by Sam Mariano
Vince watches me. “Yeah, I wondered about that. When I first made the decision to come here, I wasn’t even sure you knew I was alive.”
I nod, my head feeling so heavy. “He had to tell me. I wouldn’t forgive him. I wasn’t getting past it.”
He smiles softly, like it feels good to hear that. I guess it probably does. I was so awful to him. Now a guilty swell of tenderness threatens to overtake me.
“I thought you died thinking I didn’t love you,” I add, oversharing. “And it was the worst feeling. I was tormented with regret. I just wanted to be able to undo all of it and make you alive again. I just wanted you to be there in the morning making me eggs like it was just a fight, and I thought…” Absurd tears burn behind my eyes, remembering how awful that had been, how helpless and lost I felt then. Even though he’s sitting right here next to me, clearly alive and well, I can still feel it like it’s real.
Vince climbs off his stool and closes the small distance between us, wrapping his arms around me. I take the comfort and hug him back, resting my face against his chest, lost in the painful memories.
“I’m so glad it was just one of his tricks. I’m so grateful he let you out.” Pulling away from his embrace, I tilt my head to smile up at him. “It’s kind of funny, huh? When we first met, you told me how much you wanted out, but that it would never happen. Bet you never thought I’d be your ticket out.”
He still has his arms around me, holding me close, but I don’t mind. He smiles down at me tenderly, shaking his head. “No, I certainly never thought that would end up being the case.”
My body is so heavy. I lean it against his muscular chest again. He’s solid and reliable, and his arms feel so good around me. I’m so sleepy. How long have we been here? I never told anyone I’d be late for dinner.
Vince shifts my weight in his arms, reaching into his back pocket for his wallet. He brings it up behind my back, so he can pull out some cash while still supporting me. He drops some money on the counter and tucks his wallet away, securing his arm more firmly around my waist.
“I think you’ve had enough. Let’s get you out of here.”
“That’s the strongest martini I’ve ever had,” I tell him, unsteady as he helps me off the stool. “I’m glad you don’t hate me, Vince. I would be so sad if you hated me.”
This makes him smile, but only a little. “I don’t hate you, but I still have a lot of rage. Not at you, just… in my DNA, I think.”
“You don’t seem at all ragey,” I inform him.
“Your little heart text message made me a little ragey,” he admits.
“Oh. I’m sorry.” Frowning, I say, “Wait, no I’m not. I’m not sorry. Habit. I’m allowed to send those now.” I nearly miss a step, but Vince’s firm grip keeps me upright. I’m starting to feel woozy, and I shouldn’t feel like this. I only had one martini, and I didn’t even get to finish it. “Vince, I don’t feel good.”
“I know,” he says, reassuringly. “We’re leaving.”
“No, but I feel… I feel…” I’m dizzy. As we walk to the door, everything tilts like we’re in a funhouse. “Vince, something’s wrong.”
He keeps walking. “Your drink was strong.”
“No, not this strong.” I’m starting to feel a little panicky, thinking of how Mateo won’t drink in public. It’s no secret I’m his, but now that we’re on good terms with Salvatore’s family it hasn’t been a pressing issue. Sure, there are still people who would like to see Mateo dead, but would it really benefit them to kill me? He’s not with me tonight, so no one could’ve been trying to kill him instead, like when Meg got shot.
I look over at Vince, but he doesn’t look at all alarmed, at all confused that somehow one martini knocked me on my ass.
“Vince?”
He escorts me back out to the car. My vision is starting to fog and my stomach is pitching, like I’m going to be sick. “Vince, did you… did you have eyes on my drink the whole time?”
Vince looks my way, shaking his head. Not in answer to my question, but at me. There’s a trace of pity in his eyes. “Oh, Mia.”
It’s not what he says; it’s the way he says it that suddenly makes my blood run cold.
Opening the passenger side door, he pushes the seat back into a reclining position and helps me inside.
“Vince, what did you do?” I whisper, trying to focus on his face as my vision wavers.
