Coming Home (Morelli Family 6)

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.”