Remy

27. Remy

REMY

Her fury turns to trepidation,as if those few words or my dire tone are enough to instill the seriousness of our situation.

I push from the trunk and round the vehicle. “Come on.”

“What’s this about?”

“Get in the car and you’ll find out.” I glance over my shoulder to her father’s apartment. I don’t want him knowing we’re leaving together, but Lucy would have him distracted by now.

I climb into the vehicle to stare through the windshield as Ollie swoops into the passenger seat, closes her door, and then drags on her belt.

She’s composed, but even with her hands gently clasped in her lap I can tell she’s wound tight. “Did something bad happen?”

“I’ll get into specifics in a minute.” I drive from the parking lot, my navigation aimless as I take random turns through suburban streets. There’s no perfect place to do this, but I don’t want to be behind the wheel when shit goes south. If I’m going to inflict a brutal blow, I’m doing it face-to-face.

She looks my way. “Remy, you’re scaring me.”

We haven’t even gotten to the scary part yet.

“How am I scaring you, Pyro?”

“Your apathy after being so angry with me earlier. I can tell something’s wrong.”

I hadn’t been angry, I’d been frustrated. Tempted. Fucking tortured.

She sighs dramatically. “At least tell me you don’t have a shovel in the back of your car.”

My lips twitch without my permission.

“There’s no shovel.” I shoot her a glance. “But I hope you know I wouldn’t need one to make you disappear.”

“Oh, I know.” Her shoulders slump. “You’re extremely resourceful.”

I would’ve agreed weeks ago. Now, I’m not so sure.

“If you can’t talk about where you took my dad, can you at least explain your comment about trying to do right by me?” Her attention haunts my periphery. “Why block my number? Why go back on our agreement?”

I tighten my hands around the steering wheel. “Why do you think?”

“Lorenzo.”

Yeah, fucking Lorenzo.

After he ensured I wasn’t at risk of keeling over from my bullet wound, and he delivered some fatherly words of condolence regarding Flynn, he started in on Ollie.

I warned you to keep your distance.

You’re complicating an already risky situation.

In no uncertain terms he reaffirmed how easily bad things can happen to innocent people—aka how she will likely disappear if I don’t cut ties.

But there are other reasons I should stay away from her too.

There always have been. Only now they’re more adamant. So I tried to forget her. Tried like it was a fucking Olympic sport and I was itching for a medal, even though walking past my penthouse main bathroom was a constant reminder of what she felt like coming around my fucking fingers.

Then tonight happened.

“Am I in trouble?” she asks. “Is Lorenzo going to come after me? Or is that what you’re here for?”

“We’ve always needed to maintain distance.” I take the next left turn. “It was a mistake to act differently.”

“Yet here I am, in your car.”

Yet here she is, in my goddamn fucking car.

“Forget about Lorenzo for now.” I take another left. A right. A left.

“Okay...” She cocks her head, clearly trying to lean farther toward my line of vision. “So what was at the hotel?”

Of course she reverted to stalking. This woman doesn’t learn. “Remind me to tell Carlo to remove that app from his phone.”

“I was worried. You can’t fault me for that.”

“You can trust me with your father.” I reach the large expanse of Hillcrest Park, the dark of night making the deserted grassland seem inviting. I pull to the curb, dread poisoning my veins, and climb out before she can ask more questions.

I have two seconds of freedom from her sweet strawberry scent before she follows, her arms wrapped around her middle, her face shadowed as she stops before me, blinking those emotional eyes with the slightest furrow to her brow.

“Tell me,” she begs.

“There was a medical conference in the city over the weekend.” I walk past her, unable to withstand the shot of fear that crosses her features, and lead us along the trail into the moonlit park. “I called in some favors.”

“What sort of favors?” She hustles to catch up, the maintained proximity making me thrum to do things I shouldn’t.

“Ones that involve the best oncologist in the country.”

She falls quiet.

Good.

