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"I didn't either," I confess, staring out at the beach. It's still dark out, barely even four in the morning. The full moon hangs low over the water. Incoming waves reflect it back until the entire ocean looks like a rippling mirror image of the night sky, stretching into forever.
"I fucked up, man," Brady says with a heavy sigh. "I don't even know what the fuck happened, Roman. I just wanted to get this shit done and over with, and I fucked up. I was so goddamn tired. I didn't see him tailing me. I didn't hear him when he came into the house. I didn't fucking know."
"How are Carla and Andres?" I ask, running a hand through my hair. My chest aches at his words. Finn told me he was fucked up over what happened, but I didn't know it was this bad. He sounds wrecked, torture evident in his voice. Anything I could say to him seems pointless now. He's in his own personal hell. I have a feeling what he's said to himself is punishment enough.
"They're–" he sighs again. "I don't know why she didn't fucking leave me, but she didn't."
"She loves you."
"Yeah." A thin, bitter laugh cracks down the line. "I'm fucking sorry you had to be the one who killed him, Roman."
"Don't even go there, brother," I tell him. "It doesn't fucking matter."
"Doesn't it?" he asks.
I think about his question for a minute, really fucking think about it. I don't regret killing the son of a bitch. When I have nightmares over that day, it's never about Javier Lopez, the cartel member I killed. When I think about pulling the trigger, I don't feel sympathy or guilt for him. All I feel is relief that Andres is alive, that Carla didn't have to watch her kid die. That Brady doesn't have to live with his son's death on his conscience. So, does it matter?
"No," I mutter. "It doesn't fucking matter."
"I'm getting out," Brady says. His voice shakes with some powerful emotion I can't name. "I'm done, man. I can't do this shit anymore. I don't fucking want to do it anymore. I turned in my transfer paperwork yesterday. I'll be off the task force as soon as it's approved."
I'm not surprised. I think it's been coming for a while now. Hell, I think it's been coming since the day he found out Carla was pregnant. His heart isn't in this shit anymore. I don't blame him, but I think part of me actually envies him as I stand there, staring out at the ocean.
I've never wanted out before. I've never even thought about what comes next for me. My entire adult life, I've been a cop, living in the midst of gangbangers and cartels and their constant fucked-up wars. I'm good at keeping guns out of their hands, really good at it. It's what I know. It's all I fucking know. But when I'm beside Mila, I wonder what the future looks like. Sometimes, I think about being done with this shit, too.
For her, for a future with her, I think I could walk away and be just fucking fine with that choice.
Yeah, she's making me soft…and I can't find it in me to regret a second of that.
Chapter Eighteen
Mila
"I didn't know you could cook," Roman says from across the kitchen table. He looks impressed as he surveys the serving dishes spread across the center of the table.
"I don't do it often."
Since he's been here, he's done most of the cooking, but I wanted to do something for him tonight. He's been stressed all day. His boss called before we were even up this morning, informing him that he's needed back in Los Angeles. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but I don't think it's good.
He spent a lot of time on the phone today, snapping at everyone he spoke with. It was honestly a little scary. I mean, I'm not afraid of him, but I've never seen him in work mode like that before. He's…well, he's kind of intimidating. There's no way I'd ever want to be one of the criminals he deals with, not if I had to face him and all that scary-hot rage.
"Why not?" he asks, spearing a piece of asparagus with his fork before popping it into his mouth.
I shrug and take a sip of wine instead of answering.
"Why not?" he asks again, narrowing his eyes on me.
"I don't know." I push my roasted potatoes around on my plate, refusing to meet his gaze. "I just don't."
"Mila."
I huff at his warning tone and roll my eyes. I love how commanding he is, but it's annoying as hell sometimes.
"After my mom died, if I wanted to eat, I had to cook," I mumble. "My dad was too drunk to remember I was there most of time. Cooking, cleaning, grocery shopping…he didn't remember to do things like that, so I had to do it. Being forced to cook in order to survive at ten and eleven years old took the joy out of it for me."
Roman's quiet for a long moment, processing my words. I feel the tension radiating from him even from across the table though. He really doesn't like my dad much. Not that I blame him or anything. I don't like the man much myself. When I risk a glance up at Roman, sadness lingers in his hazel eyes.
"Don't you dare feel sorry for me, Roman Nathaniel Gregory," I whisper, glaring at him when a lump lodges in my throat. I haven't cried over my dad or the way I was raised in a long time, and him looking at me like that makes me want to bawl.
