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We would leave the house together, her easily lying to our aunt about where she was going.
Her skimpy outfit would have been hidden beneath a long hoodie and sweatpants. Then, we’d part at the end of our cracked walkway, and that would be that––unless we were arguing, which was all we seemed to do in the end. I squeezed my eyes shut for a minute and took a small, quiet breath.
When I thought of Eva, I thought of my parents, and in return, thought of them all being gone. I had learned over time that the cruelest thing about death was its penchant for not allowing people to say goodbye.
. My heart hurt. It hurt to the extent that I wanted to rip the damn thing out of my chest and burn it to ashes. Instead, kept my hands folded in my lap, willing the burning behind my closed lids to stop.
This always seemed to happen when I least expected it. I’d have many moments when I felt fine like I was managing to cope, and then all the torment came creeping back in.
I could hear all the horrible things I said that I couldn’t take back .Everything I didn’t and may not ever get the chance to say circled inside my head.
My hand flew to my throat where I’d tucked my necklace beneath the A-line of my dress. It was one half of a jagged golden heart, Eva wore the other. Together, they were whole, and no matter how bad things got between us, we never took them off.
“It’s just around the next corner,” Mateo said, pulling my attention back to the present.
Swallowing, I nodded and looked over, studying his profile. He was sickeningly beautiful. Everything I’d learned or thought I knew about him was at complete odds with the stranger in the driver’s seat. He was supposed to be cold, ruthless, and cruel. He wasn’t supposed to smile so easily, speak to me with genuine sincerity and concern, or make me feel so at ease.
I was conflicted–––even after his driving incident. Being a little crazy didn’t make someone a terrible person–I would know.
The restaurant––Dior’s––was the nicest establishment I had ever been in.
I couldn’t have felt more out of place. It was another reminder that though I was born into this world of refinery and wealth–I hadn’t belonged there in quite some time
With no prices beside the menu options, I allowed Mateo to order for me, not really caring what was brought back at this point.
What I ended up with was a filet mignon, side salad, and an odd looking side dish with a red sauce drizzle.
The food was as good as something without a price could be––cooked to perfection and filling. We talked about simple things, neither of us asking the other anything personal.
When the dishes were cleared away, an almost companionable silence fell between us. When it grew to be too much, I made a point of looking around the decadent restaurant, trying to pretend I couldn’t feel his eyes burning a hole in me.
“Why don’t you have a bodyguard?” I found myself asking.
“Look, she can speak,” he teased. “Why would I need a bodyguard?”
Was he serious? “Because you’re a…because you do stuff.” I fiddled with my cloth napkin.
I wasn’t sure what proper etiquette was when discussing his business ventures–––if it was something he discussed at all.
“Because…I…do stuff. That certainly is one way of putting it. You don’t have to dance around it Elena. Everyone knows who I am. I have eyes and ears everywhere; they remain unseen for a reason.
“Here’s something to think about. Say someone hurts me, kills me, or by God’s grace kidnaps me. That person has now pissed off my mother, my father, and my baby brother. They pissed off my mother’s brother––my uncle––Mayor Donahue. My father’s half-sister––Amy Hall––she’s a detective, and lastly, all the community centers and lower class programs that rely on my money to fund them. Not to mention this is my city, they’d be dead within an hour.”
“Point taken,” I conceded.
“My turn. Why does wealth make you uncomfortable?”
“Wealth doesn’t bother me,” I replied too quickly.
He gave me a look that said my answer was bullshit, instantly irritating me. How the hell did he keep reading me so clearly? I wasn’t that obvious, was I? Screw it, what could the truth hurt?
“It’s not wealth that bothers me. It’s the flip side of it.”
“Ah, the money is the root of all evil argument,” he acknowledged.
I shook my head in rebuttal. “Money isn’t the root of any evil. Money is nothing but printed paper. Money does not lie, steal, murder, or flaunt its own prosperity. People––human beings––are the root of all evil.”
There was a shit-ton more I wanted to add to that, but I didn’t want to get into a heated debate with him––especially not about this. Not when he was the seed in which some of those roots grew and thrived from.