“I learned,” he states, leaning in, so he’s close enough for me to focus on his face. “I learned from you, Mia.”
“Learned what?” I manage.
He smiles then—not his cute, heart-stopping smirk, but something more menacing. “How to lie.”
Chapter Six
Mia
When my eyes open, I am so confused. I feel so ill, like I’m going to throw up, and I’m in a car. Why am I in a car? There’s a blanket draped over me to keep me warm. The car is warm though, heat blowing from the vents in the dashboard.
My stomach, though. I feel like I need to throw up, and the realization that I’m stuck in a moving vehicle feeling this way makes it worse, because I can’t.
This isn’t the Escalade. Why am I in a car?
I don’t understand. I turn to look at the driver’s side, and Vince is there. I remember agreeing to go for a drink with Vince, I even remembering going to a bar with him, but after that, it’s all fuzzy. What did I order? I can’t even remember. How long were we there? I have no memory of leaving.
Ugh, I feel like pure hell.
Vince glances over at me, then does a double take when he sees I’m awake.
“Good morning,” he murmurs, looking back at the road.
It’s dark outside. Why is it dark outside? Did we drink for a long time? Oh, shit, Mateo is going to be so pissed off at me. My heart sinks, realizing he was supposed to be mine tonight. If I don’t show up, Meg’s going to get him by default. When he realizes I was out drinking with Vince, he probably will punish me—and not the fun way, but by spending a few nights in Meg’s room and ignoring me.
Goddammit.
Vince has been back for a few hours and he’s already fucking my life up again.
“Are we almost home?” I ask, closing my eyes and trying to steady myself. I feel hungover. How much did he let me drink?
His eyebrows rise, but after a few seconds he says, “Not quite yet.”
“I need to go home.” I need to sit up. I don’t know if that’s going to help, but I need to try something to alleviate this horrible feeling.
Only when I try to move my arm, I can’t. Frowning at the blanket, I try again, but my hands won’t move. I’m stuck to something—the door handle? I move my hands again and there’s a clinking sound. What the fuck?
I use my foot to yank the blanket off my hands and my heart nearly stops when I realize I am handcuffed to the car door.
It’s not clicking together. I’m completely lost. I look to Vince, like he can explain to me how this happened—like some untrustworthy asshole snuck into his car without him noticing and inexplicably handcuffed me to the passenger door.
Of course, that’s not it.
Of course, when his gaze hits the handcuffs, Vince is not shocked.
Because he put them there.
I have no memory of it happening, no immediate understanding of why it would happen, but it’s the only conclusion I can possibly draw.
Vince handcuffed me to his car door.
“Um, what the fuck is this?” I ask, scowling at my wrists.
“Those are handcuffs.”
Like this is a time to be a fucking smartass.
“No shit, Vince. Why the fuck are they on my wrists?”
“So you didn’t wake up and flip your shit?” He says this like it’s obvious, and I’m the dumbass for not piecing it together.
This is the most frustrated I can ever remember being with him.
Until I look at my left hand and see my engagement ring is gone.
Now my heart stops and I f
eel panicky, like I can’t breathe. Oh, my god. Where is my ring?
“Vince, what’s going on?” I ask, a little shakily.
“We’re going on a little trip,” he tells me.
“Where’s my ring? What did you do with my ring?”
He rolls his eyes, like this question aggravates him. “You’re not fucking engaged, Mia. Engaged women are on a path to marriage—your path was at a standstill. You’re the second woman he gave a ring to and you’re both alive—for now, at least. That’s not being engaged.”
“Where is my ring?” I demand again. “I wasn’t asking for your judgments about my life—I just want to know where my goddamn ring is. That ring is important to me, whether you like it or not. It’s from the man I love. Now where is it?”
“Gone,” he says, simply.
Tears spring to my eyes. I knew that as soon as I saw it missing from my finger, but I don’t want to accept it. I don’t want to accept that Vince took something precious from me. I can see it, though. Not like a memory, not like a thing that actually happened, but I can envision the Vince I used to know slipping the ring Mateo gave me off my finger, chucking it out the window as he drives down the highway.
