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I have no idea what Victor might be feeling, but I never do. Is he glad to be rid of me, or will he miss his fuck toy?
Why did he let me go?
Are the three of them fighting about what to do now that I’m gone?
Somehow, in the midst of all of those thoughts, one horrible thought emerges: what if they don’t care at all?
It’s ridiculous that I would even wonder that, let alone that I’d be upset if they didn’t. There are so many reasons I want them to miss me, and the idea of sowing discord among them should bring me more satisfaction than it does. I wonder if this will be the thing that rips them apart and makes them a non-issue, that takes them out as a threat against my father’s ever-growing empire.
Nowthatthought makes me want to throw up.
I’ve just delivered myself into Pavone’s greedy hands, and while I’d hoped he wouldn’t be interested in me now that I was “damaged goods,” Vanessa had been quick to deny me that illusion.
Things would continue just as they’d been before I’d gone.
I made the right choice, I tell myself. I definitely made the right choice. It wasn’t a mistake to leave them. I was never going to be a real person to them. Always just the toy they passed around, happy to see me humiliated and crying.
Shit. Suddenly it’s not just water streaming down my face, but big, heavy tears too. I thought I was done crying. I’d sobbed my heart out already, emptied all of my emotions—but thinking about the three of them is leaving me a mess of confusion and anguish.
Pavone is going to be better than the three of them, I repeat to myself. He has to be better.
I don’t know what I’ll do if this is all a mistake. I can’t handle regret on top of everything else.
I know what kind of monster Pavone is, but if I think Victor, Saint, and Angelo are any better, I’m deluding myself.
They might not throw acid on me or plan to murder me once they get bored of me, but they don’t care about me any more than Pavone does. I’m their toy. Theirproject, as Victor had alluded. Saint wants somebody to act out his pathetic fantasies on. Angelo wants somebody to terrify. Victor—who even knows. Victor just wants to break me.
But I’m not broken.
It’s hard to believe when I’m crying in the shower, but I repeat it to myself. I’m not broken. I’m going to come out on top. If I was able to manipulate Angelo, Saint, and even Victor, then Pavone won’t be an issue.
Maybe I can even get him wrapped around my finger and take revenge on Victor.
My stomach churns, thinking about Victor at Pavone’s mercy. Imagining Saint as a bloody corpse. Angelo would go down fighting, taking out at least half of Pavone’s men, but ultimately he’d fall.
Yet none of this is giving me joy. None of it is stemming the flow of tears.
Fuck.
I rinse the last of the shampoo out and turn the water off. Wallowing isn’t getting me anywhere. I’m too exhausted to come up with plans, and I’m not thinking straight if imagining their death is making me sad.
I wipe my eyes off and change into the warm, modest pjs. I deserve a night of uninterrupted sleep. I can figure out where to go from here in the morning.
And maybe in the morning, I won’t be drowning in regret.
3
LUCIA
Iscream when the covers are pulled away from me.
The lights are on in my room, and two men are looming over me. My first instinct is to yell at Angelo and Saint, but once my eyes adjust, I realize it’s not anybody as handsome as either of them.
My father, on one side of me, glowering like he usually does. His hair had gone gray early, and he’s going bald too. No combover is ever going to hide that. I sure as hell have never dared mention how bad his hair looks, because I’ve seen how much power he puts into a punch. Mom used to stand up to him more, but I guess she got tired of the bruises, too.
Next to him is Pavone.
I haven’t seen him up close in months, not since that party where he propositioned me. He’s handsome enough, for an older man, although I can’t help but think he doesn’t compare to Victor on any level.
