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I fling my bag into the backseat of my Chevelle, missing the ignition twice with the key because I’m so blinded by tears. They spill down my face in a rush as I throw the car into gear, the tires squealing against the concrete as I back up and nearly floor it out of the garage.
If I know what’s good for me, I’ll never see Dante Campano again.
The thought feels as if I’m tearing my heart out of my chest.
18
DANTE
When I wake up the next morning, tangled up in my sheets and feeling as if I’ve been hit with the world’s worst hangover, I’m struck with immediate regret.
Not for what happened last night between Emma and I—but for the fact that I let her go at all.
I should never have let her leave.
But what other option did I have? Was I supposed to stop her myself, keep her locked up in my penthouse until she changed her mind? She wouldn’t love me for it—I know that much. I know her better than that.
I didn’t have so much as a single drink last night, but my head pounds as if I did. The urge to drive to her condo and try to convince her that leaving last night was a mistake feels nearly unbearable, and I sit up, rubbing my hands over my face. My back aches with the familiar pain that comes with the morning after a tattoo, but I barely feel it. All I can think about is her.
Last night—
My heart beats rapidly in my chest as the memories come flooding back. Carrying Emma up the stairs, spilling her back onto my bed, tearing off her clothes and mine. The taste of her on my lips, the way she came on my mouth, shameless and wanton. The way it felt to slide inside of her—
Shit.
I didn’t use a condom. I’ve fucked countless women in the decade and a half or so since the first one, and I’vealwaysused protection. Part of living the libidinous lifestyle that I’ve always enjoyed is making sure that it doesn’t end up saddling me with a disease or an unwanted child. But I wasn’t worried about the former with Emma. And as for the latter—
My chest squeezes at the thought of her being pregnant with my child. I’veneverwanted children, resisted the idea with everything I have, considering all the ways I can ensure there’s a Campano heir to follow me without actually having to procreate myself. The most obvious choice has always been to pass on the title to one of my brothers’ children eventually—probably Lorenzo’s, since I can’t imagine Carmine marrying, much less having children. At least not anytime soon. He’s still practically a child himself.
But the thought of Emma having my child doesn’t fill me with panic. Instead, all I can think of is the kind of life that would create for us both. I can picture her so easily, her curves filling out as the months go by, the joy of knowing that we created something together. I’d trade my bachelor’s penthouse for a home to share with her in an instant, if it meant the kind of future that I see in my head.
I reach for my phone, filled with a sudden and undeniable urge to call her. Ineedto hear her voice, to try to convince her that things don’t need to be over between us. That together, we can figure out what a future for the two of us could look like.
The conversation I had with Aida rings in my head, her insistence that I’m trying to create a new kind of life for everyone else in our family, without really thinking about what that would look like for me. But I see it now.
Lorenzo might think that a future with a tattoo artist as my wife is an impossible one. But I don’t believe in impossibilities. Fontana will come down on me for it; I know that much. But I never intended on doing things his way.
I willmakethe future whatever I want it to be. All I need to do is convince Emma that that’s possible. That she won’t have to change her whole life in order for us to be together.
And I need her to tell me what it is that she’s keeping from me.
But she doesn’t pick up when I call her the first time—or the second, or the third. The phone rings and rings, going to her voicemail every time, and frustration rises up in my chest until I can’t hold it back.
I know I’m behaving irrationally. I know I’m more likely to piss her off with my actions than anything else. But I can’t stop myself.
It’s too early for the Night Orchid to be open, so instead, I shower quickly and throw on joggers and a soft black t-shirt, heading down to the garage. I take the Mustang, feeling a little guilty for the reasoning behind it as I slide into the cool, leather-scented interior. If Emma sees the Camaro driving around her block, she’ll know it’s me. I don’t want her to have time to think before she sees me, to come up with the ways she’ll turn me down. I want to catch her off-guard, so I’ll have time to say the things that are on my mind.
Knowing Emma, she might recognize the Mustang, too. I’m sure she took notice of every car in my garage. But it at least gives me the possibility of surprise.
The traffic is heavy, and I grit my teeth with every slow mile, feeling the minutes tick past. The urge to get to her, to fix things, feels like an itch underneath my skin.
When I get to her block, her Chevelle is nowhere to be seen. I circle around again and again, looking for where it might be parked, but I don’t see it anywhere.
Eventually, I find a spot of my own to park in, watching for her car. Somewhere in the back of my head, I know I’ve crossed a line—that the way I’m behaving won’t endear Emma to me. If she catches me all but stalking her, it’s only going to push her further away. But the need to talk to her at least once more is overwhelming.
There has to be a way to make this work between us. I have to believe that.
The alternative is simply letting her go.
