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Instead of trying to go back to sleep, though, I reach for my smartphone and pull up Google. I type in Valducci’s name, then bite my lip to keep from gasping out loud at the huge array of hits that comes up. The Washington Post calls Valducci one of the most powerful mobsters of our time. Vanity Fair has an exposé about him and three other men, all of whom they refer to as the new and more brutal faces of the Las Vegas mafia. The New Yorker asks what a mob boss has to do to get arrested in this country.
I read a few more articles—all of them saying basically the same thing—and only end up more confused. Ethan is one of the best, most morally unambiguous CEOs in business today. He runs an amazing company that does more for charity, and its employees, than any other company out there. He makes products that save lives. What on earth is he doing meeting with the man Rolling Stone calls the self-appointed King of Las Vegas?
I skim through a number of other articles until I get to one published by the New York Times last year. The writer explicitly links companies run by Valducci and another one of the men in the Vanity Fair article to a number of powerful Washington politicians.
My breath grows a little ragged as the whole house of cards Ethan and I have spent the last few days constructing comes tumbling down around me. Taking a deep breath, I force myself to stop skimming—to stop panicking—and actually read every word of the article.
By the time I’m halfway done, I know. I just know. I tell myself not to, but the moment I finish the article, I open a new Google prompt. And search Nico Valducci and Brandon.
Nothing shows up. Not one article. Not one caption. Nothing to tie them together at all.
Relief swamps me, has me sinking back against the pillows as the panic recedes and my breathing starts to even out. Maybe I won’t throw up the copious amounts of champagne I ingested last night, after all.
Except my brain is still whirling, still trying to come up with some—with any—explanation as to what Ethan could want with Valducci. But if it’s not about Brandon, then I don’t have a clue. On a whim, I search Valducci and Ethan.
Still no hits. Except, when I click on images, there’s one photo—about halfway down the first page that stands out. It’s Valducci, standing with a man the caption identifies as Ethan’s stepfather in front of the MGM Grand. Standing a few feet away, almost out of the camera’s range, is Brandon.
My heart lodges in my throat at my first glimpse of him. He must have been about nineteen when this picture was taken—only a few months after he graduated from high school. Less than a year after he raped me. He looks the same. The hair, the clothes, the ridiculous bracelets tied around his wrist. The Brandon who showed up at Ethan’s house a few weeks ago was a lot shinier, a lot more polished than the monster I remembered. But this boy standing there, watching his father and Nico Valducci exchange what looks like a very warm handshake, this is the boy who raped me. This is the Brandon I still see in my nightmares. The Brandon I’m afraid I’ll see for the rest of my life.
I click on the link, pull up a story that’s half a dozen years old. But before I can read more than the first line, my stomach revolts.
I drop the phone on the bed, make a mad dash for the closest bathroom.
I barely make it in time.
I throw up the remnants in my stomach in several long, painful heaves, then drop to the floor beside the toilet, resting my head on the cool black tiles that line the bathroom walls. I suck in deep breaths through my mouth, use every ounce of willpower I have to swallow the swirling nausea back down.
It works, too, until Ethan appears in the doorway, face concerned, phone still in his hand. And then, suddenly, I’m wracked by a whole new set of convulsions. The sight of him standing there, looking so worried, pushes me over the edge. As does the knowledge that’s just making its way to the front of my brain. We’re here, in Vegas, because of Brandon. Not because of our wedding, not because of our honeymoon, but because of his brother.
My stomach revolts again, despite the fact that I’ve been willing it not to with every ounce of strength I have. I barely get my hair out of my face before I’m dry-heaving into the toilet.
“Chloe, baby. Are you sick?” He’s already reaching for me as he starts to step into the bathroom. But I grab for the door and swing it closed with every ounce of strength I can muster. It slams in his face. I lock it with the last bit of strength I have, then collapse back against the toilet.
For long seconds, there’s nothing but a shocked silence on both sides of the door—I’m not sure which of us is more surprised by my actions. But then Ethan’s trying to open the door. And cursing under his breath when he realizes I’ve locked it.
“Chloe, baby, let me in.” He sounds confused, a little frantic. I should be sorry for upsetting him, but I’m not. Because I know that after what I just found out, I’m more confused—and more frantic—than he’ll ever be.
“Chloe!” he calls again, his voice rising in obvious agitation. “Baby, are you all right?”
“I’m fine,” I choke out, then force myself to be more convincing when I tell him, “I’ll be right out.”
“How sick are you?” he asks.
It’s a valid question, especially if I look half as bad as I feel. “I’m okay,” I tell him again. Right before another wave of sickness hits me.
“Damn it, Chloe!” He’s pounding on the bathroom door. “I’ve seen someone throw up before. Let me in. Please, baby, let me in.”
Shit. Shit. Shit.
There’s so much going on in my head right now, so many pieces slotting together that—added to the sickness roiling around inside of me—it’s hard to pull a coherent thought out of the mess.
Strangely, the first thought I manage to grab on to isn’t about Brandon, isn’t about Vega
s, isn’t about anything but Ethan and me. Why did he have to hear me throwing up? Why did he have to see what a mess I am? I’m strong for everyone else in my life. Why, why, why must Ethan always see me when I’m weak?
And how am I supposed to have a real conversation with him about this when he’s obviously in protector mode?
When I’m done dry-heaving, I sit by the toilet for another couple of minutes, just to make sure nothing else is going to come up. Outside the bathroom, I can hear Ethan freaking out and I know I don’t have much more time before he does something totally crazy like break the bathroom door down. As it is, I figure the only reason he hasn’t done that already is he’s afraid of hurting me if he does.
