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“Stupid, arrogant jerk with his head up his ass,” I curse to the empty room as I pace back and forth across my bedroom floor.
I hold onto the pent-up anger churning inside me, keeping it tightly clenched because I know what’s trying to bubble up from beneath it. And there’s no goddamned way I’m letting the tears breathe fresh air.
I hear George quacking in the hallway and open the bedroom door to let him in. He zips past me across the room toward Nico’s side of the bed.
He has a side now, I think bitterly. I’d let that happen. I’d offered every part of me to that man like a fucking fool.
A crack forms inside me, and the scalding pain I’ve been trying to hold beneath the anger spews up like molten lava. It makes my breath catch in my throat as tears sting my eyes.
“I knew this was a bad idea,” I tell George as my eyes fill with tears. “I knew this would happen.”
I take a deep breath, trying to seal the crack. But it’s no use. My chest already shakes with sobs. After running from this kind of hurt for so long, I’d let it walk right in.
“He just… believed the worst. The cocky jerk wouldn’t even let me explain.” I throw another seething look at Nico’s side of the bed, and another pang hits me hard. Because beneath the anger and under all that pain, is a relentless need for Nico. More than anything, I’d wanted him to hold me. Even as he threatened to hurt my brother.
George looks at me, his head cocked a little to the side. I think he’s questioning my sanity here.
“Yeah, I can’t blame you,” I tell him, then I sit down on the floor cross-legged and take deep calming breaths.
George circles around me and then climbs into my lap, tucking his bill beneath my arm. He stays perfectly still as I stroke my fingers down his back. The softness of his feathers and the repetitive motion are somewhat soothing—more for me than for him.
“I need to kick that man from my life.” Seven weeks, one fight, and it already hurts this bad. Maybe I’m not cut out for this.
“Maybe it’s time to crawl back to Harmony with my tail tucked between my legs,” I suggest to George. “Let them toughen me up a bit more.”
But if there was one thing Nico made me see, it’s that it’s no use running from myself. It’s like getting on a treadmill, making every effort but never actually moving an inch away.
A knock sounds on my front door. Nico’s back! My stupid heart cheers. Hell, I think it’s about to start doing cartwheels at the thought of smoothing things over with him.
And have make-up sex, my suddenly throbbing pelvis seems to suggest.
“That’s so not happening, Sofia Lauren,” I scold myself aloud, putting a forceful end to the smile that’s threatening to spread across my face.
I make myself stay put and continue petting George. “Nico can stand out there knocking all night for all we care. I’m sure he hasn’t come back because he realized his mistake and wants to apologize. He’s back because he checked his voicemail and found the proof he needed.”
Not faith; proof.
I’m not going to spend my life proving myself every time he jumps to dumbass conclusions.
Cut him some slack. His best friend betrayed him, a voice in my head chastises me.
Another knock on my front door, and what I thought was an iron-clad resolve melts like wax. “Fine! But there had better be some major groveling, or we’re calling it quits and packing our bags, George, I mean it.”
I set George down on the floor and stand, ignoring the butterflies fluttering low in my belly. I’ve got my ‘I’m so not ready to forgive you’ face plastered on as I cross the living room to my front door. I fling the door open with a dozen different witty curses at the tip of my tongue.
But it’s not Nico.
Three hulking men stand on my doorstep, each sporting cold eyes and a sinister smile.
Icy fingers skitter down my spine and root me to the spot. My reaction is not from fear but from recognition. I know one of them. Very well, in fact.
“Buonasera, Signorina,” the middle one says with a slight Italian accent. He’s middle-aged, tall and gangly, with creases at the corners of his gray eyes like storm clouds in winter. “Pascal Romano, at your service.” He puts his foot through the door, eliminating any chance of shutting it in his face.
Not that it’s occurred to me to do that. I’m still having trouble processing anything because I can’t take my eyes off the beefy curly-haired man standing next to him.
“I believe you and Miguel are already well acquainted.”
Miguel Ramirez, my anxiety-ridden Monday morning client, is anything but that now. He stands proud, feet planted, his right arm across his belly, hand tucked to his side. His hand no doubt wrapped around the butt of the gun hidden under his expensive-looking suit.