“Do you have it? What did you do with it? Please give it back to me.”
“Maybe you can earn it back,” he tells me.
Hope surges through me. “You still have it? You didn’t throw it out?”
He looks over at me and scoffs, not answering.
I hate this. I feel so helpless. I mean, I am helpless, but I so desperately want to be somewhere else.
Since I don’t even know what time it is, and my mind is leaping from one horrible thing to the next and back again, I look at the radio to see what time it is.
That can’t be right. The clock says 6:16, but that would mean no time has passed since I left the bakery. That would mean we never went for a drink. And it’s too dark. It’s too….
Oh my god, is it 6:16am? Is it the next morning?
“Where are we?” I ask, horror filling me.
“Nebraska,” he says cheerfully.
“No. No, no, no, no, no. Vince. Oh, my god. What have you done?” I yank at the cuffs again, feeling claustrophobic. “Let me out of these. Please. You have to turn around. Oh my god, he’s going to kill you.”
“He’ll have to catch me first,” he reasons.
I feel physically ill. I can’t breathe. I’m going to hyperventilate and throw up, possibly at the same time. “He will! You know he will. Vince, oh my god. Please, please turn around. If you turn around now, I can still get you out of this. It’s been, what, 12 hours? I can work with this. Please, for the love of God, turn this car around. Please.”
“I didn’t come this far to turn around, Mia.”
“Why are you doing this?” I ask, desperately. “Why? You know how this ends. We both know how this ends. I’m begging you, please don’t do this.”
A trace of bitterness sours the smile tugging at his lips. “You like begging, don’t you? I do seem to recall him mentioning that.”
I’m too horrified by what’s happening right now to even process the pain and embarrassment that memory should bring. “Vince, please. Be reasonable. You know you can’t do this.”
“It’s already done,” he says simply.
“Vince, please. Please,” I cry, anxiety and fear gathering in my chest. Tears burn behind my eyes, the rational part of my brain understanding it’s too late—Mateo already knows something is wrong. I would never do something like this. I would never fail to come home, and when they go to the bakery, they’re going to see my car there.
My loving, caring, wonderful Mateo is already gone. I may not be able to see it, I may not feel his wrath yet, but I’m going to. Vince is going to. I have no idea how we survive this now. I don’t know how I can convince Mateo not to kill him a second time—not after this.
“Relax,” Vince says impatiently, as I’ve now progressed to full on hyperventilation.
I can’t relax. I can’t calm down. Now I can’t breathe, and I’m trapped over here in cuffs. I can’t suck air into my lungs and I can’t breathe, and now my vision is getting spotty as I struggle to breathe and I can’t. I’m crying—or tears are leaking out of my eyes, at least. I don’t have enough air in my lungs to appropriately cry.
This is horrible. I thought I felt horrible a moment ago, but now I think I’m going to die. This is it. This is how I’m going to die, literally of terror, remembering the emotional trauma I went through last time.
I’m terrified. I’m helpless. I can’t breathe.
“Jesus Christ, Mia,” Vince says, checking the rearview mirror and switching lanes. “Fucking breathe. Breathe.”
I try to tell him I can’t, but since I can’t breathe, I can’t talk. Memories of the last time Mateo went dark weigh on me, turning everything black.
I’m a complete mess by the time he gets off the freeway and pulls the car off the road. He runs around to my side of the car, unlocking the cuffs and helping me pull my legs out of the car. Unsure what to do with me, he pushes my head between my legs first, rubbing my back. When this doesn’t work, he pulls me up and out of the car, probably thinking if I can get some fresh air I’ll settle down.
But I can’t. Because the hell of four years ago is falling down on top of me, crushing me with the weight of it. I can’t do that again. I can’t. I can’t. I barely survived it the first time; Mateo told me he would never do that to me again, but that was when he thought the threat had been lifted. That’s when Vince was neatly tucked out of his way, and I was safe in his house, under his roof, in his bed—or, at least in a bed he could occupy with me.
