46. Hendrix #3
The sound of a wooden thump, like Saint’s head pressing against the door, appears not far above mine.
“Please, Jimi, come out so we can talk.”
I shake my head, even though I know he can’t see it.
“The good, the bad, the ugly,” he adds. “You promised to remember.”
“And you promised no more secrets.”
“I was gonna tell you the truth about everything after your interview at Bromwell. But then Carlo died and I didn’t want to hurt you even more.”
“So you spent months guilting yourself into taking care of me?”
Offense comes through as a sharp laugh. “Guilt? You believe that’s what’s been driving me?”
“What else am I supposed to believe, Saint?”
“You believe me when I say I did all of this because I love you. Because I choose you, above everyone else. That I fell so fucking hard, so fucking fast it literally drove me to madness. I’d die for you, Jimi. Without question I would lay down my life if it meant you were safe.”
My throat burns as I try to fight back sobs, because deep down I know Saint means it, and I feel the exact same way. But loving him as fiercely doesn’t justify a lie of this magnitude, and I know I will try to if I keep listening.
“Please stop talking.”
“I won’t. I won’t stop talking, baby. I’ll keep talking until my words bleed through the door and you’re forced to believe them.”
“I hate you…so much.”
“As you should. But that won’t stop me from getting to you. Holding you hostage until you love me again. And if that doesn’t work, I’ll burn the whole fucking world down until there’s no one left but you and me.”
“You should’ve told me from the beginning!”
“And what’s the first thing you would’ve done if I did? Huh?”
“I’d do whatever it took to make sure nobody died because of me!”
“Exactly! Your instinct to protect the people you love would trump everything else.” Saint pauses.
“Including your safety.” He pauses again.
“Yes, I lied, and I know how astronomically fucked up it was, but you’ve seen parts of me no one else ever has.
You ignited a passion inside me, Hendrix, one I never knew was there or even wanted.
You know me, more than anyone else, and deep down you know I had no choice.
So please, just come out of the fucking bathroom. ”
Looking down, I reach for my necklace, squeezing the horn in my fingers as I close my eyes.
“You weren’t the only man in my life who loved me, Saint.
Or that I loved too. Maybe not as long, as much, or in the same way as you, but Carlo was the father I’ll never get to have.
” I open my eyes, and with a painful longing, shake my head.
“So don’t talk to me about choices…because I’ll never get to know a love like that ever again. ”
Another round of silence comes from the other side of the door, and I don’t have to see Saint’s jaw tick to know I proved a point.
“I’m gonna get dressed, and when I come back, either you come out and let me fix this, or I’m coming in.”
The threatening undertone leaves no room for negotiation.
But I can’t even look at Saint, let alone keep talking to him.
No matter how much I love him or how sincere he is about fixing what he broke. I need space, time, and if I’m going to talk with anyone, I want it to be the only two people left I can trust.
Which is why, the second I hear Saint’s footsteps head toward his closet, and the door opens, I twist open the bathroom just a smidge to make sure he’s not in sight.
Then use this as another opportunity to escape.
Hangers sliding across metal come from the closet as I tiptoe across the room and grab my Chucks, knowing I’ve got less than ten seconds to figure out how to sneak out of the mansion without being seen.
But, thanks to a stealthy stepsister, it takes me less than five seconds to decide the best way to do it.
I just hope the dumbwaiter is big enough for me too.
It was touch and go for a bit as I lowered my way down to the basement, given I barely made it into the utility closet before Saint’s bedroom door swung open.
And whatever time I was given to prepare to dangle my life off a century old rope, was spent deathly still in a corner as Saint screamed my name down the hall.
Like a champ I did it, though, even managed to text Archer and Bex to meet me in my dorm room in twenty minutes, demanding they tell no one. The besties mentioned earlier having a sleepover in Archer’s room tonight, which works out well for me since I could use all the support I can get.
I was running on pure adrenaline as I navigated the dark basement, climbed out of the window, dodged Vic’s cameras, and jumped in a taxi.
Even now, exactly twenty minutes later, as I’m pacing in my dorm room waiting for my best friends to arrive.
There’s a knock at the door, and I rush over to it, peeking through the hole to make sure it’s them before opening.
“What the freak, Hen?” A worried Bex leads the parade in her pink pajamas. An even more worried Archer follows right after, in an obnoxious flannel concoction that screams proper rich boy.
By the time I close the door, they’re settled on my bed.
“What was with the cryptic text?” Archer asks as I sit between them. “Are you okay?”
