Chapter 16 #2
“Chicago is home,” he corrected. “New York’s temporary. You know that.”
I ignored him, walking faster.
“Valentina.” He said my name as if it were a warning itself.
And that voice. That fucking voice. The one that used to whisper the filthiest things in my ear.
“Chicago is not my home,” I corrected.
“You used to like it there.”
“I liked the shopping.”
“And me,” he said with a smile that made me wonder if he was right. Then he continued. “You hate it here, Valentina.”
I didn’t answer.
“You hate Max.”
No argument there.
“You hate playing widow.”
Again, true. But I’d be damned if I gave him the satisfaction of hearing me admit it.
“So what the fuck is keeping you here?” he asked, genuinely curious now. “What’s got you holding onto this city like it’s ever done a damn thing for you?”
I could have told him.
I could have said my mother was here, that she was sick, that I wasn’t going to uproot my life when she barely had control over hers.
I could have said I was building something, trying to keep myself together, trying to stay together.
But instead I just shrugged. “I like the pizza.”
Sebastian was persistent, but he wasn’t dumb. He knew when to push, when to step back, and when to wait. And that was what scared me the most. Because the Callahans always got what they wanted. And Sebastian? He’d never wanted anything he couldn’t have.
Until me.
“Go home,” I said, turning on my heel.
“Come with me,” he called after me, his voice half-teasing, half-serious. “I’ll buy you something pretty.”
I glanced back at him, unamused. “If I wanted something pretty, I’d steal it.”
He watched me walk away, and I knew he was still smirking. I could feel it.
But I didn’t turn around, because I knew better. Men like Sebastian Callahan didn’t show up for nothing. He was here because he wanted something—information, leverage, some kind of in. The Callahans were just as bad as Max. Maybe even worse.
At least Max was honest about his control. But the Callahans? They dressed their loyalty up like a favor, like protection, like something softer than it was. They took care of you, sure. Gave you a place at the table. Made sure you never had to ask for anything. But eventually, you’d owe them.
And they’d pull the same strings Max did. Sebastian was no better than him, and I was already too far along to let myself get tangled up in another leash.
I was halfway there. Halfway to my inheritance. Halfway to finally being free.
One slipup could undo months of work, months of tolerating Sasha, months of pretending sobriety actually mattered to me. I wasn’t about to risk it all for Sebastian Callahan, even if his smirk made me feel things I’d rather ignore.
So I walked. Eight blocks. Eight endless, miserable blocks down Lexington in my five-inch heels, passing countless overpriced bodegas that mocked me.
I didn’t bother with a cab. Stubbornness always outweighed common sense for me. By block four, the pain in my feet was so bad I debated tossing the shoes entirely. They were nice shoes—Sebastian’s favorite, ironically—but they were currently carving permanent scars into my feet.
By block seven, my toes were numb, the wind had turned brutal, and my coat wasn’t doing a damn thing to shield me from it. But I kept moving, because the alternative was crawling back to Sebastian’s car, admitting defeat, and giving him one more reason to smirk at me.
By the time I’d reached my building, I was already reaching for my keys, running through the mental list of things I needed to do: wash my face, take off these damn shoes, sleep for a year.
But then I stopped.
There was a man sitting on my steps. His head was bowed between his shoulders, arms resting on his knees, with a Marlboro between his fingers.
I walked all the way up to him, stopping just short, my Manolos inches from his shoes. My fingers curled around my keys, my grip tightening.
“What are you doing here, lawyer?”
He looked up.
I tilted my head, watching him for a second before speaking. “The strays usually find a home on the other side of town.”
“Where are you coming from?” he asked, ignoring my comment.
“A meeting.”
“What meeting?”
I sighed. “My AA meeting, if you must know.”
He arched an eyebrow. “Didn’t think you were actually going to those.”
I reached into my leopard-print bag to grab the signed slip. I held it up, watching his eyes scan the page. “And yet here I am. The poster child for sobriety.”
He looked at me.
Then at the slip.
Then back at me.
He tapped his cigarette, letting the ash fall onto the pavement. “What’d you have to do to get those?”
I smiled. “Suck Greg’s dick.”
His lips twitched. I didn’t miss it.
When he stood, my head fell back to keep eye contact with him. He didn’t find my comment as funny as I did. The line between his brows told me he was deciding how much of my bullshit he was willing to tolerate tonight.
“You’ve got a smart mouth. Must be nice,” he murmured, “getting whatever you want.”
“Not whatever I want.” I glanced at him through my lashes. “Not yet anyway.”
My eyes fell down the length of his body, all the way to where the cigarette was placed between his fingers. I reached for it, and he didn’t pull back.
“Couldn’t stop thinking about me, could you?” I asked, placing my lips around the cigarette.
He stared at my lips while I inhaled.
“Trust me,” he started, “if I could erase you from my mind, you’d already be gone.”
Was that a compliment?
“Careful, lawyer. I could tell you all about terrible habits.”
“I’m sure you could. You’re the expert after all.”
I bit down on my smile. I liked this side of him—the one that didn’t take everything so seriously. I mean, God, he was always walking around as if someone had died and made him responsible for every damn thing.
It was pathetic how much I enjoyed the attention he gave me.
Maybe I was desperate for even a scrap of validation, or maybe it was just because the idea of a man like Marco thinking about me at all felt dangerously good.
