Page 16 of Stolen Sin

Now though, it’s like getting shot made him double down on dying in the Don’s chair.

I climb into the back seat beside him, and my father doesn’t speak as the car takes us back to the oasis.

And all I can think about is Emily. How she’d make the perfect wife. My father couldn’t keep throwing my relationship status in my face if I had her by my side, and maybe that wouldn’t be enough on its own to change his mind, but it would be a start. It would help give me legitimacy. It’s the first step on a long, difficult path.

All I need is for her to make the right decision.

Chapter 10

Emily

I feel the pressure of the clock as I go through my day. My whole shift at Cucina, I think about telling Ethan to get in touch with Simon, but whenever I feel myself starting to break down, I find some reason to hold back.

I picture my father’s face as I try to explain why I got married to a stranger. I imagine what’s left of my father’s pride crumbling as a man he doesn’t know pays all his bills. Every time I think that maybe five years isn’t all that long, and ten grand per month is worth my dignity, I force myself to stop and remember my father crying over a picture album, at the lowest he’s ever been, because of men like Simon.

They offer the world. That’s what they did to my dad. They made him promises, so many promises, and all he had to do was send a little more money, just a little bit more, and all their problems would disappear, and my father would become a very wealthy man. Just do a little more, just go a little further.

Until one day my father raised his head and saw that he’d gone too far, and he had nothing left.

Simon will do the same to me. He’s promising money, he’s promising comfort and security, but there will be catches and clauses and always more to give. I can’t do that to myself. I can’t do that to my father, either.

I keep my mouth shut. I go home, get a little sleep, start the next day. I make bagels, fry eggs, cook bacon, and smell like sandwiches. I shower off, put on my blacks, and head into Cucina.

It’s the second day and my last chance.

“You seem twitchy tonight,” Rachel comments on our break. She’s smoking away and texting like her thumbs are about to fall off. “What’s the deal? You keep looking at the door like you expect someone.”

She’s right, I keep staring at the entrance hoping Simon will swoop in, hoping that he’ll take this decision away from me, but he doesn’t. He’s not going to. That’s not the kind of man Simon is. He needs his victims to come to him.

“I’m totally fine. Just one of those nights.”

“God, don’t I know it.” She rolls her eyes, puts her phone aside, and launches into a story about how Danny got in a fight with the Domino’s delivery guy, which makes me hate Danny even more and also start to question her taste in both men and pizza. I’m not sure which is worse.

The night continues. I get tips, run food, take orders, do my damn job. I think about Simon constantly, but I force myself to stay clear of Ethan. When it’s time to close, I throw myself into the work just to make the time go faster, and when that’s done, I practically run to my car.

Simon’s not there.

I’m disappointed. Honestly, I expected him to be sitting behind the driver’s seat again, taunting me. Instead, it’s just my car, with the stale gum in the center console and the sticky Diet Coke stains in the cup holders. No Simon, no suits, no husband, no future.

It’s not happening.

And on my drive back to my apartment, I keep thinking about my father sitting alone in his room sobbing over a bunch of old photographs.

He doesn’t deserve to feel this way. If I could hunt down the people that did this to him, I’d kill them all, and I wouldn’t even hesitate. Dad was always a good person, outgoing and generous to a fault, and now someone took advantage of him in his old age. They stole everything. They dangled lies, they manipulated, and they took far more than money.

But it’s too late. Two days have come and gone, and I made my choice.

As I head up to my apartment and unlock the door, I wonder if I can live with it.

Right up until I spot Simon sitting on my couch and start screaming.

“You’re going to wake the neighbors,” he says with a casual smirk and it’s his completely calm demeanor that snaps me out of my sudden fight-or-flight mode.

“What the fuck, Simon!” I throw my keys at him, really winging them at his face, and he dodges with a laugh as I slam my door behind me. “What the hell are you doing here?”

“I’m here for your answer.” He stretches his legs out, and a stab of embarrassment jolts into my core. His feet nearly touch the TV console against the wall opposite, and I’m very aware of my shabby little apartment: sitting area on the left, miniscule kitchen in the middle, and a combination of bedroom and curtained-off bathroom to the right. It’s the definition of efficiency.

“You could’ve called like a normal person.” I storm over to my refrigerator and take out a four-day-old bottle of rosé, pour myself a glass, and down it in two gulps, not really caring if it tastes stale. Alcohol is alcohol.

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