by Portia Moore
When I get back after the workout, I take a second shower, chucking my workout clothes in the hamper and nearly crying with relief at the feeling of the hot water loosening up my tight muscles. I want to stay in there forever, maybe even draw a bath and just soak until my legs unknot themselves, but I know Erin is probably awake by now and wanting breakfast. I throw on my usual jeans and designer blouse, leaving off the diamond studs and bracelet that Vincent likes me to wear even at home, saying they complement my ring and make me look like the lady of the house. I don’t want Erin to see that kind of extravagance.
When I walk into the kitchen, I’m surprised that Erin is not only awake and at the table, but has a huge breakfast spread in front of her. There’s pancakes, bacon, fruit, scrambled eggs, and some assorted pastries. Andrea is sitting across from her with a warm smile on her face, deep in a conversation with Erin. It's a friendly one from the sound of it because they both start to laugh at something Andrea said just as I step through the door.
Who is this? I think as I look at Andrea, wanting to shake my head in disbelief. I’ve only ever seen her this way with Vincent. This Andrea is nothing like the cold woman who looks at me with constant, barely veiled disdain and contempt.
Her eyes flick up to me as I walk in, her gaze cooling, and as I sit down at the table, Erin flashes me a bright, happy smile.
“Oh my god, Rain, these are the best pancakes I’ve ever had! Andrea is an amazing cook.”
“That’s very sweet of you,” Andrea says, smiling at Erin.
She doesn’t look at me until Erin shovels another forkful of pancakes into her mouth, swallows, and then says eagerly, “Rain, come on! You’ve got to try them.”
Andrea looks at me then, her eyes full of a warning that I can clearly read. My stomach growls loudly. I’m starving after my workout, and pancakes are my favorite. But I also know that if I take a bite of anything on the table, it’s going to get back to Vincent.
“I wish,” I tell Erin with forced playfulness, standing up and going to the fridge. “I’m watching my weight these days. Just yogurt for me this morning.” I pick one out of the fridge and hold it up. “Yum,” I tell her self-deprecatingly.
Erin snorts. “A diet?” She swallows another mouthful of pancake and looks me up and down, frowning. “Your body is already to die for.”
I force another laugh and smile, sitting back down at the table with my yogurt and the small amount of fruit I’m allowed to put on top of it. “Just getting ready to fit into my wedding dress. I want to look amazing.”
Erin squeals and drops her fork, the debate over my eating habits forgotten. “Oh, the wedding!” she exclaims. “Oh, can I help you plan it, Rain? Please?!”
I open my mouth to answer when I hear footsteps, and Vincent walks into the kitchen. I almost drop my spoon, I’m so shocked to see him here this time of the morning, but luckily he’s distracted from my reaction by Erin squealing, “Good morning!” She swivels in her chair, grinning at him, and he returns the smile, but it’s tight and reluctant on his face.
My stomach drops.
“Is there anything I can get you?” Andrea asks carefully. I can tell from her expression that she’s picking up on the tension in the room, too.
“No,” Vincent says shortly. “Poppy, can I speak to you alone?”
Anxiety sweeps through me, pooling in my stomach and making me feel cold all over. I force a smile onto my face, not wanting Erin to pick up that anything’s wrong.
“Of course,” I say, setting down my spoon. “I’ll be right back,” I tell Erin, patting her on the shoulder as I follow Vincent out to the living room.
The second we’re alone, his tense expression crumbles, his face crestfallen as he looks at me. Something’s wrong. It’s one of the moments where I can see the man I once thought he was, a glimmer of who he could be, and the coldness I feel towards him melts away.
I step towards him and gently put a hand on his arm, looking up at him. “What’s wrong?” I ask, sincerely worried about him.
Vincent takes a deep breath. “My mother is sick,” he says quietly, letting out the breath in a long sigh. His eyes look pained, and the sight sends a dart of real sympathy through me. Under all of it, somewhere deep inside, I know I still love Vincent—or at least the Vincent I knew at first. In these moments of vulnerability, it’s hard for me to believe that was entirely a lie.
I wrap my arms around him, reach up to stroke the back of his head, and run my fingers through his hair the way I know he likes. “I’m so sorry,” I whisper, pressing my cheek to his chest. I don’t entirely understand his relationship with his parents or how he feels about them, but I know how I feel about my father. Even as fractured and difficult and complex as those feelings are, his being sick is one of the most awful things I’ve ever had to deal with. No matter what Vincent’s relationship with his mother is like, this has to be hard for him.
“What is it?” I ask when I release him, stepping back and smoothing my hair behind my ears. “Did she say?”
Vincent shakes his head. “She’s being vague about it,” he says, running one hand through his hair with frustration. “Both of them are, actually. They’re not really telling me anything.”
“Is there anything I can do?”
“Get your things packed,” he says flatly. “We’re leaving today to go and stay with them.”
I stare at him for a moment, shocked. His tone clearly says that it’s an order, not a request, and a million things flood my head, primarily involving Erin.
“What about Erin?” I blurt out, the words coming to my lips before I can think about whether or not it’s wise to say them.
