Chapter 22
Chapter Twenty-Two
Ariana
I didn’t know how much longer I could wait. A part of me was relieved we didn’t hear back from Victor’s buyer right away. While I’d mentally prepared myself to be restrained and tied up for the photo, I wasn’t ready to be used as bait. Not quite yet.
But it had been nearly eight hours, and still no word.
The more time that passed, the more I feared this guy wouldn’t respond. That he knew Victor was dead, and it was all a setup.
So I spent the day trying to distract myself by reading a book. When that didn’t work, I called my mom. She’d left for Staten Island a week ago, since I’d told her I’d be staying in Florida with Henry while Blake recuperated. It was great to hear her voice, all things considered.
But I didn’t tell her why I needed to hear her voice. I didn’t want her to worry. Not with how happy and full of life she sounded.
I now understood why Henry kept me in the dark about his meeting with the Bratva. Because I was doing the same thing to my mother.
“You don’t have to do all of this,” Henry remarked as I stood at the kitchen island and cracked an egg in the middle of my flour volcano, like my mother taught me when I was a child. “We could just order takeout.”
“I need to keep busy,” I admitted. “Otherwise, I’ll drive myself crazy. Plus, if this is to be my last meal, I want something good. Not takeout.”
It was meant as a joke, but Henry didn’t interpret it that way. Ever since I’d convinced him that using me as bait was the best course of action, he’d barely cracked a smile. I could physically see the weight burdening him.
“Please don’t say that,” he begged, his voice wavering as he cupped my cheeks in his hands. “This will not be your last meal. I will not let anything happen to you.”
He held my gaze for several moments, allowing the truth in his words to seep in.
I knew in my heart Henry would do everything to keep me safe. To protect me. To make sure nothing happened to me.
But I couldn’t ignore this strange premonition in my gut that something was about to go terribly wrong.
I had no reason to think this way. We had a solid plan.
Or as solid of a plan as possible under the circumstances.
Still, there was an unsettled feeling nagging at me that we were grossly underestimating whoever this guy was.
“When I was in high school, I was fascinated by what people on death row chose for their last meal.”
“Ariana…,” Henry exhaled, obviously not liking this topic of conversation. But I needed this. Needed this to feel like any other day where we could discuss anything.
Henry must have sensed this because he didn’t ask me to stop, even if he hated this topic.
“John Wayne Gacey asked for a bucket of fried chicken from KFC. He used to manage one when he was younger.”
“Is that right?” Henry hummed.
“Yup. Timothy McVeigh asked for two pints of mint chocolate chip ice cream.”
“What about Ted Bundy?” he asked, leaning against the counter and crossing his arms in front of his chest.
“He actually didn’t request anything specific, so he was given the standard last meal. I think it was something like steak and eggs. But he didn’t eat any of it. Which sort of proves my theory.”
He chuckled under his breath. “And what’s that?”
“Most people facing death don’t choose their favorite foods as their last meal. They choose a memory.”
He pushed off the counter, straightening. “A memory?”
“Exactly.” I pressed my hands into the flour, mixing the egg into it. “Ted Bundy was a complete psychopath since day one, so he didn’t have any memories he cared about. But John Wayne Gacey and Timothy McVeigh? Granted, they were really bad people, too. But their requests were based on a memory.”
It was silent for a moment as Henry seemed to consider my statement.
“How about you?” I pressed, continuing to knead the pasta dough. “What would you choose for your last meal?”
“Ariana…,” he exhaled again, obviously not wanting to continue this morbid topic.
“Humor me.”
“I haven’t exactly given it much thought.”
“Pick something. If you knew the world was ending tomorrow, what would you want to eat tonight?”
“Pasta, obviously.”
I rolled my eyes. “Don’t just say that because it’s what I’m making. What would you want to eat? What would you want to remember?”
He stepped toward me, turning my body toward his. “This, Ariana,” he said softly, curving toward me. “This is what I want to remember. You’re what I want to remember.”
