Chapter 23
I stare into the darkness, listening to her breathing beside me. She pities me now. Poor little rich boy with his childhood trauma. The broken monster with the sad origin story.
I hate pity. It’s useless currency, worth less than the breath wasted to deliver it.
I sigh. “I’m sorry.”
“For what?” Her voice is closer than I expected.
“For making you think about me.” The words taste strange. Apologies always do. “For making you a part of my story. For ruining things.”
The sheets rustle as she shifts position.
“You didn’t make me think about you. You made me…
see you. And I get it, we’re strangers who’ve been stuck with each other in a power play all day and so…
it feels like we know each other, and we don’t.
I mean, this morning I was wearing a yellow cardigan and standing outside your restaurant trying to unravel the secret of where you were.
And now, sixteen, seventeen, eighteen hours later I have so many questions. ”
I smile, thinking about all my careful plotting that she unraveled thread by thread.
“Did he really pre-plan a standing desk to punish me for being late? Did Giovanni Bavga handwrite those notebooks? Or did he hire a calligrapher? I drove a Lambo, got to peruse a stranger’s mansion and closet, and I played a game of Lie, Lie, Truth and still lost. Somehow.”
I can hear the smile in her voice as she catalogs our day. When I turn, I find her lying on her side, head propped up by one hand, the light from the moonlight peeking through the single open shade near the front door, making everything look and feel soft and hazy.
I’m just about to finish narrating the day by describing how it felt to be intimate with her, when she interrupts.
“Do you know this is the first day I haven’t cried in almost five years?”
I blink. Rewind. Blink again. “You cry every day?” I’m… I don’t know. Emotionally blindsided by this fact.
“Except for today.” She lets out a long breath. “Life… it’s just… it’s hard for me since my parents died.”
“Wait,” I say. Putting my fingers on her lips. “Don’t. Don’t say another fucking word. I’m not trying to shut you up or say I don’t want your story, but if this is the only day… the day you spent with me… is the only day you weren’t so sad you felt the need to cry, let it stay that way. Please.”
Her eyes are tearing up, and I’m praying, literally fucking praying in my head in a please, please, please way, that those tears do not fall.
She steals herself with a deep breath. Holds it. Lets it out. “Do you know what I think when you say those words to me?”
“That I’m a selfish dick who only cares about himself?”
A smile breaks through, then she actually laughs.
“No. I hear a challenge, Giovanni. And… I don’t know, I’m kind of always up for one.
I think that’s part of my problem. I don’t really understand how to quit?
” She shrugs her shoulders. “It’s probably a biological flaw that will get me killed one day. ”
“Nah,” I say, reaching for her now. I pull her up to my chest, and she lets me. Which is kind of a reward in and of itself. “I think your flaws are beautiful. And no one is going to kill you. Ever.”
“Not with you around?” she snickers.
“Yeah, all right. That came out lame. But it’s also true.”
“Hmm. The world is filled with assholes. That’s my takeaway.
And even if my ex never finds me again, the damage is done.
Because now I know he exists. There are people in this world who want nothing more than to hurt others.
To manipulate them, and control them, and use them.
And for some reason, I’m just… the perfect target. ”
“You’re talking about me now.”
“No,” she laughs. “I mean, yes. You’re that guy. But…” She sighs. “Never mind.”
Never mind.
There it is again. The second time today.
Never mind.
I turn to look at her, barely visible in the darkness. “Why would someone want to hurt you? He must be truly evil.”
“Says the mobster...”
“I don’t like to hurt people,” I say, the truth slipping out before I can stop it.
“It’s just how you survive with the last name Bavga.
Pain is something I inflict on enemies.” I pause, choosing my next words carefully.
“I’m not trying to be mean, but if that man hurt you, he hated you, Emmaleen. You were his enemy.”
“Yeah.” Her voice goes small. “Some men don’t like to be seen. And I have some kind of superpower that sees right into their heads. So I guess it’s my fault.”
Something hot and dangerous ignites in my chest. “It’s not your fault.”
“I know, I know, it’s just—”
“No.” I cut her off. “You are not responsible for what other people do.”
“That’s rich coming from a man who runs a demerit system for women who wear the wrong shoes.”
“That’s different.”
“Is it?”
I sit up, suddenly needing space from this conversation. “Yes. You signed a contract. You knew the terms. And the punishment was standing, not—” I stop myself.
“Not getting thrown down a flight of stairs?” she finishes for me.
