Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Sienna
In the bedroom – not my bedroom, the bedroom – I read the report several more times. With each rereading, my heart feels like it’s breaking. Dramatic? Sure, alert the press, I won’t deny it.
Seeing Nico’s name in the context of my mom’s death is like a punch to the gut. Even worse, I still can’t accept it. It’s right there in black and white, but it’s still difficult to accept. I can’t match the person in the report with the man I’ve kissed, made love to, and obsessed over.
The knock at the door makes me flinch.
“Sienna?”
It’s Nico. I stuff the report into the bedside drawer with the recording device.
“Yeah?”
“May I come in?”
“I just want to get some sleep.”
“I’m coming in.”
“Why even ask if you’re going to barge in anyway?”
He opens the door and walks across the room, standing over the bed. I wish he didn’t look so dashing in his tux. He sits on the bed and tries to touch my hand. I snatch it out of the way.
“I’m sorry you had to see me with another woman. For what it’s worth, Anya dropped a bombshell this evening. She hasn’t been interested in me for years. She’s just playing the role she stupidly thought I wanted from her. The ditzy Bratva princess. She doesn’t want me; she wants the alliance, just like her father.”
I almost scream at him that I don’t care. But it’s convenient if he thinks my mood has been about that instead of my world shattering into a million pieces.
“Okay,” I mutter.
“Seriously – nothing happened. Nothing has ever happened. And nothing is going to happen.”
“Thank you for telling me that,” I reply. “I’m tired. I want to get some sleep… alone.”
“Vignette—”
“All that about you owning me, possessing me, whatever, you understand that’s sex talk. I hope you get that. You don’t literally own me. You have to take my wishes into account sometimes.”
“I know,” he replies. “But I mean it?—”
“Nothing happened. I heard you the first time. Please, just let me sleep.”
He stands, looking hurt. Despite what I’ve learned, I almost apologize for upsetting him. What a joke that would be. “I’m staying here tonight. Mother has a few spare rooms. If you change your mind and want to see me, text me.”
“Okay. I’ll do that.”
“Piccola pittrice, I don’t want anyone except for you. Ever.”
The word ever bounces around my head, my soul, as he leaves the room. Once he’s gone, I lock the door and strip off my dress, climb into the shower, and let the hot water flow over me, hoping it’ll burn away my indecision and anxiety.
No such luck. Returning to the bed, I grab the recording device. The bulky part is a battery. The wires connect to several microphones, maybe in case one fails. I’m not a spy. I don’t trust myself to wear it and guide Nico into saying something incriminating. I’ll be too nervous.
Maybe I could plant it somewhere in the house. I’ve noticed that Gianna and Nico seem to talk in her kitchen quite often. Gianna is his second-in-command, which means that their conversations probably have something to do with the mob.
I take some slow breaths in a vain attempt to stop the frenetic beating of my heartbeat. I don’t want to incriminate Nico. I don’t want to hurt him, despite the report, the gunshot that tore my mom away from me.
I should ask him what he was thinking when he lied to me. What sort of sick game was he playing? He told me it was the Bratva, but it’s right there in black and white.
Will Adrian and the Bratva be able to get to me with Nico’s protection? Outside the walls of Gianna’s large property, there are several cars filled with mafia men, presumably ready to start shooting if anyone approaches.
But I can’t stay here forever. I can’t commit to my mother’s killer. Sooner or later, I’ll have to leave. On the ride home, Gianna mentioned running to my place tomorrow to grab some of my things. I’m living in borrowed clothes, borrowed toiletries, borrowed everything.
A sudden, sick thought strikes me. What if Gianna only hired me out of guilt? Maybe she knows what her son did, and that’s why she’s been so kind to me.
It doesn’t ring true. None of this does.
I sit up, smoothing my hands up and down my legs, my heart pounding heavily. It’s been – I look at the clock – hours since Nico was here. All I’ve done is shower and sit here, thinking about what I should do.
They’ve been so, so kind to me. The portraits, the banter, the connection. The sex. The longing. The commitment. All of it seemed so real. Now, it’s like my world is imploding again.
But if Nico killed my mom, the last thing I should do is protect him. I should hate him. It hasn’t even been a long time. I’m not some ditsy, silly, misguided girl, am I?
I think about this logically. I’ve still got some cash even after I bought that absurdly expensive outfit. I rented the dress. Gianna offered to pay, but I didn’t want to take a handout, so I saved money there. The most logical route for me to take is to plant the device, give the Bratva what they want, and then leave Dallas and never look back.
My heart hurts just thinking about that. I’ve always tried to be – and wanted to be – a woman who isn’t led by her emotions. In my art, I’ll let my feelings fly, but in real life, I’ve had to be focused, independent. But it’s not like that now.
My heart screams for Nico. Nico is the one who hurt me, betrayed me, and yet he’s the one I want to talk to about this.
I grab the device from the bedside drawer, sitting up. I have to do this. I don’t want to, but that’s nothing new. I didn’t want to work a series of dead-end jobs. I didn’t want Mom to die. I didn’t want to be a weird loner in high school who spent all her time lost in a world of sketches and fantasies.
Leaving the bedroom in a baggy T-shirt, I sneak down the stairs. The device clutched tightly in my hand. Nerves twist through me. I seriously have no desire to do this.
What will happen if Nico and Gianna are caught on tape?
I step into the kitchen. It’s a large, luxurious space with three light switches. I turn on the mood lighting, the dimmest light they have, and then walk around the kitchen island, looking for a place to put the device.
“Sienna?”
I freeze when Nico walks into the room. He’s wearing nothing but a pair of workout shorts. His body looks huge, muscles bulging, expression severe, as if he knows what I’m doing somehow.
“What’s wrong?”
“Nuh-nothing.”
“Then why do you look so terrified? What are you doing down here so late?”
“Getting a glass of water.”
He walks to the other side of the kitchen island. I hold the device under the island so that he can’t see it.
“Try saying that like it’s the truth,” he says stiffly.
“Why would I lie about something like that?”
“I don’t know, but when I heard you walk past my bedroom door, I knew something was wrong.”
“How?”
“Instinct.”
I roll my eyes. “Your instinct extends to creaking floorboards, does it?”
“In this case, it seems that it does. But there’s something else. When we spoke earlier, you had this look in your eye… it was like you genuinely hated me, Sienna. I’ve never seen you look at me like that before.”
“You say never like we’ve known each other for years.”
“It feels like that to me.”
“How romantic,” I reply sarcastically.
When he walks around the island, I move in the other direction, keeping the island between us at all times so he won’t see the recording device.
“Now you’re really making me suspicious. Show me your hands.”
“Do you think I’ve got a gun or something?”
“Show me your hands, Sienna. Now.”
Nerves constrict my throat. But even when his tone is dark, it’s difficult to believe he’s the man who killed my mom.
I raise my hands.
“What’s that?”
“A bug. A recording device.”
“What the fuck?” he growls, walking hurriedly around the island.
He grips my arms, his hurt expression even worse than before. “You’re spying on us?”
“Don’t take that tone with me.” I back away from him. “You’re the one who killed my mom.”