His eyes turn ice cold, sending a chill down my spine. I know this look now; it’s the one he gave me before dragging me out of bed the other morning and almost breaking my wrist. But we’re still within sight and earshot of the kitchen, only a few feet away from Erin and Andrea. He wouldn’t do anything here…but I still feel fear flooding through my veins at his expression.
He grabs my hand before I can move or speak, pulling me through the living room to one of the hallways branching off of it, squeezing so tightly I can almost feel the bones in my hand rub together. I jump as he grabs my shoulders, shoving me up against the wall, and he grabs my chin in his hand hard as he looks down at me with those cruel, unforgiving eyes.
I’m terrified. I want to scream, cry, fight to get away. But I do none of those things. With everything in me, I force myself not to let tears spring to my eyes, to look at him calmly even as his fingers press into my cheek.
“Haven’t I done everything for your family?” he asks through gritted teeth, his voice harsh. “Including saving your worthless fucking father’s life? Haven’t I let your sister come to stay with us and enjoy all the fucking luxuries that I provide?”
I manage to nod even with his grip on my chin. “I only meant to ask what we’re doing about Erin since she’s staying with us now. She doesn’t have a passport,” I tell him in the calmest voice that I can manage. It’s an impressive feat, really.
You can break down later, I think. Just get through this.
Vincent doesn’t let go, but his grip loosens slightly, and he eyes me cautiously as if to try and figure out if I’m lying to him.
“I’ll do whatever you need me to, Vincent,” I tell him quickly, in that same soothing tone. “You know I want to be there for you when you need me, and I want to help your family in their time of need too. And I want to meet your parents,” I tell him as genuinely as I can muster.
He lets go of me then, so quickly I almost sag to the floor. “I can get Erin’s passport expedited,” he says curtly. “If it takes longer, she can stay here with Andrea until she gets her passport, and then she can come with us.”
And then, in a move that shouldn’t shock me anymore but somehow still does, he comes towards me, caresses the side of my face, and leans down to softly press his lips against mine as he breathes in, his forehead touching mine.
“Erin will love Italy,” he promises when he pulls away from me. “It’ll be a new experience for you both, together. Won’t that be nice?”
And then he turns and walks down the hall, leaving me there, staring after him in shock.
The moment he’s out of earshot, I slump to the hallway floor, bursting into tears.
13
Zach
“Dating” Sonya is probably the most surreal experience I’ve ever had, even after just a few days. It’s not just that I’m in a sort-of relationship with a woman who doesn’t even know my real name, who screams out “Chase” in bed when I’m used to hearing “Zach.” Answering an undercover name in my day-to-day life is hard enough; remembering who I’m supposed to be while I’m inside my faux girlfriend is another level altogether. It should take some of the pleasure out of it, but in all honesty, if anything, it makes it easier. I don’t feel as guilty for wanting Sonya, for enjoying fucking her, because it’s Chase doing it, not me. Zach is still the guy who wouldn’t ever date a woman like her.
She claimed that I’d be part of her security, but I’m more boyfriend than bodyguard. My job has almost been too easy—I haven’t really done anything in the way of protecting her or had the chance to collect much information. Sonya treated me to a new wardrobe after accepting her offer, making sure I was outfitted to accompany her anywhere—not in the Secret Service-type uniforms her bodyguards wear, but in stylish fitted suits, nice jeans, and expensive dress shirts. Since I came back to her after my meeting and told her that I wanted to accept her offer, it’s been nonstop accompanying her to dinners and parties, one glitzy, glamorous event, and gala and business dinner after another. It’s hard to complain when I’m eating better than I ever have in my life, dressed to the nines, driving expensive cars, and fucking a woman who could be a supermodel—but it feels too easy, like I’m not doing my job.
I’ve noticed a few things that stand out. Of course, Sonya keeps me glued to her side, making it difficult to find out if the drugs I see at the parties are linked to anything more, or get close enough to the conversations some of the businessmen are having to pick up anything damning. I’ve seen more girls like the one at the Palace and the girl in the green dress that came down to the basement with us—girls who look underage or barely legal, girls who definitely shouldn’t be drinking, girls who are obviously drugged. But everything I see isn’t worth anything without proof, without something to lead me to a trail of evidence or set me on the right track. I haven’t seen Vincent at any of these events, although I’ve heard his name. It’s said with a sort of nervous respect, which tells me that he’s as high up as I’ve been led to believe; he’s one of the major bosses for the organization.
Everything I’ve seen seems like what I expect from people with more money than they know what to do with. Most of it is above-board excess. Some of it is seedy, like the drugs and the girls, but there’s nothing to prove that it’s more than just some casual cocaine among friends and the penchant of old rich men young hot women. I’ve got nothing to lead me towards money laundering or drug smuggling or gun-running or human trafficking—none of the things we suspect the organization of—and I’m beginning to get frustrated with it all. I feel like I could have been both doing and learning more while working at the bar. I’m starting to wonder if there’s more to Sonya pulling me into this new position than just her desire for me. I wonder if she’s been tipped off somehow, if she pulled me closer to prevent me from finding out more than I was supposed to.
