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And she knows that I can’t pull anything either, for the exact same reasons. Even though we’ve both stepped away from our personal protection teams, it’s nothing but a pretty lie.
The bullets can still reach us, and if we kick off a gunfight, no one is leaving here alive.
Still, being armed makes me feel better. I spent four hours with Ciro last night learning the basics of everything—and maybe that’s why I don’t feel as nervous as I thought I would. I have control over my own protection, should I need it.
I don’t reply to Camilla’s comment. The men didn’t give me any instruction on what I should and shouldn’t say, but I’ve already made up my mind to not respond to anything she says that isn’t related to what I want to hear. I’m not going to entertain her by taking a sentimental trip down memory lane, especially when those memories might as well be dreams for how real they are.
I’m here on business.
As if she stepped out of my memories of the last day I saw her and into the present without passing any of the years in between, Camilla looks almost exactly the same. She doesn’t look a day older. But there is something different about her, something I can’t quite place that bothers me. A small change, maybe something that was already there when I last saw her, just hidden… something I didn’t want to see back then.
But I can’t ignore it now.
There’s a hardness to her. That’s what it is. As if she’s been carved perfectly out of stone, unflinching, with no warmth or softness to her features at all. Her golden blonde hair is shorter than I remember it, cut into an angular bob that drops below her chin, and the sleek line of her hair only accentuates the angles of her face.
Her funeral had a closed casket. My dad told me, as gently as he could, that the body they pulled from the car was too badly damaged to be displayed in an open casket. So the last time I saw my mother’s face was in the kitchen before she left to go get her hair done, when I was sixteen years old.
In spite of myself, despite not wanting to give her the satisfaction of knowing I care even a little, I can’t drag my gaze away from her.
It’s like looking at a ghost.
Except I know all too well that my mother is real, and that she’s more dangerous than any phantom could ever be.
“I’ve missed you, Grace,” she says, though she’s not stupid enough to try to hug me. “It’s so good to see my daughter again.”
“That’s strange,” I shoot back, “considering you tried to pay Brian to kill me.”
She makes a clicking noise with her tongue, her brows pulling together. “Oh, Grace, did they make you believe that?”
“No. I heard it from one of your own.”
“Leland?” She raises an eyebrow. “He was never mine. He was an expedient way to get what I wanted, but I knew he would never defect to me entirely. He only did what I asked of him because I held so much power over him. I always knew he hated me, and I knew he didn’t have what it took to play this game for long. It’s no surprise he ended up dead.”
“Yeah. I bet not. It could hardly be a surprise considering you were the one who ordered his death,” I shoot back, trying to keep my voice steady.
Images of Leland’s mutilated body flash through my mind, and my hands curl into fists. I didn’t even like that asshole, and I want to punch my mother in the face for what she had done to him. For being the kind of person who could do such a thing.
“And no surprise considering he worked for you,” I add, venom in my voice. “People who work for you seem to have a tendency to end up dead. Like Brian. Hale shot him before he could kill me, thank fuck.”
Her lips tighten at the corners, revealing only the slightest hint of annoyance at my mention of my ex-fiancé.
“If Brian tried to kill you,” she says firmly, “it was not because I told him to. He disobeyed direct orders, I only wanted him to find out what you knew about the Novaks and deliver you back to where you belong—with me.”
“I don’t belong with you or to you,” I bite out. “I don’t belong to anyone but myself.”
And the four men who’ve claimed my heart.
I don’t say that though. I don’t even mention them. I’m not sure how much of our relationship my mother has guessed at from whatever intel Leland gave her, but I don’t want to give her any more reason to target them.
“Whether you choose to believe it or not Grace, I truly did miss you. I loved you, but I wasn’t willing to sacrifice everything I wanted for you.”
She tilts her head to one side as she regards me, and I wonder if she’s remembering our last conversation, replaying it in her head just like I have so many times. Is she remembering how I asked her for ice cream? Remembering how easily she said “all right” when she knew she’d never be back?
Is that really love? I want to retort, but I clamp my mouth shut.
“I suppose you have a lot of questions,” she continues, standing a little taller.
I don’t give her the pleasure of a response. She’s going to tell me anyway. I can tell she’s been waiting for this moment.