It means she’s changing gears, finally recognizing that this has nothing to do with my family or breaking the law and everything to do with her father’s lacking health.

“I made sure Dr. Nguyen made time to see Carlo before he left town.”

She remains silent, her head lowering as she frowns at the footpath.

I’m sure some would celebrate having access to the best medical professionals. But not Ollie—she’s too busy putting the puzzle pieces together.

“Does my dad know you’re telling me this?” she whispers.

“No.” I turn to face her.

The glow from the streetlights doesn’t reach us here. There’s only the moon and stars left to illuminate her bleak expression as the slight breeze glides loose strands of hair from her braid.

“Then why tell me now when it sounds like you’ve kept his secrets all along?”

Because when it comes to her, my best skill is fucking up, and it seems I’m at the height of my career. “Things have changed.”

She scans my face with hesitation, as if trying to find the answers before they’re spoken. To read the truth in case she doesn’t want to hear it out loud.

“Do you want to know, Ollie?”

“I…” She licks her lips and glances away. “Obviously it’s bad news.”

“I don’t have to tell you if you don’t want?—”

“No. I need to know.” Her voice breaks.

My fucking savagery does, too.

This wasn’t meant to happen. Just like every other moment with Ollie should never have existed.

I planned to take Carlo to the oncologist, then deliver him home without drama.

I was supposed to maintain my distance from her for the sake of my family.

I should never have lied for her. Killed for her.

But when it comes to this woman I fail at every turn.

“His initial prognosis was never great, Pyro.”

She flinches. Straightens. Nods. Such a tough, composed beauty.

But the next blow won’t be as easy to withstand. “It’s pancreatic cancer.”

Her eyes flare. Her lips part. “No.”

I give the information time to sink in. The severity. The well-known statistics. Then I reach for her, taking a hit of the drug I promised to steer clear of as I drag her into me.

“No.” She shoves at my chest.

I clench my teeth against her misery, hating myself, hating the whole fucking situation. I drop my arm, determined to quickly tear off the remainder of the Band-Aid. “He’s deteriorating.”

She shakes her head and backtracks a little more. “What did your doctor say?”

I want to touch her again, to be holding her when I stab the final knife. “He agreed that Carlo’s original prognosis was accurate. He’s always been terminal. The chemo was only to buy him more time. But the benefits of treatment no longer outweigh the side-effects.”

“Tell me you’re lying,” she rasps.

I continue toward her across the neatly clipped grass as she continues back. “I’ve never lied to you.”

Withheld, for sure. But never lied.

Her face scrunches—her nose, her forehead. “How long does he have?”

She’s still admirably poised. So controlled. I would’ve thought she’d be a blubbering mess by now. But no, not my Ollie. She keeps the agony trapped inside.

“How long, Remy?”

My pulse thunders in my ears as I reach for her, my fingers brushing her forearm before she inches away. “A few months.”

Her face falls, her devastation increasing under the moonlight while she presses a splayed palm over her stomach.

“There’s nothing more that can be done.” I called all the doctors. Applied for all the trials. Even enlisted my sister to do holistic research.

Ollie’s eyes fill with glassy desolation.

I reach out again. Always drawn to her. Always a fucking slave to this woman.

“Don’t,” she pleads. “I need space.”

She turns to cross the lawn, her breaths growing louder, sharper.

I follow at a distance, waiting for a sob that never comes.

Instead, she jogs a few yards, making me lengthen my stride, only for her to collapse onto her knees on the grass.

She lurches forward on all fours.

“Ollie.”

She retches.

Fuck.

I rush to her, the staples in my thigh threatening to tear as I drop down at her side.

“Please don’t.” She shoves at me. “Leave.”

“I’m not going anywhere.” I don’t care if it’s what she wants or not. What she thinks she needs. “I’ve got you.”

She whimpers, her hands clawing into the lawn, her stomach viciously concaving with another retch.

