Page 101 of Revenge on the Mafia

He’s brought me a lot of things. Tostada con tomate, churros con chocolate, mollete antequerano…

It wasn’t about surveillance. “You looked after her when I couldn’t.”

Het let out a rough, dissatisfied sound. “I wouldn’t say that.”

I shrugged. “Doesn’t matter. I would. She was happy when you visited.” I bit the inside of my cheek, still a lonely tear slipped down my face. I wiped at it, even as my throat thickened and the realization that she too was gone swelled in my chest. “I don’t know how I will move on,” I choked.

He took my hand in his. Thumb tracing over my fluttering pulse. I couldn’t look at him without shattering, so I kept it focused on the house, even though it was nothing but a blurred vision and agonizing memories. He kissed my pulse and another piece of me cracked. “I’ll give you something to build on,” he said, in a voice filled with a sorrow I didn’t like.

“What?”

“Do you want to go inside?” he asked instead.

Papá would have loved for us to live there. I’d been remembering more about him the last ten days, and I was sure of it. “No.” I shook my head. “It’s sold.”

“That’s not what I asked.”

I dragged my gaze away from the house. Turned to him. Something in his eyes… did he buy it? Who took the piano out of the house, the star in his office, every personal item I’d seen in his? My lips wobbled. I ached to know, but it terrified me too. I wasn’t sure if I wanted to find out. Just like I was petrified to ask him if we were going back to New York. Or if he was, and I was going to stay back. I didn’t know which was worse.

I didn’t know why I had wanted to kill him when he had been injecting life into my veins. I didn’t know when I’d first noticed it, but now that I had, that was all I could see. The hum of music in every room following me around. Memories of Papá dished out to me like jewels on a platter. Then when he looked at me… like he was now… like I was the reason he lived… like my death would be his too…

He tipped my chin. “What do you want, stella mia?”

You. I wanted him. I didn’t know his part in Papá’s life, but he wouldn’t know him so well if he’d meant nothing to him. Papá had liked him. Loved him. I knew that. I took a shaky breath. At the last minute, I chickened out. “It’s too painful.”

“I know.” He thought I meant the house. But I meant letting go of him. I climbed over the gearshift and straddled him. Then, burying my head against his thudding heart, I broke into tiny pieces. Because of him. For him. He stroked the ache in my chest like I always did and told me I’d be okay.

But how could I be when it wasn’t bricks I wanted or his death? All I wanted was his thumping heart to be mine.

CHAPTER THIRTY-EIGHT

NICO

Seven hundred and thirty hours.

Six hundred and eighty-two of them have passed by.

The forty-eight-hour time bomb ticked inside my rib cage.

Every time she sobbed in my arms, pain splintered down my chest. Each teardrop that spilled brought me closer to detonation. Her grief paralyzed me. I couldn’t sleep. Couldn’t eat. Couldn’t fucking breathe. I couldn’t take her pain away no matter what I tried. And I’d tried. Pulled strings. Got the best doctors. Tried to prolong a life. Nothing had worked, and I couldn’t watch her suffer for another day. The night before, I’d decided there was only one way to end the misery. I had to give her relief. A release. Something she could build on to move forward. One plan that stuck to its path. I needed to take myself out of the equation. She could find the closure she needed to move on. I knew she wasn’t capable of going through with it on her own. She needed my help, and I’d do it. But what I wouldn’t do was use her again. I was done holding on to the truth. Dying seemed so much more bearable than watching her suffer another second. So, I’d disappoint Juan. Again. Walk the path of a coward. And end this charade two days early.

I found her in the living room. She’d never know, but that house was where I lived when I studied with Juan. Close enough to her, but not too close that she’d notice. It was also where Enzo had found me after Juan’s death. Drunk and out of my mind with grief. I’d promised him that day I’d never let him find me like that again. Some promises were simply not meant to be kept.

In New York, wheels were churning. Sealed letters delivered to my lawyers with explicit instructions, with devastating consequences if they were not followed. I’d set forth a chain of events to be triggered by the woman staring out the bay window. The same window I’d used to watch her a hundred thousand times to the power of ten.

My breath caught just as it always did. She was so fucking beautiful. One day she was going to make some man think he’d died and gone to heaven. Deep olive skin glowing reddish-brown in the sunlight, sharp features that would put any sculptor to shame. Those curls. Those tight fucking curls another man would fist in his hands, her full and plush lips, color code nine-nine-seven-four-seven-e, I’d know, because I’d zoomed in on a picture and matched it to a hex code, lips that another man would suck and bite and.… I must have let a sound out because she turned her head toward me and tipped those dusty mauve lips into a weak smile.

There was nothing in my head but silence roaring. My feet were beyond me, but I couldn’t feel myself moving. She matched my steps by closing the distance, and we met halfway across the room. Behind her, the ocean. Behind me, nothing but doom. My gaze dropped. She was yet again in one of my shirts. She could have them all after I was gone, but tomorrow or the day after, she would be in another man’s shirt.

She winced. I’d twisted my shirt and her skin into a tight pinch. Releasing my hold felt like what releasing her would feel like. I swallowed the rush of agitation burning in my throat. I tried to speak, but words didn’t spill. I cleared my throat and tried again. “Let’s go up.” My voice was calm, like I wanted to be. For her.

She frowned. Then, unsuspectingly, she took my hand and let me lead her upstairs. On the landing, she paused. The unmistakable sound of the front door clicking open made her frown.

I looked into her eyes and lied. “The cleaning lady.”

Money spoke. When combined with power, it screamed. While I led her to our room, the same doctor who had attended to her mother would prepare everything downstairs. She’d need sedation when I was gone. She’d need someone who spoke Spanish, and I needed that someone to be female. Doctor Duque checked off all those points. And some more. Such as keeping her mouth shut about the cause of death.

At the door, she hesitated. “She’ll hear us.”