What if he doesn’t come back?
I stare at the city below.
He lied to you. He put you in danger. He destroyed your only hope of getting out of Darkwater Hollow.
He’s a criminal. He loves being a criminal.
You fell for him like the world's biggest idiot. You’re just like your mother. You have no idea what’s good for you.
All of that is true, but other things are true as well.
He took care of you better than anyone else ever did.
Until a few days ago, you’ve always felt safe around him.
He never told you to stop dreaming. Instead, he tried to help you with your dream.
My chest grows tight. I lift my fingers to my cheeks and discover they’re wet. When did I start crying?
I squeeze my eyes shut, and that’s a mistake, because immediately, he’s there. His image is so clear in my head. He’s lying in bed with a lazy grin on his handsome face and his tatted arm tucked under his head.Come back here, Sunshine. It’s not even nine a.m. yet. I want you. I need you.
The penthouse is empty. There’s no one to witness the way I sink to the carpeted floor. There’s no one to hear my desperate sobs.
How can one man be so full of inconsistencies and contradictions? Which parts of him were real? Which were pretend?
And does it matter that it once felt so right to be with him?
I’ve seen firsthand what happens to women who let a man like Nero into their lives. In the end, there’s nothing but disappointment and pain waiting for them.
The front door opens with a click.
Silently, I wipe the tears off my face and get to my feet.Nero?
What if it’s someone else? What if he’s dead, and the Ferraros have decided they want to kill me anyway, and now someone’s here to tie up the loose ends?
Fear sinks its claws into me.
Whoever it is, they’re not saying a word.
I tiptoe to the kitchen, swipe a knife out of the wooden block, and tread softly through the living room.
I’m halfway there when Nero steps over the threshold.
The wave of relief that crashes through me nearly brings me to my knees.
Thank God.“You made it back,” I choke out, taking a step toward him.
Hope flickers in his eyes as he steps toward me too, but then his gaze drops to the knife in my hand, and he stops.
A beat passes before a sad grimace crosses his face. “You thinking about finishing the job?”
That comment twists my relief into anger. I cried over him. I made myself sick with worry. I regretted every cruel word that had spilled past my lips, and he’s acting like it’s all a joke?
“What happened?” I demand.
“I work for Gino Ferraro now.” He doesn’t sound upset, just resigned.
“The man who you said wanted to kill you?”
