The Banker (Banker 1)

He reached for my hand on the table and held it. “Baby.”

Oh god. His hand was so warm as it enveloped mine. I closed my eyes for a brief moment, treasuring the way his affection felt, but also battling the guilt at the same time. I didn’t know what he would say next, but I suspected my heart was about to melt into a huge puddle.

“Everything you said about me was right. I’m unfulfilled. I’m empty. I have everything, but I had nothing at all…until you. I live in a world where women only want me for sex or money. Then I met you and all of that changed. With you, I don’t have to look over my shoulder. With you, I don’t have to wonder what your motives are.” He held my gaze as his thumb brushed over my knuckles. “Because I trust you.”

Cato didn’t seem interested in missionary anymore. All he wanted was to fuck me from behind, pressing my face into the sheets as he slammed into me. They were always hard screws, contradictions to the gentle words he said to me.

He fucked me like he hated me.

I liked it, but I also missed the old way.

He slept over then left the following morning, still quiet and brooding. Despite the sweet things he said at dinner, his mood still seemed strange. He wasn’t quite himself, staring at me with a slight look of concentrated anger.

Or maybe I was just imagining it.

The night before we were supposed to visit the cemetery, Damien called me. “So, everything still ready to go?”

“Yes.”

“What time will you arrive?”

“Two.” It was the middle of the day when everyone was at work. It was quiet out in the countryside, and hopefully, no one would be there visiting loved ones. I wanted this to be clean and easy. Even though my stomach hadn’t been either of those things.

“We’ll be waiting past the gates. I’ll have all my men with me—so don’t pull anything.”

“What could I possibly pull?” I was bringing the most wanted man right to them. “My father better be there, Damien.”

“Sweetheart, I’m a man of my word. Just make sure he comes alone. If he doesn’t, I’ll shoot your father in the stomach and watch him slowly bleed out and die.”

That was an image I didn’t want to picture. “Fuck off, Damien.” I hung up and tossed my phone aside before I sat on the couch. Just like earlier that morning, the nausea got to me. It was so common that I wondered if there was something serious going on with me. Guilt could do strange things to people, but to make me so physically ill? That didn’t seem likely.

I hardly slept that night because all I could think about was the following day. I stared out the window and watched the sun slowly pierce the curtains and blanket the room with light. The entire night had passed—and I’d hardly closed my eyes.

I got ready for the day and did my best to cover the bags under my eyes. I looked paler than usual, like all the blood had drained from my face and neck and gave me a vampire-like appearance. I wore a black dress with white pearls around my neck, a necklace my mother had given me.

The pain I would normally feel over losing my mother was absent because I felt so much other pain. Cato was good to me, and I was about to throw him under the bus. He told me I was one of the few people in this world he could trust…and I was about to stab him in the back.

But also save my father.

I was downstairs when Cato walked in the door.

This time, I kept it unlocked so he didn’t have to pick the mechanism in the door.

“That was quicker than usual.” He was in black jeans and a black shirt. It was way too hot for a black suit or a blazer, so his casual attire was appropriate. If the heat didn’t get you, the humidity would.

“Would you prefer I lock it?”

“I like to time myself. A challenge.” He leaned down and gave me a soft kiss on the corner of my mouth. “You look lovely.”

“Thanks…” I avoided the sincerity in his eyes because it felt wrong to enjoy it. I grabbed the bouquet of flowers I’d gathered from my garden and carried them outside.

Cato followed behind me, his arm circling my waist. “My driver can take us.”

“Ugh, I would rather drive, if that’s okay. I don’t want to visit my mother with strangers in the front seat.”

Cato didn’t put up an argument as he led me to the old car in the dirt driveway. It was almost eight years old and small. Even in the front seat, Cato’s legs would have a hard time fitting. He got into the passenger seat without complaint.