“Please, Remy.” Her shoulders slump, her arms wobbling.

“Just breathe.” I rub slow circles on her back, cursing my inability to take her place. I’d willingly offer my only remaining parent to stand before death’s door instead of hers. I’d pay good money to make it happen.

She retches again and again.

“Breathe, Ollie.”

She sucks in deep breaths, her exhales huffing out on dry sobs.

Breath. Retch.. Breath…

I keep rubbing circles as her inhales lengthen, her lithe body incredibly fragile.

Sob… Breath…. Heave….

I want to kill someone. To fucking stab and torture.

That’s what I’m good at. All I’m good for.

In this, I’m helpless. Worthless.

Breath… Breath… Breath…

She bows her head, the epitome of ruin. “I don’t understand.” She leans back on her haunches, then flops onto her ass on the damp grass. “He should’ve told me.”

I agree, but there was no convincing him.

He didn’t want Ollie to suffer for longer than necessary.

I admire him for that. For facing a death sentence on his own to save his daughter from heartache. But damn it to hell, I fucking hate him right now too.

“What am I going to do?” She drapes a loose hand over her face, shielding me from her sadness.

“We’ll figure it out.” I sit beside her, close enough for our arms to brush.

“What’s to figure out? He’s dying, and I won’t be able to survive without him.”

“You’ll survive.”

“I have no one.” Her hand falls from her face and she meets my eyes, those shadowed depths tearing me the fuck apart. “My mom’s gone. I don’t have a close extended family. And I lie to Allison and Ivy so often that our friendship is tainted.”

“You won’t have to do that for much longer.”

She winces. “His death is the end of your agreement?”

I nod, gliding her loose hair behind her ear.

Her brow furrows but she doesn’t protest the touch. If anything she leans into it, her head tilting toward me, humbling me with yet another weakness toward temptation.

It’s a mistake to want more. Always so many fucking mistakes with Ollie. But I test the boundaries of her tolerance, gliding my arm around her shoulders.

She continues to oblige the contact.

I continue to indulge in it.

I lower my arm to her waist. Her hip. She tenses yet there’s no revolt, nothing at all to stop me dragging her onto my lap to cradle her against my chest—so I do it.

If I’m losing this battle, I might as well make it worthwhile.

I’ll give her the comfort she craves and deal with the aftermath later.

She rests her head between my collarbone and chin, entirely pliant in my arms. Utterly perfect in her sorrow.

It was fucking futile thinking I could forget about her. No man could resist her gravitational pull.

She’s faultless. Flawless. Forever mine.

I don’t offer placations or talk for the sake of filling the void. I give her the peace to grieve what’s to come. To become accustomed to the agony as the damp grass seeps into the ass of my suit pants and her strawberry scent stains my lungs.

“That woman…” she says softly. “She’s a hospice nurse?”

I nod my chin against the top of her head. “The best in the city.”

“So my dad has a hospice nurse, is only meant to survive a few more months, and yet still plans to keep pretending everything is fine? Where’s the logic in that?”

“He doesn’t want you to suffer.”

“Remy, I’ve been suffering this whole time.”

“I know. But there’s a difference between the misery of speculation and the brutal reality of what’s actually happening. He tried to save you from that. At least temporarily.”

“All he did was steal time that could’ve been better spent. He wasted months. Months when we could’ve made memories. I would’ve taken him away—to the beach, to the mountains—while he was still in a state to handle travel.”

“You have time.”

“I have crumbs.”

I close my eyes and press my face into her hair.

“I wish you would’ve told me sooner,” she whispers.

Guilt strikes a punishing blow to my chest. “My loyalty?—”

“Is to him,” she cuts me off. “I know.”

It was.

Carlo had my loyalty for more than six months.

He harbored my secrets and I, his.

But she changed everything.

She pulls back and meets my gaze, those beautifully troubled eyes wreaking havoc on my nervous system. “You care about him.”

Yeah, too fucking much.

