1. Vinnie
Now
The sun’s glare is blinding as it reflects off the edges of the silver platter on the table in front of me. It’s filled to the brim with cheese, crackers, meats, and grapes that have been sitting out in the sun for far too long. No one, aside from me, seems to notice or care.
Obnoxious laughter floats through the air, full of fake enthusiasm and cattiness.
Another day, another rooftop luncheon.
I never used to mind coming to these events—in fact, I used to enjoy them. But that was months ago, before I became a shell of the woman I once was.
Grief will do that to a person. Make them hate the things they used to enjoy. Make them see darkness instead of light.
The first few months after Sly left were bearable. Normal, even. Painful, but I kept a smile painted on my face as I pushed through my responsibilities and acted as though nothing was amiss.
I should have known better than to think I could continue through the motions. Somewhere around month four was when August insisted we move in together.
We’re getting married, after all.
With my refusal to cohabitate came another attack. This time, he was more careful—only leaving bruises where they couldn’t be seen. Wouldn’t want to draw suspicion that New York’s most loved man is actually a monster.
I knew moving in with him would be dangerous to my safety, but I feared what he would do if I refused again. Would he lift his hand to me? Kick me while I was on the ground? Knock me unconscious?
These were all things he’s done to me—just the lovely side of August the world doesn’t get to see, but when I rile him up, or even when I don’t, he shows me his true colors.
The only thing stopping me from running, hiding, and refusing to live with him, is the looming threat that he’ll turn his anger toward the one person I’m trying to protect.
It isn’t worth finding out if he’ll make good on that threat.
So, I packed up my daily belongings and moved in with my fiancè, leaving the solitude of my apartment in the hands of Cecilia, who begged me not to go.
But I had to. I had no choice.
Every two weeks, August brings me new photos of Sly. Evidence that he’s still breathing and living his life. Those snapshots are my only reason to keep going—they keep me focused. Reminding me the only thing standing between Sly and the threat August placed on his head is my compliance.
Still, every photo of him ignites an ache in my heart that takes another two weeks to dissipate, only for the wound to reopen when August drops more pictures in my lap.
He’s dangling the bait, and I take it every time.
Seeing the images of Sly hurts even more because I now know where he is. August started leaving the pictures for me to keep a few months ago, and after weeks of piecing together buildings and road signs, I was able to reverse image search on the internet and figure out Sly is in a place called Ridgewood, California, a small city a little outside of San Francisco.
I have no idea why he ended up there, but knowing where he is brings me a little peace.
It’s a blessing and a curse, getting these bi-weekly reminders, but I know once August and I are legally wed, it will stop. Once I’m no longer a flight risk, and everything August and Joseph want is finally obtained, the threat to Sly’s life will end.
“Oh my gosh, Vinnie! How is wedding planning going?” Hera Whitney and her friend, Norah, take the open seats across from me. Hera is a hotel heiress who thinks she’s God”s gift to New York. She immediately dialed up her fakeness level with me once my engagement to August St. Jean became the talk of the town.
“I still haven’t seen your ring in person,” Norah comments, reaching her hand across the table, clamping her fingers open and closed to signal for me to give her my hand.
I don’t.
“It’s going great,” I say simply before popping a grape into my mouth. I have no interest in speaking to either of them, let alone filling them in on wedding plans.
The truth is, my mother has taken the reins on those tasks, spearheading the event with grace and precision. Every detail has been thought of, no expense spared. The only decisions I’ve made are my dress and the flowers. Not that I care about any of it, but if I have to marry the worst man ever, these two elements of the wedding day will be exactly how I want them.
They’ll be the only glimmer of happiness on what is supposed to be the best day of my life.
Instead, it will be the worst.
“Tell us everything!” Norah insists, not getting the hint.
Lifting my gaze, I find her leaning forward with her chin balanced on the top of her hand, waiting to hang on my every word.
“Spare no details,” Hera adds, and when my eyes slide over to her, she’s seated the same as Norah.
These women are staring at me as though I’ve stepped into the nickname the press gave me—the Paladino Princess. Eight months ago, they couldn’t have cared less about my life, and now they’re begging me for details.
Unbelievable.
Shaking my head, I abruptly stand, and the chair groans against the floor as it’s pushed out. Something inside of me snaps, and I become overwhelmed with emotion.
Anger.
Sadness.
Irritation.
As desperately as I want to give them the cold shoulder, manners and upbringing force me to excuse myself. “Ladies, I’m sorry. I’m not feeling well. Please excuse me.”
