CHAPTER 23
Santino
The motel glowed in a warm yellow hue. The wooden furniture looked worn smooth, with a half-empty bar tucked to one corner. A handful of people scattered inside, stranded by the storm.
And then I saw her. Relief hit first—sharp, immediate. She was safe. Alive. Curled on a stool at the bar, cardigan slipping off one shoulder, hair messy in that effortless way that made my chest tighten and piss me off instantly. A half-finished drink in her hand.
And she was smiling.
At the damn bartender.
He leaned in close to her. Too damn familiar. And my breathing went… quiet. Then instinct took over. She looked fine—laughing at something the bartender said.
Relief twisted and curdled into something uglier.
Rage.
Since the kiss, my restraint had stopped pretending. I didn’t just want her anymore; I didn’t want anyone else near her. Especially the extra-friendly bartender. It was like my obsession multiplied tenfold. My own head reminded me of an ugly truth.
You don’t get to have her.
I ignored it and walked in. She turned her head slightly, eyes landing on me. And then she looked right past me. As if I were invisible. As if I hadn’t torn through a fucking storm looking for her.
I sat on the stool beside her—my pulse buzzing with extra adrenaline. She didn’t acknowledge me.
Fine.
We’re doing this. Two could play this game.
“Whiskey. Neat,” I told the bartender, voice sharp.
Before he could pour me the drink, a woman slid onto the stool on my other side, like she sensed blood in the water.
Blonde. Cherry lips. Wet hair from the rain.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” she chirped. “This weather sucked the fun out of everything.”
I ignored her.
She introduced herself anyway. “Mira.”
I didn’t answer. Didn’t care.
Roxanne didn’t react. Not visibly. But her spine straightened, squaring her shoulders. Her jaw clenched, fingers tightening around her glass.
Oh… she felt it. She hated it.
The bartender placed my glass in front of me. The blonde turned to me and spoke with that calm, sultry tone that felt like spiders crawling on my skin.
“What brings you here?” she asked.
Her fingers made idle circles on my arm. I looked straight ahead into the reflection in the mirror behind the bar. At the same time, Roxanne spoke to the bartender, which I couldn’t hear courtesy of Blondie’s constant yapping.
He chuckled. “Aye. Storm’s made folk cranky.”
I spoke too—loud enough for Roxanne, quiet enough to pretend I’m talking to the blonde.
“Some people vanish entire days and pretend it means nothing.”
Roxanne lifted her glass, eyes cutting to mine for half a second through the reflection. She answered the bartender, not me.
“Some people don’t realise the world doesn’t revolve around them.”
Blondie let out a soft laugh, leaning in closer. “Men are dramatic as hell.”
I ignored her again. And Roxanne…pretended to ignore me.
“So what brings you here?” the bartender asked her.
I answered before she could.
“Apparently she enjoys disappearing in shite weather without telling anyone.”
She didn’t look at me. Didn’t break her smile.
“I didn’t think I needed permission to work.”
The second Blondie’s hand landed on my thigh, every muscle in my body locked. I felt absolutely nothing. Instead, it felt wrong. Almost disgusting.
Wrong woman.
Wrong hands.
Wrong mouth.
I clenched my fist under the counter so hard my knuckles cracked. I imagined tearing the Blondie away and dragging Roxanne into my lap and showing her exactly who she was provoking.
But I sat still. And watched. Waited for Roxanne to react.
Roxanne’s eyes flicked to Blondie’s hand—her expression didn’t change, but her pulse kicked hard in her neck.
She didn’t react outwardly. But I’d spent too many years watching her to miss it.
The way her fingers tightened around her glass—just enough for the ice to clink.
The way she sucked in a deep breath, shoulders going still.
And she took the next sip like she’d personally declared war on her drink.
I almost smiled.
There’s my Volpi.
Fuck me all the way to Sunday because jealousy looked fucking lethal on her.
The space between us grew hotter by the second, tension thickening until breathing around it felt impossible. I thought she’d say something, do something. But instead she kept her eyes on the bartender. Not once looking at me.
“So… usually what time do you get off?” she purred, batting her eyelashes.
What the fuck!
She purred at him.
The bartender grinned like he’d won a prize. “Nine. But I can stay a bit longer.”
I wanted to break his fucking jaw. Painfully slow, so he could feel every crack.
Indirect warfare.
Her and me.
Talking to other people, aiming every word at each other.
“You know there are phones now,” I said, “that you can use to let people know where you are so they don’t worry themselves sick.”
She kept her eyes on her glass, voice cool, polite, the edge razor-sharp.
“Well. I didn’t realise I was supposed to report my whereabouts to someone who thinks they own me for breathing in the wrong direction.”
I downed the whiskey and slammed the glass down hard enough that Blondie jumped.
“Well, I didn’t think of you as those people who enjoy pretending they’re unaffected,” I said, leaning back, “while others are burning alive.”
The bartender raised a brow. Roxanne finally turned her head—a fraction, barely, but enough for our eyes to lock. Heat radiated off me in waves. Her silence was the loudest thing in the room. Then she stood, throwing her hair back.
“Put it on his tab,” she told the bartender.
Then she walked out without another glance.
Hair swinging. Hips swaying. Enough to make me want to pin her down and fuck some sense into both of us.
I tasted blood from biting the inside of my cheek too hard.
I slowly turned toward Blondie, wrapping my fingers around her frail wrist and yanking her hand off me.
“Next time ask before touching a man. Consent goes both ways.” I leaned in slightly. “Unless you want to lose the hand.”
I slapped a few pounds on the table and shoved past her, blood still hot in my mouth, and stepped out into the corridor.
The storm had quieted—but not enough. Not inside me.I saw Roxanne ahead, already halfway down the hallway, keys in her hand, shoulders tight, trying to hold herself together.
Running. Again.
Not this time.
I picked up my pace and went after her.
Fury and irritation tangled inside me as I followed her down the corridor, every step pounding with one truth—I wasn’t letting her walk away again.