“He’s a good man and a coveted father figure.” I hold her stare, needing her to believe me. “I’ll admit those attributes have been hard to come by.”

“I bet your dad and Lorenzo would hate to hear you say that.”

“I’ve known my uncle for less than two years, and the last thing my father did in this life was try to kill me. So no, neither one of them would be surprised that a well-mannered, morally driven funeral home director has become somewhat of an idol to me.”

“That’s how you see him?”

It’s how I’ve always seen him, right from our first meeting when he shook my hand with a firm grip and a kind smile. He’s never judged me. Never held my actions against me.

Carlo treats me as if I’m a man doing my best despite the shitty cards I’ve been dealt. Not as if I’m a rich boy with a silver spoon who’s decided to forsake good over evil just for shits and giggles.

“I’ll miss him, Ollie.”

Her nose scrunches and she looks away, the pliancy of her body replaced with stiff sterility. “I hope you plan on elaborating on the whole father-attempting-to-kill-you comment.” She pushes from my lap and stands above me. “You can’t let a statement like that slide.”

“We’ve had enough revelations for now.” She’s looking for a diversion and I don’t blame her, but the topic of my dad always leaves an unfavorable aftertaste. “Let’s save the legacy of Emmanuel Costa for another night.”

I lead her back to the car, her frailty shadowing me one step behind.

I open her door. Watch as her devastation folds into the passenger seat. Then climb behind the wheel to drive her home.

She remains quiet. There’s only her occasional sniffle to interrupt the faint hum of a forgotten playlist through the speakers.

She focuses out her window, her idle fingers tempting me to grab them to encase in mine. To do sweet, loving things instead of all the dark and twisted shit my hands are accustomed to.

“What happened to the Bentley?” she asks at a red light.

“I torched it.” There was too much blood. Too many fucked up memories.

She drags a listless touch over the contoured leather of her seat. “I like this one.”

Flynn would’ve too.

I imagine he would’ve begged me to drive it. Then pretended he gave it a thrashing while he barely nudged the needle past the speed limit.

I fucking miss that kid—his bullshit antics, his laughter. Even his goddamn scattered shoes at my penthouse door, but my housekeeper straightened them back into neat rows a few days ago, stealing his personality from the penthouse.

I pull into her drive and cut the ignition. “Let me walk you in.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She releases her belt. “You blocked my phone for a reason. I know you want to keep your distance.”

“You’re mistaking wants for needs. I don’t want to stay away from you at all.”

She contemplates me. Reads me. It’s unnerving how easily she settles under my skin. “But you have to because of Lorenzo.”

“He’s an issue. But one of many.” I unclasp my belt, the thought of letting her walk away irking the fuck out of me.

“Name the rest.”

“We’d be here all night.”

She sighs. “Then name the most important.”

How the hell isn’t it obvious?“I’m not someone you should want to be around.”

She makes a slight sound of offense. The subtlest huff. “I can make my own informed choices.”

“But you’re not informed.”

Her brows pull into a mini scowl, her grief still present in those sad hazel eyes. “I know what you do for your uncle.”

“You don’t know the half of it. You’ve been given broad strokes.”

“Maybe, but I’ve seen your redeemable side. I’ve been a recipient of your compassion. You’ve protected me. Defended me.” She pauses, as if realizing she’s arguing the merits of a cold-blooded killer on the lowest night of her life. “All I’m saying is that you’re more than what your job makes you.”

“Do you know how many men I killed last week, Pyro?”

She lowers her gaze to her lap. “I’m no mathematician, but you used the retort three time?—”

“Fourteen.”

Her shoulders slump.

“First, I got my hands on one of the cartel. And with a little sulfuric acid influence, I got him to spill the names of all those involved in Flynn’s drive-by.”

She doesn’t quit staring at her hands in her lap.

“I found the Cadillac they used. Kidnapped all four of the men that’d been in that car. Then doused the vehicle in gas and set it to flame while they burned to death inside.”