The image hits me like a physical blow. “He did that to you?”
“Among other things.” Her voice is too casual, like she’s discussing the weather. “It’s fine. I’m fine now.”
“It’s not fine.”
“Well, what do you want me to say? That I’m broken?
That I jump when doors slam? That I haven’t dated anyone in thirteen months because I’m terrified of being trapped again?
That I have nightmares where I can’t breathe because he’s sitting on my chest?
” Her voice cracks. “Would that make you feel better about your own damage?”
“No.”
“Then what?”
“I want you to be angry.”
She laughs, a harsh sound in the darkness. “I was angry. For months. It didn’t help.”
“It helps me.” This admission costs me something, but I say it anyway.
“Yeah, well, your anger gets to have guns and henchmen. Mine just got me more bruises.”
I reach for the bedside lamp, needing to see her face. She blinks in the sudden light, her eyes red-rimmed but dry.
“Tell me his name.”
She shakes her head. “No.”
“Why not?”
“Because I don’t need you to fix this for me. I don’t need another man deciding what happens in my story.”
I study her face, looking for cracks in her resolve. There aren’t any.
“Fine,” I say finally. “But if you change your mind—”
“I won’t.”
“If you change your mind,” I repeat, “I’ll make him regret ever touching you.”
She looks at me for a long moment. “You know what’s weird? I believe you.”
“Why is that weird?”
“Because I’ve known you less than a day, and you’ve been mostly terrible to me.”
I almost smile at that. “Only mostly?”
“The sex was good.” She says it so matter-of-factly that I nearly choke. “And you did pay for that wedding cake I ruined.”
“Low bar.”
“Yeah, well.” She shrugs. “I’ve learned to adjust my expectations.”
The silence stretches between us, not uncomfortable but heavy with everything we’ve said and all the things we haven’t.
“What was his name?” she asks suddenly.
“Who?”
“The man you shot. When you escaped.”
I haven’t thought about his name in years. “Carlo. Carlo Bottaro. He was the newest guy, lowest on the totem pole. That’s why he got stuck with babysitting duty.”
“Did you kill him?”
“No. Hit him in the hip. He lived.”
“Do you wish you had? Killed him?”
I consider the question. “No. He was just following orders.”
“Whose orders?”
“Rico’s father. Luca LaRiccia.”
“And he’s still alive? Luca?”
“Oh, fuck yeah, he is. That bastard isn’t going anywhere.”
“Is that why Rico hates you? Because you shot his father’s man?”
“No. Rico hates me because he’s Rico. He was torturing me long before the kidnapping.”
“What do you mean? What did he do?”
I shake my head. “We’re not playing that game.”
“What game?”
“The one where we compare traumas to see whose childhood was worse.”
“I wasn’t—”
“You were.” I cut her off again. “And it doesn’t matter. Pain isn’t a competition.”
She falls silent, considering this. “Okay,” she says finally. “Then let’s play a different game.”
“I’m not in the mood for games.”
“Too bad. This one’s called ‘One Good Thing.’” She shifts to face me fully. “You tell me one good memory from your childhood. Just one. And I’ll tell you one of mine.”
I stare at her, trying to determine her angle. “Why?”
“Because I’m tired of ghosts, Giovanni. I’m tired of letting the past determine who I am now. Just... give me one good thing. Please.”
The please catches me off guard. I search my memory, pushing past the darkness to find something worth sharing.
“I already told you one good thing. I told you about the wisteria. My grandparents were mafia, obviously. But things were different back then. And I know it’s stupid to say this, but there was more honor. I don’t know, I’m probably just romanticizing it.”
“Well, just tell me one more. Good things don’t hurt.”
“You’re wrong. Good things hurt the most. It’s just a reminder of what you can lose.”
She sighs again. “For fuck’s sake. I guess I should go first. I hadn’t realized you’re such a nihilist.”
I smile. Then speak, taking my turn. “My mother used to read to me. Every night, no matter how late she got home. Even if I was already asleep, she’d wake me up just to read one chapter.”
“What did she read?”
“Everything. Classics, mostly. But my favorite was The Little Prince.”
“That’s a sad book for a kid.”
“Is it? I always thought it was hopeful.”
“It’s quite philosophical for a child. And the lessons are big ones. ‘You become responsible, forever, for what you have tamed,’” she quotes softly.
“You’ve read it.”
“My dad was an English professor, remember? I’ve read everything.”
I nod, waiting for her to fulfill her end of the bargain.
