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Her sigh is long and deep, like she’s straight-up exasperated. “Your father and I need your help.”
Bit by bit, my fingers unclench my phone. I allow myself to sink into my chair, and immediately switch into problem-solving mode for them, like I’ve done for years since the day Olivia left.
At the same time, a guilty giddiness blooms inside of my chest.
They don’t know yet …
“Yeah, of course, Mom. What do you need?”
“Do you know anything about your sister’s life insurance policy?”
What?The question throws me for a loop. They’veneverbothered to talk about Olivia in the years since she left, except maybe to use her failures to scare me into doing what they want.
But even then, they never mentioned her name.
It’s usually alwaysthat junkie, and when they feel charitable,your sister.
A ringing in my ears starts, the pitch rising until I can barely hear my own breathing. When I don’t respond, Mom continues.
“Dad and I have been trying to find out more, but we don’t know where to look.”
I work my tongue in my mouth, the thickness of it forcing me to form each word deliberately and patiently.
“Why do you need to know? What’s going on?”
There’s a beat of silence. I’ve never lived through so many years in a handful of precious seconds.
It’s as if my brain is doing all it can to protect me in anticipation for the moment my whole world will be irrevocably changed.
“That junkie is dead.” Mom’s voice is flat, cold, and emotionless when she replies. “She killed herself a week ago.”
7
KONSTANTIN
I’m fucking pissed.
Ever since Emily grabbed my luggage by accident at the airport, I couldn’t stop thinking about her long shapely legs, her sapphire eyes that seemed to be hiding some great secret, her lips that should be wrapped around me, and her dark chestnut hair that shone like silk under the fierce Italian sun.
After I found her so easily at the Amalfi Central Hotel, in her shirt soaked with sweat and leaving nothing to my imagination, I knew that I wanted her—no, needed her—in my bed.
When I saw her after I’d walked out of the backroom at the Zebra Club, where that fucker Augusto Ferrata looked me in the eyes and told me himself that we would be redrawing the lines of our territories here in southern Italy, I knew that it was a sign that she’d be mine tonight.
She’d been unafraid of me. And from the way she had looked at me at the bar of the Zebra Club, I could tell that there was an undeniable wildness inside of her. When I pulled her close to me, inhaling her scent of honeysuckle and brown sugar at thatnondescript little dance bar, I couldfeelthat wildness come to life.
I knew that she would have been one unforgettable fuck the moment my lips touched hers. If that bar hadn’t been so packed, I would’ve fucked her right then and there.
I knew she wanted the same thing from me by the way she was grinding her hips against me, by howsoakedher pussy became against my thigh on the dance floor, and by how readily she agreed to come back with me.
She was supposed to be the perfect ending to a perfect trip. I had planned on fucking her as the sun rose, and then again after breakfast, and then I planned to keep fucking her until the sun rises again and my cum is leaking out of every one of her holes.
I wanted her to scream, to break, to shatter into a million pieces.
And then I would slowly piece her back together, one kiss and stroke at a time, and do it all over again.
I wanted toruinher for every other man out there.
But instead, I’m forced to leave her behind while my mood darkens with every passing second. My balls grow heavy and painful with the need for release—release that has to wait now.
