Page 110 of Out of Control

“It won’t help. Nothing does.” Tears well and a lone one slides down my cheek, killing me with each and every moment of its descent. “I don’t want you to see this. To be affected by it. To even know anything about this because . . .” This is my life. My ball and chain. “Just . . . please.”

CHAPTER FORTY-SIX

Rossi

Don’t leave me.

Every part of me riots at those three words and the woman I just met—the woman who makes Sofia say them when she lets her guard down.

I know what it’s like to have a fear of something. To have something chase you and weigh you down your whole life, and I hate that this trainwreck of a woman has done that to Sofia.

Don’t leave me.

Sadly, Sofia is probably better off that she did leave, but wounds still happen and scars still break open when scratched.

And Genevieve Navarro did just that. Scratched a wound she caused in public. In front of me.

Then what did I do at the first chance I had to prove to Sofia that I wouldn’t leave her? I left. I let her redirect me back inside and I took the bait like a fucking idiot.

In my defense, I was trying to think of anything and everything to help. Water. She needs water. Like that’s going to make someone as inebriated as Sofia’s mother sober up some.

But when I return with a glass of it, they’re nowhere to be found.

Sofia. Her mother. Gone. The patio is empty. The gardens surrounding them are too.

And now she won’t answer her goddamn phone.

I scrub a hand over my face and sigh. If only I could get Sofia’s expression out of my head. Her mortification. Her shame. Her resignation.

Her mother’s behavior is not her fault and yet the look Sofia gave me said she felt it was.

I move through the room again offering polite smiles to everyone who meets my eyes while I search for her.

She’s fucking nowhere.

I try her cell again and am greeted with silence.

“Cruz?” I approach him and he looks less than thrilled. Sure, we’re cordial in public, but privately there’s a lot left unspoken. I’m fine with that. I’m good with it. But right now, I just need his fucking help.

“What do you need?” I tilt my head to the side and lift my chin. He narrows his eyes. “I’m busy.”

I step in closer and murmur in his ear. “It’s your sister.”

The death glare I’m leveled with is how I feel inside. But those three words get him to excuse himself from the conversation he’s having and move outside.

“What? What did you do to her?” he snaps the second the door shuts.

I stare at him, blinking—not giving a flying fuck, because she’s what matters. “Your mamá was here.” The blood drains from his face. “She caused quite the scene—”

“When? How? Where was I?”

“You were talking. She was . . . drunk. Out of control.”

“Fuck.” And the same expression that was on Sofia’s face when she last looked at me is on his. A mirror image. I don’t want to feel sorry for him, but I do. And I am. Years of conditioning makes two siblings react the same way. Years of conditioning have worn them down into acceptance, into resignation.

And that’s why he cares so much about his sister. And why she has no problem putting herself in front of Cruz if their parents are nearby.

They’ve been through everything together and are close because of it.