Those final three words are all it takes for the adrenaline to pour out of me, leaving room for devastation to flood my insides again, and my tears to pick up where they left off.
“They’ve all been lying to me.”
Bex drops in front of me. “Who’s been lying to you, babe?”
“My mom, Auntie, Vic.” I sniffle, rubbing the back of my hand across my wet nose. “Saint.”
For some reason, hearing me admit this out loud hurts even more than when he did. Like there’s finality to our relationship now that my friends know too.
“About what?”
“Everything.” I let out a hollow laugh. “Literally everything.”
Bex sits next to me again, rubbing the tears from my eyes the same way Saint did earlier—and the fact that I’ve gotten to a point where her touch is more comforting than his guts me even more.
Saint is no longer an anchor, he’s a stranger.
As much as I am to myself.
Which, outside of Carlo, may be the saddest part in all of this.
“What are you mumbling, babe? We can’t hear,” Bex says, making me realize I’ve been thinking out loud too.
Or partially at least.
“My entire life…it’s been built on lies.”
“What? How so?”
“Well, for starters, my father isn’t some low life fall guy for the Salvinis doing life in prison.”
“Oh?” Bex raises a brow. “So he was more involved?”
I scoff. “You could say that.”
“So…is he like…” Bex pauses to air quote. “A ‘made man’ or something?”
Movement comes from my other side, where my gossip guru best friend is uncharacteristically quiet, but I don’t get the chance to pick Archer’s brain before Bex repeats her question.
I answer her as plainly as my disgust will allow. “My father was Luca Salvini.”
“Luca Salvini? As in the deceased head psycho of the family?”
I nod.
“There’s no way. Nuh-huh.” Bex shakes her head. “That’s impossible.”
“You have no idea how much I wish you were right.”
I watch Bex as she blinks a few times, then reaches over me to Archer and slaps his arm. “Dude! Look alive! It’s not like a bomb didn’t just drop on our best friend or anything!”
Not a peep comes from Archer, which has Bex straightening and me turning to face him.
“Uh, Arch, are you okay?” Bex questions. “You look like you’ve seen a ghost…”
She’s not lying, the peach tone of his skin has been drained completely into an alabaster white. Even Archer’s eyes, which are usually a vibrant brown, seem depleted of hope.
“I-I’m fine.” He attempts to shrug it off, but the deep swallow of his Adam’s apple screams otherwise. “Just processing, that’s all.”
“Well, process faster, you dope. Hen needs us.”
Bex turns me around by the shoulders, but my gaze lingers on Archer a bit more before it gets to her.
“Why the hell would they lie to you about this? Especially Saint?”
“The word protection got thrown around a lot tonight when Dante showed up at the mansion.”
“That’s bullshit.” She scoffs. “Straight bullshit.”
“Bullshit or not. I’m the reason for all of this. Nikolai Ivanov wants me dead for what Luca Salvini did to his son.”
“But that murder wasn’t your fault.”
“Yeah, well, the mafia tends to abide by their own laws, especially when it comes to the sins of the father.”
“Oh my God.” Bex covers her face with her hands. “So does this make you a mafia princess?”
“I really need you to sound less excited.”
“Sorry, babe. It’s just wild to think you’re like an heir to some mafia throne.”
Well, shit.
I’ve been so focused on betrayals, I didn’t stop to think about semantics. Not that semantics would matter because I’d rather die than associate myself with such despicable people.
Blood or not.
“Bex…don’t you get it? They’ve been trying to kill me this whole time. The war was never about Vic, or propositions, or helping the Salvinis. All the violence…” I shudder before adding, “The death. It was about getting to me.”
Any sign of excitement falls from Bex’s face, in its place, a sad recollection. “Oh my God, babe, come here.” She pulls me in for a side hug, then rests her chin on my head. “Carlo’s death is not on you, okay? None of this is on you.” She pauses, tossing a pillow at Archer. “Right, Arch?!”
“Of course it’s not,” he says after clearing his throat. “Your mom should’ve told you the truth the second Dante proposed marriage.”
My entire body stiffens before sitting up straight, leaving Bex dumbfounded as I turn to face Archer with narrowed eyes.
“What did you just say?”
Color returns to his face, but it’s vomit green. “That it’s not your fault?”
“The other part.”
“About Dante’s proposal?”
“That’s the one,” I grit out. “I never mentioned anything about a proposal.”
Archer looks as though he may actually throw up all over his hideous pajamas. “I could’ve sworn you did…”
“Yeah, well, you swore wrong.”