I sighed, rising onto my toes, my mouth a breath from his. “You’re what I want to remember, too,” I managed to say through the heaviness in my throat. “This moment. This memory.”
“You will.” He pushed a tendril of hair out of my eyes. “And when this is all over, we’ll have the rest of our lives to make more memories.”
“I like the sound of that,” I replied as his mouth brushed mine.
I’d always appreciated his kisses, but I needed this one. Not just for the connection, but to hide my unease over the prospect of never making any more memories with Henry. I wanted to. God, I wanted that more than anything. Especially now that I finally had something to live for again.
More than I thought I ever would.
But I couldn’t ignore that ever-present voice in my head. The same one I’d ignored when I first met Victor.
But this time, it was even louder. More ominous. More…dangerous.
“What can I help you with?” Henry asked once he tore his lips from mine.
“You don’t have to help. I don’t mind cooking.”
“I know.” He shrugged. “I want to. Want to make memories with you. Plus, it’ll keep my mind off…everything.”
I understood that. Considering it was the reason I’d decided to make homemade pasta in the first place.
“I could use your muscle to help roll out this dough.”
“Muscle, I have.”
I raked my gaze along his broad physique. “I’ve noticed.”
“Is that right?” He arched a single brow.
I inched closer still, our bodies less than a whisper away. “You’re impossible not to notice.” I lifted onto my toes again. But before Henry could touch his lips to mine, I stepped back and grabbed the rolling pin. “Now use those muscles and start rolling that dough.”
I scooped a bit of flour and poured it over the mat on the counter.
“Why do I feel like you’re just using me for my body?”
I chewed on my bottom lip. “Because I am.” I slapped his ass. “Now roll out the dough.”
Over the next hour, things felt…normal. I showed Henry how to roll out the dough to get it thin enough to feed into the pasta maker.
I told him about Sunday dinners at my nonna’s house.
How she’d roll out sheets and sheets of dough just like this.
And despite his difficult childhood, he shared more about his mom and brother.
For a short while, I stopped worrying about what the future held.
Instead, I allowed myself to feel hopeful about this kind of future with Henry.
Where I’d spend my days in the garden before cooking dinner after a long day of work.
Or maybe he’d cook for me. I didn’t care as long as we were together.
But when Blake hobbled into the kitchen with a morose expression on his face, I knew in a heartbeat he wasn’t here to ask if dinner was ready.
“What is it?” Henry asked, his tone clipped.
“We got a response with a drop location and a time.”
Henry’s spine stiffened as he placed an encouraging hand on my lower back. “When and where?”
“Three in the morning. The drop location appears to be a dirt path halfway between here and Lake Okeechobee.”
“Any other information about the location?”
“I’m working on it. It’s in the middle of nowhere, so not much to go on. I can send a team to do surveillance.”
Henry shook his head. “I don’t want to raise suspicion. We need to do everything by the book. As if it’s a regular drop.” He shifted his eyes toward mine and grabbed my hand in his, running his thumb along my knuckles.
What I wouldn’t give to rewind the clock just a few minutes. To go back to the carefree people we were then. Smiling. Laughing.
Loving.
I reminded myself this was precisely why I was doing this. So we could become those people again. So we could finally move on from this.
“Well,” I began in a chipper voice that betrayed my nerves, “I don’t want to be abducted on an empty stomach. I did that last time. Zero out of ten. Would not recommend.”
Silence settled in the kitchen as Blake and Henry looked between each other, then at me, then back at each other once more. Finally, Blake threw his head back and laughed.
I wasn’t sure if I’d ever heard him laugh before. He was so much like Henry. Serious. Distant. Unreadable.
“I’ll tell you something, Henry,” he began, giving his shoulder a squeeze. “You’ve definitely met your match with this one.”
Henry shifted his gaze toward mine, his Adam’s apple bobbing up and down in a hard swallow. “I most certainly have.”