“Are you working with your dad?” Stefano’s voice is eerily calm and detached.
I shake my head quickly. “No.” Tears roll down my face. “But he’s here in Las Vegas. He’s investigating the disappearance of Donahue. I told him I didn’t know anything, but maybe that’s when he—” I swipe at my tears with the back of my hand. “When he put it in there.”
Jesus, my story sounds stupid and implausible even though it’s the stone cold truth.
“When was this?” Stefano clips.
“Right after it happened.” My voice cracks. “He was at my apartment when I came home.”
“And you kept that from me.” Stefano says it like I’ve just forever damned myself.
“He was in Chicago, too.” I admit, as if telling him now will make up for my earlier omissions. “At the wedding. He said he has evidence. I gave him the money from Memphis to suppress it.”
Stefano surges to his feet, knocking his chair to the floor. I don’t move, even though I’m shaking like a baby bird. He fists my hair and brings his face close to mine.. A muscle tics in his cheek, but his eyes are dead. “You tell your father,” he snarls, “he shouldn’t get his family involved in business.”
It’s a bald threat and I’m full-on terrified. It’s a wonder I don’t piss myself.
“You broke my fucking heart, Corey Simonson.”
I squeeze my eyes shut, because his expression is breaking mine, but he releases me abruptly and shoves me away. “Get out. Don’t ever come back here. Don’t ever let me see your face again, bella. I won’t show mercy a second time.”
“Stefano,” I whisper-plead. I want to explain—or better yet, go back in time and be more transparent from the beginning. Maybe I could avoid this betrayal of his faith in me.
But it’s too late. Leo grabs my elbow and yanks me through the door, slamming it behind me.
I can barely see as I toddle out, tears blinding me. My purse is still in their office, so I have nothing: no keys, no money, no phone, nowhere to go.
I find my way outside and start walking, away from the Bellissimo, away from Stefano. Away from everything I loved.
* * *
Stefano
The minute she’s gone, I throw the desk over. I want to smash everything in sight. She never loved me. She played me. Ruined me.
Leo watches, silent at first. “Want me to take care of her?”
“No.”
Even as angry as I am, as broken and betrayed and fucking insane as I am, I could never harm Corey.
“I’m not sure you really have the perspective necessary to make this call.”
I throw myself at Leo, cut off his air as I shove him up against the wall. “You don’t ever question my judgment. Not on this. Not on anything. Capiche?”
“Yeah. Got it, boss,” Leo says quickly.
I storm out, because if I stay, I’m going to kill the guy. I go up to our suite—my suite—fuck!—and I immediately know it was a mistake.
The place smells like her. Reminds me of her. Slays me.
I go on a rampage, throwing furniture, putting my fist through the wall.
All this fucking time I thought she was holding back because she was protecting her heart. But she wasn’t. She was playing me.
I heard the warning bells about her fucking dad. I knew getting involved with her would bite me. I just chose to ignore it. I was too captivated by the enigma that is Corey Simonson. I wanted to be the guy who set her free. Wanted to know what it’s like to get inside her shell. To be her man.
I am a fucking idiot.
I pace around the wrecked room, trying to remember every single thing I ever said in her presence. She saw me shoot Donahue. That’s a problem, for sure. But what else—
I stop.
She saw me shoot Donahue and didn’t go to the cops. If she had, why would they need a bug? Unless they want to take down Nico, too. Or just get as much info as possible.
I rub my bruised knuckles.
What if she told me the truth? Her dad planted it on her after the shooting. She didn’t tell him anything. He’s digging, using his in, but he has nothing.
Because Corey wouldn’t betray me.
Hot emotion chokes me. My eyes burn.
Fuck! I slam my fist into the wall again.
I don’t know what to believe.
Was Leo right? Is my judgment too off on this one to know what’s happening?
Or did I just make the biggest mistake of my life?
* * *
Corey
I don’t know how long I walk—until my feet are blistered and my calves are in spasm. I somehow end up back the Bellissimo—precisely where I’m not supposed to be. I take the elevator to the top deck of the parking lot and look over the edge.
No, I’m not thinking about jumping. I’m not stupid or suicidal. And while the pain in my chest is startling, I have a lot more to worry about right now than a broken heart. I need to worry about my immediate survival.