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As the others file out of the safe house, I motion for Sebastian to stay behind. He's been there for me since day one, and if anyone knows how to help me get this shit sorted, it's him.
"Seb, we gotta plan our next move carefully. Can't afford any fuck-ups, not with everything on the line." His eyes narrow as he nods in understanding.
"Agreed, boss. We need to strike hard, show them we mean business." We talk strategy, carving out paths to reclaim our territory and restore the Maldonado name.
Our work finished for the night, I head back to my apartment, the weight of responsibility settling heavily on my shoulders. My thoughts betray me, though. Against my better judgment, they wander back to Evelyn – her soft curves, the way she looked at me when I took control.
"Fuck," I curse under my breath, gripping the steering wheel tighter. It's been a week since that night, and I haven't so much as sent her a text. I should be focusing on the war brewing around me, but all I can think about is having her beneath me again.
"Maybe if I just have her one more time," I muse to myself, "I can finally get her out of my head."
My heart races as I realize how much I crave her, not just for the pleasure she brings, but for the momentary escape from the blood and violence that consume my life. One more night, that's all I need. Then, I promise myself, it's back to business.
I step into my apartment, the low lighting offering a sense of refuge from the chaos outside.
"Fuck," I mumble as I toss my jacket onto the couch, heading straight for my computer. My fingers move with practiced ease, pulling up her socials using a burner account I made just to keep tabs on her. It's pathetic, really, but I can't help it.
Evelyn's pretty active on Instagram, which seems ironic for a doctor. Her feed is mostly random photos of things she finds interesting, but her stories usually tell me her whereabouts without any real effort. I click her profile and her stories pop up, showing her out at a bar, dancing with men who are far too close for my liking. The sight ignites a fire in my chest, stirring an anger that I struggle to contain.
"The fuck?" I growl, slamming my fist against the desk. The pain barely registers; all I feel is the burning need to claim her, to remind her that she belongs to me.
"Get a grip," I tell myself, trying to redirect my thoughts. But it's no use – the images play on a loop in my head, taunting me.
I grab my jacket and storm out of the apartment, my heart pounding in my ears. Another notification shows on my phone that she’s posted again. I open it up and the photo I see turns my vision red.
I know she’ll be angry, but I don't care. All that matters is that she's mine, and I'll be damned if anyone else gets their hands on her.
Chapter Sixteen
I can't believe it's been an entire week without a single text from Constantino. What the hell? It irritates me that I'm even irritated about it. I keep looking at my phone, thinking that maybe something showed up that I missed, but it's been completely silent. I suppose I did threaten him with violence after the last time he messaged me with his fake-ass medical emergency. Still, I basically went from not being able to escape him to not being able to escape my thoughts about him, and I'm not sure which is worse.
"Ugh," I groan, pacing my kitchen, frustrated as all hell. I'm done with my shifts for the week and I've got two whole weeks off, thankfully. But that doesn't mean I have any real plans. My life has become a sad mix of work and...well, nothing much else.
"Damn it," I mutter to myself, realizing that I'm always so busy working that I barely have a social life. I decide to text Rachel and see what she's up to because I know she's also off for a bit. Maybe she can pull me out of this funk.
Hey, what are you doing tonight?
I tap the message into my phone, trying not to sound too desperate.
Going out for drinks! You should come!
Rachel replies almost instantly. At least someone's enthusiastic about their night.
OK.
I sigh, hoping that a drink or two might help me forget about Constantino for a while. God knows I need some sort of distraction.
As I head upstairs to change, I try to convince myself that going out tonight is a good idea. It's been ages since I've really let loose, and maybe a little alcohol and some flirting with a stranger is what I need to get Constantino off my mind.
The moment I step inside my closet, frustration seeps into my bones as I scan through my wardrobe. I know I'm my own worst critic, but I also feel like half my clothes don't fit anymore since I've put on a few pounds from work stress and the seemingly never-ending fallout of my divorce.
"Ugh, why did I agree to this?" I grumble, tossing a dress onto the floor. I dig deeper into the closet, finally settling on an outfit I don't feel too self-conscious in: a curve-hugging black dress that skims my knees, paired with a red leather jacket for a pop of color. Not the most daring choice, but it'll have to do.
"Let's just hope this night doesn't end in disaster," I mutter, zipping up the dress and fixing my hair and makeup to match.
As I finish getting ready, one thought keeps nagging at me: is this really going to help me forget about Constantino? Or am I just setting myself up for more disappointment?
"Stop overthinking it, Evelyn," I scold myself in the mirror. "Just go and have fun. For once."