She exhales a shuddering breath.

“Do you want to know about the others?” I wait for a refusal. Maybe even a naive dismissal of my actions. I get neither. “Number ten was the cartel soldier who gave the order. I slit his throat in a back alley. Nine interrupted the festivities so I took him out with a bullet. Eight, seven, and six were on Wednesday—all cartel members and extended family of those who took Flynn from me.”

She shakes her head while it remains bowed.

Is my heartlessness finally sinking in, Pyro?

“I cremated them together—shoved them all in haphazardly at once.”

Wild eyes turn to me. “Remy?—”

“I repeated the process on Thursday with five, four, and three after I heard word they were about to shoot up my club. And two and one would’ve met with the same disposal but you decided to spend the night at the funeral home, and I couldn’t risk seeing you in that state of mind. So my men ensured they had an ocean burial.”

She holds my stare, brows furrowed, gaze beseeching—for what I don’t know.

“I’m not the type of man you want returning your messages, Ollie. That’s why last week was a mistake. Not for any fault of your own.”

She keeps staring. Quiet. Concerned.

I can’t fucking tolerate her silence anymore.

“Say something,” I demand. “Tell me you understand.”

She returns her attention to her lap.

“Tell me what you’re thinking, Ollie.”

She sighs. “I’m thinking that psychologists would have a field day analyzing the unhealthy thoughts running through my mind.”

“Meaning?”

“Meaning I still don’t see it. I can’t picture you like that… or maybe I can. Maybe I’m so desensitized to death that I simply don’t care. I just…” She heaves a frustrated breath. “I can’t change the way I feel.”

Annoyance thunders beneath my sternum.

Rumbling, explosive need.

“Make it make sense, Remy.” Her eyes plead.

I can’t.

I’m too fucking angry—at her for being so stupid. At me for being equally moronic.

Her ability to downplay the things I’ve done is as unhinged as me craving a woman who could put my entire family behind bars.

Yet the insanity continues to thrive.

Her voice is barely audible as she says, “I still want you.”

I scrub a rough hand over my mouth and divert my gaze, focusing on the crone’s house. At the frail silhouette that stands in the middle of the closest window, backlit by an orange glow.

Jesus Christ. That old bitch has sonar on my ass.

“I need to go.” The option of walking Ollie to her door is dead and buried. In my current state I wouldn’t be able to stop at her threshold. I’d follow her inside, drag her onto the nearest horizontal surface, then fuck her senseless, virginity be damned.

Ollie opens her door. “Why does it feel like I might not see you again?”

Because that’s how it should be. How any motherfucker with two brain cells to rub together would act.

“I’m not messaging you about disposals anymore.” It’s not up for negotiation. “You should be confident in my process by now. And I’ll make sure Wesley double-checks everything before your employees arrive at work. You’ve got more important things to concentrate on.”

Dejection ebbs from her. “But I’ll still see you?”

“Yeah, Pyro. You’ll still see me.”

“Okay.” She climbs out and pauses to glance back inside. “Thank you for being honest. I understand how hard it must’ve been to betray my father’s trust.”

I suppress a flinch at the reminder. “Will you be all right on your own?”

“I’ll be as all right as I can be given the circumstances.”

I fight not to clench my fists. Not to shove from the car. To haul her into my arms and drag her back to my penthouse, giving her a Lorenzo Cappelletti death sentence at the same time.

“Call if you need anything.” Weak prick. “I’ll unblock your number.” Stupid fuck.

“Is that a smart idea?”

No. It’s the dumbest of dumb. But that’s become my calling card where she’s concerned. “If you need anything I can send Russo or Valenti.”

She cringes, then quickly masks the distaste. “I’ll be fine.”

“A gorgeous woman once told me fine is never a comforting descriptor.”

“I think that woman may have also thrown you in a working retort, so rest assured she can take care of herself.”