Especially after months of him watching me like I was a disaster waiting to happen.
But I didn’t want to overthink it. Not now anyway. I just wanted to enjoy this tiny victory, even if it was temporary. Even if it meant absolutely nothing.
“Are you going to tell me why you’re loitering outside my apartment?”
He reached into the pocket of his pants and pulled out a chain. It was familiar. It looked a lot like my bracelet.
“Found this in my car.”
He sounded irritated he’d had to come here to return it.
“Oh.” I blew the smoke right into his face. “That’s not mine,” I said, joking, trying to give the serious man a hard time.
“Don’t be difficult.”
I smirked. “I’m not. You sure you’re not confusing me with someone else?”
Marco didn’t look amused. He was still holding the bracelet between two fingers, his patience thinning by the second.
“Take your bracelet, Valentina.”
The way he said it almost made me want to refuse again. Almost.
He didn’t look confused, either, which meant this wasn’t something he did. Other women weren’t leaving things behind in his car. He didn’t make a habit of driving them home.
Interesting.
I took it and slipped it back onto my wrist, my fingers lingering over the clasp. It was warm from his touch. That shouldn’t have mattered, but my skin prickled anyway.
He watched me carefully, like he was trying to decide whether or not I was fucking with him just to amuse myself.
I was.
His attention fell between my fingers, to the cigarette, then back to my face.
“You’re welcome,” he muttered, even though I hadn’t actually said thank-you.
I smirked.
I knew he’d catch that.
I took another slow drag of his cigarette, letting the smoke curl between my lips before he took it back. He didn’t bring it to his mouth, just rolled it between his fingers, jaw ticking.
“You want to come inside?” I asked sweetly. “Or are you afraid Max’s PI is hiding in my kitchen cabinets?”
“Max isn’t a creep, Valentina,” he said finally. “He’s not keeping an eye on your personal life. Just on Sebastian’s.”
My throat tightened. If that were true, Max would soon find out I’d had an encounter with Sebastian half an hour ago. Which was fantastic, really, because obviously, my life wasn’t complicated enough. I clearly needed another reason for Max to tighten his chokehold on my nonexistent social life.
I could practically hear the lecture already. How could I be so reckless? Why couldn’t I just behave for five whole minutes? Honestly, you’d think I’d robbed a bank or something, not just had an ill-advised conversation on a sidewalk.
I must’ve looked flustered or concerned, because Marco’s eyes fell in annoyance as he took a deep breath. “If you’re with them, he’ll know.”
I smirked slowly. “Is that why you’re really here? To check if I’m screwing the enemy.”
“I don’t care who you screw.”
Right.
Sure he didn’t.
Marco liked to pretend he was above it all, immune to whatever messy drama I got myself tangled up in, but he wasn’t fooling anyone.
Least of all me. He cared plenty. Not because he was concerned about my personal life, but because if I slipped up, if I got too close to the Callahans again, he’d have a front-row seat to whatever shit show followed.
He’d have to deal with the paperwork, the fallout, and the endless lectures from Max.
So yeah, he did care, just not about me. He cared about damage control, about making sure Sebastian and his family stayed as far away as possible.
“No?” I asked, indulging him. “You sure you don’t want to go check?”
He watched me carefully. “Do you always invite strangers into your apartment after 9:00 p.m.?”
I raised a brow. “Are you a stranger?”
“Depends,” he said, eyes holding mine. “How much do you think you know about me?”
I smiled slowly. “Enough to know your favorite pastime is judging my every move.”
“Only because your moves are so predictably reckless.”
I scoffed.
Hot and cold. Cold and hot. God, talking to him gave me whiplash. One minute he was dragging me out of trouble, and the next he was pushing every damn button.
Predictably reckless? Whatever. I could be predictable if I wanted to.
I just chose not to be. And reckless? Well, maybe.
But reckless was interesting. Reckless made you feel something.
Unlike him—Mr. I-Iron-My-Suits-At-Midnight who glared at everyone as if smiling physically hurt him.
But hell, if it wasn’t working. Annoyingly, inconveniently working.
Marco wasn’t even my type. Or maybe he was becoming my type. God forbid.
“Don’t you have someone else’s night to ruin?” I asked dryly, stepping back toward the door.
“Don’t you?”
“Probably,” I admitted. Truthfully, I didn’t have much else going on tonight. Or any night lately. But I sure as hell wouldn’t tell him that. He already thought I was a walking disaster—no need to confirm it.
Still, I couldn’t stop myself from lingering there just a second longer, letting my hand rest on the doorknob. It was irritating how much I wanted him to keep talking, to follow me inside, to prove he wasn’t as indifferent as he pretended to be. It was even more irritating that I cared at all.
I pushed the door open, stepping halfway in.
“Good night, Marco,” I teased, though it fell flat even to my ears. “Try not to miss me too much.”
His jaw ticked, and his gaze dropped, like he was holding back some snarky remark or insult. Or maybe he was just done with my bullshit for tonight. That was probably it. Maybe I was done too. Maybe we both were.
As I shut the door behind me, I knew I’d think about him tonight. How annoying he was, how frustrating he was, how ridiculously handsome he was in that uptight, irritating, too-serious way of his.
Predictably reckless.
The asshole wasn’t wrong . . .