Chapter Twenty-Two— Vinny
The days in this cabin were starting to blur together, and I didn't mind. That terrified me.
For the first time in eight years, I wasn't running. I wasn't looking over my shoulder every five minutes or sleeping with one eye open. I was existing in this strange man's strange-ass bubble where it felt like the outside world couldn't touch. I felt… safe.
In all my life I'd only ever felt anything close to this kind of security with Momma Graham—tucked away in her hood apartment where someone actually gave a fuck if I ate, slept, if you were still breathing when the sun came up.
She had given me an unconditional sanctuary. But this? This was different.
I was starting to like this too much. Like him too much. I hated myself for it. I didn't do feelings, and I damn sure didn't do dependency, but… I was feeling. A lot.
The realization scared me more than any gun ever had.
I didn't want to like him. I didn't want to feel safe with him, because in our world, safety was a lie that got you killed.
If I let my guard down and got used to his protection, what the fuck was I supposed to do when the streets inevitably came calling? I couldn't afford to get soft.
But… he came back for me. Bleeding, half-dead, crawling out of a freezing bay, and the first thing out of his mouth when he burst through the door wasn't begging me to save his life.
It was telling me to take the money and run.
He'd doubled back into a burning house solely to let me go free before his heart gave out.
I still didn't know how to process that.
Did he do that because he was him, or did he do it because of me?
I sighed and scrubbed my hand down my face. I didn't want to think about it.
I made myself get out of my head. I could hear Vinny in the kitchen. He was singing—low, off-key, some old Italian song.
I caught a smile slipping onto my face and wiped it off real quick. Get it together, Jamie.
A few days ago, he could barely stand without wincing. Now, he was singing and cooking.
My chest tightened as I stared at the doorway.
The scent of crushed garlic, sweet basil, and simmering tomatoes drifted into the living room. A few minutes later, Vinny appeared in the doorway, wiping his hands on a dish towel. Sweatpants hung low on his hips, a black t-shirt stretched across his broad chest.
A glass of bourbon dangled from his fingers. I told him not to mix the pain pills and liquor, but he did, and he was gone, his eyes looking sleepy. So far removed from the melancholy man I'd first met.
"Dinner's almost ready," he said, his mouth curving into a lazy, crooked smile that I felt straight down in my gut. "This is one of my mother's recipes. Authentic gravy. Not that canned shit you probably eat."
I just smiled and nodded.
He didn't leave. He leaned his heavy frame against the doorpost.
He just stared for a minute before stepping closer. His gaze dragged over me slowly, tracing the line of my throat, the curve of my breast. "You're really fucking beautiful, Jamie."
I swallowed hard, keeping the blanket pulled tight around my shoulders like bulletproof. He's drunk, the voice behind the concrete walls inside my mind screamed. He's looking at my face, but he's seeing a ghost.
I understood. He was lonely, liquored up, and trapped with a chick who shared the exact jawline of the only person he'd ever truly loved. I wasn't about to be the placeholder for a dead woman though.
"The food smells good," I said, keeping my tone deadpanned, refusing to let him see how much he affected me. "Come eat."
I stood too quickly, headed towards the kitchen, anything to cut the tension.
He caught my wrist gently as I tried to walk past him, pulling me closer. The scent of bourbon and his cologne mixed together, warm and dizzying, cutting right through my defenses.
"You know," he murmured, his voice dropping into a rough, low register that made the hair on my arms stand up, "I keep thinking about how lucky I am."
I laughed softly. "Lucky why? Because you didn't die?"
"No." His thumb brushed over my pulse point, hot and deliberate. "Lucky you stayed. Lucky you're here."
My heart did something incredibly stupid in my chest, and it pissed me off. Because I knew he was thinking about her. Not me.
I pulled my wrist free and looked past him toward the stove. "Food's gonna burn if you keep talking this slick shit, papi. Go back to the kitchen before you ruin your mother's gravy."
He chuckled behind me, deep and warm, but didn't push.
We ate at the small kitchen table in a silence that had completely changed. It wasn't cold anymore.
Every time our eyes met, I looked away first.
I had to. If I didn't, I might start believing this was real.