14. Maxim
14
MAXIM
I find Veronica in her bedroom, her dressing gown spilling around her, book in her hand. She looks tired but defiant, her sharp wit ready to lash out at the first sign of weakness.
“What do you want?” she asks from her armchair as I pour myself a drink. “I was about to go to bed.”
“We need to talk,” I say, turning to face her.
“Oh, goody,” she replies, leaning back dramatically and draping an arm over her forehead like some tragic heroine. “More bonding time with the human iceberg.”
A smirk tugs at my lips despite myself. “My father wants to interrogate us tomorrow morning. Together. He doesn’t believe this is real.”
She sits up, her expression shifting from theatrical to serious. “And what happens if he decides it’s fake?”
I take a slow sip of my whiskey before answering. “He’ll probably call off the wedding. Call off his retirement. And then the vultures will circle. The empire doesn’t survive without stability, Veronica. You won’t get your bookstore. Marco gets to live. My father probably gets shot by Lombardi trying to take him down.”
She groans, flopping down into the chair. “Fine. Let’s play twenty questions or whatever.”
I raise an eyebrow at her, intrigued by her sudden shift. “You sound enthusiastic.”
“Oh, I’m thrilled,” she deadpans. “So, where did we meet? A charity gala. I was serving food. I’ve learned all this already.”
“No,” I say smoothly, setting my glass down. “You were wearing something red. I couldn’t look away. That’s why you wore red tonight. To remind me of that first meeting.”
Her eyebrows shoot up. “Red, huh? Interesting choice. Fine, we met at a charity gala, and you chased me down, desperate for my attention. I finally agreed to date you out of pity because you kept whining at me, begging me.”
“I don’t beg.” I step closer, folding my arms across my chest. “I pursued you because you’re impossible to ignore. Stalked you for a while, forced you to say yes.”
She grins, satisfied. “Good. Much better for you to sound like a walking red flag.”
“At least now it’s believable.”
“What about our kids' names? If we’re serious, we’ve talked about that, right?”
“I guess.”
“I’m thinking Persephone.”
“Persephone?” I repeat, raising an eyebrow. “You want to name a child after the queen of the underworld?”
She shrugs, a mischievous gleam in her eye. “It’s fitting. You’re practically Hades.”
“Alex for a boy or a girl. There, that’s decided.”
“Hold up there, Mr. Fifty Fucking Shades of Grey. I get a say in this. Daisy or Fluffy?”
“You’re kidding, right?” I can’t stop the small smile that tugs at my lips. “We’ll come back to that one. Interests. What do we share?”
“Hmm,” she muses, tapping her chin. “Drinking? Brooding? Being quite good at oral?”
“Rock climbing. Books. Swimming,” The word barely leaves my mouth before she freezes. Her laughter dies instantly, and her expression shutters.
“Veronica—” I start, but she cuts me off with a sharp shake of her head.
“No, it’s fine,” she says, her voice brittle. “I just… I used to love swimming.”
Realization dawns, and I curse myself for being so thoughtless. “I’m sorry,” I murmur, stepping closer. “That was?—”
“Thoughtless?” she finishes, her lips twisting into a wry smile. “Yeah, but it’s fine. I can hide it, trust me.”
There’s a pause, heavy and uncomfortable, before she exhales deeply. “Marco knew I loved swimming,” she begins, her voice softer now. “It was one of the ways he, I don’t know, tried to make me think he was perfect. Into all the same things as me. At first, it was all compliments and attention. Love-bombing. Made me feel like I was special.”
Her hands tremble slightly, and I resist the urge to reach out and steady them. “But then the cracks started to show pretty fast. He’d get angry if I didn’t text back fast enough. Or if I didn’t want to spend every second with him. And it just… escalated. The lies, the manipulation, the control. Until…” She trails off, her voice breaking.
“The scar on your arm,” I say. “He did that.”
She nods. “I was late home. He thought I’d been screwing around. Said he’d make dinner and we’d talk. Asked me to help fry the onions. Next thing I knew, he was pressing my arm down.” She winces. “It hurt.”
“I bet.” I point at my face. “Vito Lombardi did that to me, said he was going to blind me but I yanked my head back at the last second. I always said I’d get revenge one day. We pull this off and I can get the entire empire on him. Slaughter Marco and Vito and then we can relax.”
She shakes her head, her eyes glistening with unshed tears. “I don’t need all this vengeance, Maxim. I just want to feel safe again.”
“You are safe.”
She winks. “Who am I kidding? I want that son of a bitch deader than shoulder pads and flared pants.”
The rage in her voice hits me like a punch to the gut. I take a step closer, my gaze never leaving hers. “I’ll make sure of it.”
She exhales shakily, brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Her hand drops to her lap, and she closes her eyes, leaning back into the chair.
I hesitate, standing a few feet away. She looks so fragile in this moment, so unguarded, and it stirs something in me that I don’t want to name.
I cross the room. I rest my hand on her shoulder. The touch is light but she doesn’t flinch. Instead, she leans into it, her weight shifting slightly toward me.
“You need rest,” I say, my voice softer than I intended. The words feel foreign, like they don’t belong in my mouth. Comfort isn’t something I’ve ever been good at offering, except as manipulation.
Her lips curl into the faintest of smiles, and she lets out a soft laugh. “You know, you’re that terrifying,” she teases, her words slurring slightly as exhaustion pulls at her.
I smirk, though she can’t see it. “You’re as mouthy as I expected.”
Her eyes flutter open just enough to meet mine, hazy and half-lidded. “It’s a gift,” she murmurs before her head tilts to the side, her breathing evening out. She’s asleep within seconds, her body relaxing completely against the chair.
For a moment, I don’t move. I watch her, taking in the way her features soften in sleep, the faint furrow in her brow disappearing. She looks peaceful, and it tugs at something deep inside me.
I push the thought away and carefully slide one arm under her knees and the other around her back. She stirs slightly as I lift her, murmuring something incoherent, but she doesn’t wake.
The walk to her bed is silent, the sound of my footsteps muffled by the thick carpet.
I lay her down gently, as if she might shatter if I’m not careful. Her head sinks into the pillow, and I pull the blanket up to her chin, tucking it around her. She shifts slightly, a soft sigh escaping her lips, and my chest tightens.
I straighten, taking a step back, but my eyes don’t leave her. She looks so small, so vulnerable, and the urge to protect her rises in me like a wave.
It’s overwhelming, and I hate it. I hate the way she makes me feel, like I’d tear apart anyone who so much as looked at her the wrong way.
Love is weakness, I remind myself, the mantra echoing in my head. It’s been drilled into me my whole life, and I’ve lived by it. Obsessions don’t last. Love causes pain. Business must come first.
But as I stand there, watching her sleep, the thoughts feel hollow. All I care about is watching her for a few more seconds.