This changes the rules. Now there are no rules. Now he’s going to go dark again, and he’s going to be mean and scary, and he’s going to kill Vince—for real this time. I won’t be able to stop him, and how will I survive this again? Why did I get in the goddamn car with Vince? Why did I think it would end any other way? He’s Vince. Mateo is Mateo. This is a goddamn disaster.
“Everything is fine,” Vince is saying.
I shake my head, able to breathe again, but still struggling to draw a breath after all the crying. “No, Vince, it won’t be okay. Nothing is ever going to be okay again unless you take me back to Mateo right now.”
His gaze darkens. “You’re not going back to him. Not ever. So you might as well let go of that idea right now.”
“Please don’t do this to me. Please. I’m happy with him, Vince. I’m happy.”
“Well, good for you,” he says acerbically.
“We’re all happy—and Bella, oh my god, Bella. She was so afraid I’d leave again like Beth, and now you’ve—she’s going to think I left her.”
He frowns at this. “Bella?”
“Isabella. Mateo’s daughter? Goddammit, Vince. Please, I’m begging you. Please. Take me home. We can fix this. I can… I can handle Mateo. But you have to take me back. That little girl’s been through enough—she can’t lose a second mother figure. Please.”
“You aren’t her mother,” he says, eyes narrowing, like this notion annoys him. Like it never occurred to him I made emotional connections, like he preferred to just think of me as Mateo’s sex toy. “He killed her mother.”
“Please.” I grab his shirt. He must’ve taken his coat off since the car’s so warm, because I’m only now realizing he’s standing outside in the chilly, frosty morning in nothing but a T-shirt and jeans. “Please. Tell me how I fix this. Tell me what you need from me. Let’s speed this along. You took me for a reason, you’re not completely insane. So tell me what you need from me and let me go home. Do you need to know I was sorry? I was. I am. Trust me, if you could see what a mess I was, you would believe me. I realized how shitty I’d been to you once you were gone. I would lie in bed crying and looking at your pictures in my cell phone. It got so bad, Mateo had to take my phone away.”
“Well, that’s nice,” he says, glancing down at my hands, desperately gripping
his shirt. “But that’s not enough.”
“Vince, please. You know what it’s like to lose a mother. She’s only a year older than you were and she’s already been through this once before.”
It makes him angrier the second time. Yanking my hands off his shirt, he pushes me against the car door. “You are not Isabella’s mother. You’re her father’s mistress, for fuck’s sake. She still has Meg. She’ll be fine.”
That effectively pisses me off. How dare he reduce my relationship, my family to me being some cheap, insignificant, disposable novelty.
“I am not his mistress,” I say, glaring and shoving against him.
Shaking his head, he grabs my arm and pulls me back so he can open the door. “You can breathe now. Get back in the fucking car.”
Chapter Seven
Vince
I want to kill Mia.
I’m starting to understand how the men in my family snap over these stupid fucking women—if she sits there blubbering over the bullshit little fake family I ripped her out of for five more minutes, I’m going to push the bitch out of my moving car.
I need to get off the road. I’m exhausted and she’s frying my last nerve. I can’t handle her like this. I didn’t expect her hysterical. I’m not sure why—she’s just Mia, and she’s not a fighter, she’s a survivor. I remembered her more passive. I remembered her willing to adapt to her surroundings, no matter how unpalatable, to stay alive.
She’s been fucking a murderous mob boss for the last four years while sharing him with her best friend, for fuck’s sake. That wasn’t her life’s dream. She adapted.
And she’ll adapt to this, I remind myself. It’s just fresh, and she’s scared. She doesn’t know what’s going on. She probably never expected to actually see me again.
To be honest, it was a nice surprise that she was so pleased to see me. I didn’t expect that. I’d hoped for it, of course, but my expectations were lower. I never even imagined it would be so easy to convince her to get in my car, or to go out for a drink. But Mia’s nature is still so goddamn trusting. I don’t know how she holds onto that. I thought for sure these years with Mateo’s mind games would’ve obliterated her ability to trust anything.