My heart hammers in my chest as I walk away, ignoring the curious glances as I weave past the round tables.
I wish Raina was here with me, but she woke up sick and had to cancel. She would have calmed me down—she’s become exceptionally good at grounding me when the world feels like it’s caving in.
Reaching to open the door, my eyes catch on the glittering diamond situated on my left ring finger, and the nausea I felt earlier when I put it on hits me all over again. I take a deep breath and push through the door, letting it close behind me with a loud thud as I rush down the staircase.
The Townsend’s two-story brownstone is familiar, having grown up with both their son and daughter, so I continue on down the second staircase until I reach their main floor. My back presses against the wall, and I work to steady myself, taking controlled breaths as I place my hand on my chest, giving myself a mental pep talk that everything is okay.
But everything”s not okay. I miss him. Every day, it feels like he’s slipping further and further away.
The depth of my love hasn’t diminished, but the hope of there someday being an us again gets smaller and smaller.
Tears prick my eyes as I think about him, my back still pressed against the wall.
I’m right outside the kitchen and can hear the clattering of dishes and cookware, and the laughter of those inside. The scent of rosemary and butter wafts from the room—lunch must be close to being served.
Footsteps near, and I hear soft feminine voices speaking while they work. One is murmuring something I can hardly decipher, but then her voice raises enough for me to hear.
“Wait, which Lucchetti?” the other woman asks. The sound of a spoon hitting the side of a cup almost drowns out her voice.
I know I shouldn’t eavesdrop, but hearing Sly’s last name has me frozen in place.
“The runaway one!”
Sly.
I take a step to the side so that I’m closer to the edge of the wall and able to hear them better.
“He was shot? How do you know?”
My eyes widen, my hand flying to my mouth to stifle a whimper.
“My friend Misha is their housekeeper and called me right after she heard. Apparently, they got a call from the hospital this morning that he was admitted with a gunshot wound to the chest. Misha was the one who answered the phone. She watched Mrs. Lucchetti fall to her knees and sob. Said it was heartbreaking.”
“But he’s alive?” the woman presses.
I’m holding my breath, tears streaming silently down my cheeks as I lean in toward the open threshold, hanging on every word and praying to God that Sly is alive.
“Yeah. He’s alive, but from what it sounds like, he’s in pretty bad shape.”
I can’t listen anymore.
My stomach roils aggressively, practically forcing me to double over. Bile rises in my throat, and I don”t think, I just move, running out of the house and onto the sidewalk, where I try to breathe.
Tears blur my vision as I pull my phone from the clutch I”ve held under my arm and text my driver, telling him to pick me up as soon as possible.
I begin to pace on the sidewalk as I pull up my phone”s web browser and search for plane tickets for flights out of LaGuardia. The soonest flight to Ridgewood leaves in just under three hours, and I don’t hesitate to input my credit card information and purchase a seat.
Ten minutes later, Ross, my driver, pulls alongside the curb. I don’t wait for him to get out before I throw open the door and climb inside.
Through the reflection of the rearview mirror, I see him quirk his brow at my quick entrance.
“Where to, Miss Paladino?” Ross asks tentatively, obviously gauging my mood.
I click my seatbelt into place. “Home. My apartment. And stay in the car because I need you to take me to the airport immediately.”
He pulls out into traffic, his eyes bouncing between the road and me through the mirror. “The airport?”
“Yes, and Ross, it’s imperative that this stays between us. You didn’t take me to the airport. You dropped me off at my apartment, and that’s the last time you saw me. Understand?”
Ross has never betrayed me, still, I feel the need to stress the importance of his discretion.
But right now, if I’m being honest, that’s the least of my concerns.
A fresh wave of tears slides down my cheeks. Through the mirror, I see Ross’ eyes soften as he nods once.
“I understand, Miss Paladino. Mum’s the word.”
I spend the drive to my apartment holding back a sob, consumed with thoughts of Sly and trying to figure out how I can get to him as fast as possible.
I need to see him. Touch him.
Make sure he’s breathing.
It never occurred to me that while I was here, making sure he stayed alive, there could be outside factors that would risk his life, too.
He can’t die.
He can’t.
I love him too much. Need him too much. I’ll do anything to keep him alive.
But as we pull into the underground parking structure of my building, I realize it’s not up to me. I can’t control this.
It’s out of my hands.
Do you hear me, God? You can’t let him die.