Coming Home (Morelli Family 6)

“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?”