But then I remember the guy in the basement, the one I helped torture, and I’m pretty sure I’d be where he is if she had so much as an inkling that I’m working undercover. Unless she’s a much better liar and actress than I think she is, it’s clear she enjoys my company—and no woman is good enough at faking it for the way she reacts in bed to not be real. She likes being around me, and she enjoys fucking me. If I’m being completely honest with myself…I can’t say I’ve hated the entire experience. During the day, I can keep my eyes on the endgame and remember I’m playing a role. None of this is real. But at night--
When I walk up to Sonya’s fifteenth-floor apartment and use the key that she’s given me to let myself in, I expect the usual. I’m wearing one of the crisp, tailored suits that she’s purchased for me, ready for whatever dinner or function we’re going out to tonight. Sonya’s busy social life means that for the entirety of our “relationship,” so far, there’s no such thing as typical dates. We don’t go out to movies or dinners at Frida’s. We’ve hit up the swanky bars Sonya likes and five-star restaurants a few times after a party. Even then, there’s plenty of people she knows there who want to chat and network with her. There are no candlelight dinners for two, no laughing on the couch with a pizza, popcorn, and Netflix.
It’s a good thing.
It keeps me from having to work too hard to prevent lines from getting blurred.
When I walk in, Sonya is still in her pantsuit from the bar, not in one of the sleek expensive-as-fuck dresses she always wears out. Her hair is loose around her face, and when I walk around to face the big, luxurious chair she’s slumped in, I see she looks worried. She doesn’t even notice me for a second, then looks up with a start.
“Hey, Chase.”
I sit in the chair opposite her, my heart thudding in my chest. Something’s wrong. In Sonya’s particular line of work, that means she could be in trouble—with the law or her bosses. However I respond, I have to make sure it’s how Chase would, and not the way Agent Zach Rostov would.
“What’s wrong?” I ask her carefully, arranging my expression to look concerned. It’s not hard—I’ve never seen Sonya look this upset. Hell, she faced down two armed robbers with less worry.
“There’s so much you don’t know about me,” she says suddenly, looking up at me.
I see just a glimpse of a sliver of vulnerability I never have with her before. “No,” I say, looking at her curiously. I wonder what she’s about to tell me, what horrible family secret she’s about to uncover. Is it her excuse for living the life she does?
“My father died when I was eight,” she says slowly, looking out the French doors on her left and not at me.
“I’m sorry.” I lean forward, my hands pressed between my knees. “What happened?”
“Driver under the influence. I never knew who my mother was. My father never talked about her, and I never asked. But when he died, there was only one family member there to take me in—my aunt Gianna. She and my uncle Ezio flew to the States and took me back to Italy with them, and in time, they adopted me.” She laughs slightly, a small smile making its way onto her lips. “The joke was always that I was more like my uncle than my aunt, even though she was blood and he was marriage.” She shrugs. “They have always been more my parents than my father was…I don’t remember him very well.”
I don’t say anything; just sit and listen. Her eyes are very far away, remembering things that happened a long time ago. For the first time, the beautiful woman in front of me is totally vulnerable, all of her walls down in front of me.
She trusts me. There’s a pang in my chest at that. She shouldn’t. And for the first time, I feel a silver of guilt about the ruse.
“I had a cousin—my brother by adoption,” she continues. “We were very close, until…well, something happened with a close friend.” She waves a hand. “That’s not important. Anyway, we had a falling out. Even though I wasn’t close with him any longer, I stayed close with my adopted parents—my aunt and uncle—even after I came back to the States. My aunt Gianna and I might have had our fights when I was a stubborn teenager, but the older I got, the closer we became. And now--”
To my surprise, I see tears fill her eyes. “My aunt is sick, and I want to go
back to Italy to be with her.”
I can’t help but feel relief that it’s nothing worse. A sick family member, a sad childhood, these are normal problems. Nothing that I was afraid of, but I still can’t help feeling sorry for her.
“Of course you should. You should absolutely go and be with her. I’ll be wherever you need me to.”
Sonya looks up at me then with a start, her eyes widening briefly with surprise, and then I can see that she’s touched by what I’ve said.
“I need you with me, Chase,” she says simply, her eyes meeting mine. “Can you do that?”
For that brief moment, as her eyes meet mine, the sense of duty that I always have around her fades away. For a second, I’m just a boyfriend with a girlfriend who needs me, and that old urge to protect flares up, the one I had for Rain so long ago and failed at. The one I felt for the girl at the Palace and the girl in the emerald dress. It’s ridiculous, and I shove it away quickly, along with any other sentimental feelings I might have. Sonya, of all the women I’ve ever met, needs my protection the least.
But her soft, sad eyes, for just that second, say otherwise.
“They’re still in Italy,” she says thoughtfully. “Do you have your passport?”
“I can get it,” I tell her, hoping like hell that I’m right, and the FBI can expedite it.
“Good.”
She smiles at me and stands, crossing over to where I’m sitting and lays a gentle hand on my cheek for a moment. I resist the urge to lean into it, into the softness of her palm against the smooth-shaven line of my jaw.
“I’m going to go shower. We have a dinner party in an hour.”
And just like that, things are back to normal.