“My turn?” she asks, and I nod again. “Okay. One good thing.” She thinks for a moment.
“When I was ten, my parents took me to New York. We saw three Broadway shows in three days. Phantom, Les Mis, and Chicago. I cried during all of them. Not because they were sad, but because they were so beautiful. I’d never heard music like that before. ”
“Did you want to be an actress?”
“God, no. I wanted to be a critic. Ten years old and already planning scathing reviews of imaginary performances.”
I almost smile at that. “Sounds about right.” Desperate to know, I ask, “Do you like me?”
Emmaleen looks at me like I’ve just asked if she’d like to jump off a bridge. Then she holds up her index finger. “One. You made me stand for four hours in shoes that weren’t mine, had heels high enough to qualify as torture devices, and didn’t fit.”
I say nothing.
She raises a second finger.
“Two. You put me inside a game without telling me I was playing.”
Her third finger joins the others.
“Three. You created a very detailed set of rules for this game in the form of notebooks to manipulate me with money.”
Fourth finger.
“Four. You made me undress in front of you.”
Thumb.
“Five. You used me to make your cousin jealous.”
She switches to her other hand, extending her index finger again.
“Six. You searched my background without my permission.”
Middle finger.
“Seven. You created a punishment system specifically designed to keep me off-balance.”
Ring finger.
“Eight. You’re a criminal.”
Pinky.
“Nine. You’re probably lying about half the things you’ve told me.”
Thumb again.
“Ten. You’re asking me if I like you when we both know you don’t actually care about the answer.”
She drops her hands, finished with the accounting. I let the silence stretch between us, cataloging the accuracy of each accusation. Except for the part about making Rico jealous, she’s not wrong about any of it.
“I wasn’t trying to make Rico jealous. I was telling him to stay the fuck away from you. But anyway. Do you like me?” I ask again.
Her face flushes. “Did you not hear what I just said?”
“I heard every word. Answer the question.”
“Why are you asking me this?”
“Because I want to know.”
She laughs, but there’s no humor in it. “You know everything. You probably have a file on me thicker than my arm. You’ve seen me naked.
You’ve been inside me. And while you did correct me about Rico, you didn’t correct the part where I said you didn’t care about my answer.
So what else could you possibly need to know? ”
“Whether you like me. And I didn’t correct you because… well…”
“Because you don’t care, Giovanni.”
“Yeah, but… there are… nuances to that.”
She laughs. Then sighs. Then runs a hand through her still-damp hair. “I don’t know you well enough to like you.”
“That’s not an answer.”
“It’s the only one you’re getting.”
I move closer to her on the bed. Fighting the urge to pull her close. “I think you do like me. I think it terrifies you.”
“You think very highly of yourself.”
“I think you wouldn’t have fucked me if you didn’t like something about me.”
Her eyes narrow. “Sex isn’t always about liking someone.”
“No,” I agree. “Sometimes it’s about power. Sometimes it’s about money. Sometimes it’s about fear. Sometimes it’s just about loneliness. Which was it for you?”
She purses her lips as she stares into my eyes and once again, I’m transfixed by the pale desert I find in hers. “Maybe it was all of the above.”
“Or maybe you just like me despite yourself.”
“And what if I do?” Her voice is quiet but steady. “What difference would it make?”
“It would make me want to be someone you could like without reservation. It would make me want to remove these reservations from your thoughts. It would make me want to fix this… whatever this is.”
The words hang between us. I hadn’t planned to say them. I hadn’t even known I was thinking them until they escaped.
She studies my face, looking for the lie, the angle, the manipulation. I keep my expression neutral, giving her nothing to find.
“I don’t think that’s possible,” she says finally.
“Why not?”
“Because you are who you are, Giovanni. And I am who I am.”
“And who exactly are you, Emmaleen Rourke?”
She smiles, but it’s weary. “I’m the girl who’s trying to survive the next six days without hating myself when it’s over.”
“Are you looking forward to it being over?”
“I’m looking forward to the money.”
“You’re saying this to hurt me.”
“No,” she says quickly. “I’m saying this so I don’t get hurt.”
And then she turns her back to me, officially putting an end to her first day working for Giovanni Bavga, crime boss, control freak, and architect of a game she never wanted to play, but feels compelled to win, nonetheless.
I turn over as well so that we’re sleeping back-to-back. It’s the end of my day one too.
Day one of… what, though? I’m not sure.
I just know that nothing will ever be the same again.