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I jerk away, staggering upright. “I can’t stay here. I have to go.”
His grip tightens imperceptibly. “Mrs. Emmerico, you can’t.”
“I have to,” I state, trying to tug free of him, but his grip is unbreakable. I glare up at him, hating the way my breath keeps catching when I look at him. “Callie, she... This is…”
“Vivian, stop,” Tristan says, his voice smooth and cool, just like always, except for the faint note of command. “You can’t. You know you can’t.”
“Let me go!” I protest, tears welling in my eyes. “It was Lucas, it had to be!”
“We don’t know that,” Tristan says. “It could have been another player in town. Someone with a vendetta against Sterling—”
“Callie’s worked at that gallery for years,” I interrupt, my voice breaking. “She’s never gotten hurt. Ever. Everyone knows Sterling’s the man behind the operation. No one would target her…” I shake my head as if I can make the truth disappear from in front of me. “Except Lucas. That son of a bitch went after my best friend.”
Finally I yank free of Tristan’s grip, stumbling but staying on my feet as I stagger away from him. He takes a step forward, his blue eyes intent and worried—yes, worried—but I don’t even have time to process that right now. There’s not a shred of doubt about it in my mind: my husband couldn’t get to me, so he went after my best friend. Put her in the hospital. And all because I dragged her into this. How Lucas figured that out, I have no idea, but it doesn’t matter, does it? At the end of the day, it was my fuck-up. Guaranteed.
Tristan reaches for me, but then seems to think better of it. “Vivian,” he says, “you can’t leave. You know what Theo said.”
“I don’t care!” I’m nearly shouting now, blinded by sadness and anger. “Lucas hurt Callie!”
“And if you leave this house,” Tristan says, holding up his hands, “he could hurt you, too. Listen to me.” He approaches slowly, guardedly, like he’s approaching a frightened animal—and I guess in some ways he is. When he puts his hands on my shoulders, I flinch, but something about the steadiness of his touch is surprisingly comforting, and I catch myself leaning into it as he looks at me directly with those deep blue eyes. “If Lucas went after your friend, that means he’s found a lead that the cops haven’t; otherwise, they would have had her under watch. With how big this has gotten, I’m surprised the fuckers didn’t have someone looking after her anyway. But that doesn’t matter now.” He gives my shoulders a gentle squeeze, and I realize then that my heart is racing like a jackrabbit’s. “If you leave now, there’s no knowing what kind of danger you’ll be walking into, especially with Theo and Liam gone. Do you understand? I…” He stops suddenly, glancing away from me. “We can’t let that happen. We need you here, Mrs. Emmerico. Where we can keep you safe.”
I swallow, wiping angrily my tears as I get myself under control. “He’ll come after my family next,” I say, trying to keep my voice steady and failing.
“I’m not going to let that happen.”
“So what do we do?” I ask, looking up at him, and I realize I’m pleading—pleading for him to tell me something, anything to make this stop—and for a split second, I’m struck by the urge to throw myself into his arms, just to feel some kind of certainty in this sea of chaos. But I can’t, so I do the next best thing. I straighten up, rub the last of the tears away, and say, “Promise me we’ll get him. Promise me we’ll make him pay for this.”
“We will,” Tristan says without hesitation, and it’s almost enough to make me forget all the fireworks that have passed between us.
“Good,” I say, and back out of his reach. “I’m going back upstairs. If I think about this too much, I’ll just end up doing something stupid.”
ChapterThirty-One
Tristan finds me in the guest room—maybe an hour later, or maybe five. It doesn’t really matter; I’ve lost all track of the time passing as I sit there and stare vacantly out the window. The guilt is overwhelming, but the rage I feel is even worse. Rage at Lucas, yes, but also at myself. After years of gambling with my best friend’s safety, I finally got her hurt—badly—all because I couldn’t keep my damn mouth shut. I knew better, I knew, and yet here I am.
If Theo thinks I’m ready to be a mafia boss, he’s kidding himself. Maybe I am, too.
I don’t look up when Tristan enters, barely even registering the sound of the door shutting behind him. “Vivian,” he says.
That gets my attention, and I turn to look at him. “You called me by my name.”
“Yeah,” Tristan says. “I guess I did.” He clears his throat, gestures at the space beside me, and says, “Mind if I sit?”
I shrug my shoulders. “I won’t stop you.”
Tristan sits down gingerly, as if waiting for me to push him away, and under any other circumstances, that might even be endearing. “How are you holding up?” he asks finally.
“As well as you’d expect,” I mutter listlessly. I don’t cry—I’m all cried out. “My husband put my best friend in the hospital. And it’s my fault.”
“Hey.” Tristan moves closer to me, and I can’t help but shiver at his proximity, as astonished by my own reaction as I am by the strange new tenderness in his voice. “The only person whose fault it is, is Lucas. Do you hear me? You know that, right?”
“I don’t know anything right now,” I say bitterly. “I have no idea what the hell I’m doing.”
“Yeah, you do,” Tristan says, and his tone is serious. “More than you think.”
I snort. “You’re just saying that to keep me from flying off the handle. I’ve done nothing but make bad decisions ever since my wedding. Hell, ever since I was born. And it’s cost me everything.”
“That’s not true,” Tristan says quietly, and there’s something in his tone that makes me look at him. “You’re still here. You’re still fighting. You’re still you.” There’s a pause as his blue eyes meet mine. It’s the first time I’ve really looked at them, and for a moment I find myself lost in their depths. “And you have us,” he adds, looking away.
