the conversation that accompanies the images.

Carlo

Is she still okay?

Remy

She’s holding up well. Just finished eating.

Another image is shared, this one of me clearing the dinner table.

I keep scrolling all the way back to the disastrous Saturday night.

Remy

She didn’t eat much today. What should I order for breakfast to make sure she doesn’t continue to starve?

Carlo

Burritos.

Remy

And lunch? Dinner?

He’d catered for me? Even when he suspected I’d deliberately tried to set him up in front of the cops?

“Liv, you told me that the worry you had for your mother during her cancer battle was a privilege.”

I swallow over the ache in my throat and slide the phone back to him. “It was.”

“Well, living a life on the right side of the law is also a privilege. One Remy wasn’t afforded.” He blinks pity-filled eyes at me. “His parents weren’t kind to him, fragolina.”

I swallow again. Swallow so hard it hurts. “What did they do?”

“I’ve spent six months learning what I can only assume is a fraction of the atrocities.” He gives a sad smile. “But there’s no time for that now. You need to prepare Alexandra. Just know, not everyone is afforded the benefit of morality.”

But we were. We could’ve still been.

“I understand.” I nod. “But Dad, about Wesley…”

“You don’t need to worry about him.” He waves me away. “Yes, he’s here to keep an eye on things, but it’s mainly to ease my workload in case I fail to keep up after future treatments. He’s going to take over out-of-hours calls and pick up the slack when I fall short. Which will not only bring me some appreciated relief but also add a measure of freedom for the arrangements we have after-hours.”

Scratch arrangements. Rephrase to criminal activity.

“It’s going to be okay, Liv.”

I keep nodding. Keep playing along. For now. “And these treatments, when are we going to discuss those in greater detail?”

“When the time is right.”

I’m leveled with my third faux charming smile of the day, and this one scares me the most.

“Let’s get over one hurdle before we take on the next.”