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“Making money is my hobby.”
“Then make money.”
“Making moneyillegallyis my hobby.” I took another drink. “I know this is what Laura wants, but I suspect she’ll regret all these changes, seeing me in a light she’s never seen me in before. Boring. Fat. Powerless.”
“Fat?” he asked. “Do I look fat to you?”
I smirked.
“Not everything has to change, Bartholomew. Some things, but not all things. And she’s not going to want you less in this new role.”
“We’ll see…”
29
LAURA
I hadn’t seen Bartholomew much that week.
I spent that time researching homes in Florence, wondering if he wanted to spend our lives in a Tuscan villa outside Florence, or if we wanted to be right in the heart of the hustle and bustle.
He stopped by in the evenings, fucked me in several different ways, and then left again. Our relationship was back to what it used to be, but something was different. He was distant with me, even more distant than he used to be.
I worried he’d had a change of heart. Getting prepared to step down gave him a moment of self-reflection, and he realized it wasn’t worth giving up to raise a family. I worried he would walk through that door and say it was all over again.
This silence also made me think of other things.
My father.
I’d been too busy surviving, too busy missing Bartholomew to let the guilt dig underneath my skin. But now it hit me like a sack of bricks to my head. His body had been returned to Florence tobe buried beside my mother, not that he deserved it, and I didn’t attend the funeral.
As the person who killed him, I thought that seemed highly inappropriate.
I wasn’t sure what would happen to the Skull Kings, if someone new had already taken his place. My sister called and said horrific things to me. I could only make out some of the words in her sobs, and they were harsh.
I replayed that moment over and over in my head, wondering if I could have done something else, made a different decision, done something that kept them both alive, but I didn’t see any other outcome.
It was my father or Bartholomew.
I’d picked the right man, but it hurt that I had to choose at all.
I’d picked the love of my life. The father of my child. The man I hoped to marry someday.
I was on the couch in the living room when the door opened and he walked inside. It was just like old times, when he came and went without warning or explanation. The second he entered the room, the energy changed, became charged with his immense presence. He was in all black, his leather jacket keeping him warm in the fall evening, and his boots made a distinct sound against the hardwood. He always glanced around when he entered the room before he looked at me.
I was in my sweats because I hadn’t expected him that evening. My hair was up in a bun, and I wore a sweater to hide my stomach. I wasn’t ashamed of the life growing inside me, but I wasn’t ready to admit how drastically my body would change.Like most women, I would probably have permanent stretch marks. Maybe a C-section scar. Permanent imperfections that would mark my passage through motherhood.
He took the seat beside me, the fireplace aglow with the flames, and his hand absent-mindedly moved underneath my sweater to feel the little bump that I tried to hide. His hand was searingly warm, like a hot pan right against my skin.
My hand moved on top of his, and the second the three of us touched, I felt at home. I loved this man in a way I’d never loved anyone in my whole life, and I was so happy we’d made something together, something that would outlast our lifetimes. We would be gone, but our love would live on.
But then I looked into his eyes—and saw nothing there.
“Bartholomew?”
He turned his head farther toward me, showing most of his face.
“I only want you here if you want that too.”
