Page 83 of Bishop

“I don’t have any more news yet,” he adds, as if trying to console in some sort of gruff, sterile way. “But it’s only a matter of time. Once we pin down what state or city she’s in, things will move faster.”

I nod again. Hollow. Tormented.

Bishop mumbles something under his breath. A curse or a prayer, I’m not sure. But he finally enters the room, cautiously moving to the foot of my bed.

I feel his attention on me as I remain focused on the vial, his gaze sending a skitter down the back of my neck.

“I hate that I can’t work you out, Abri. I don’t know which side of you is real—the confident crazy bitch or this emotional fuckin’ wreck.”

“Then imagine what it’s like to be me. I have no idea who I am outside what my father made me.” I keep rolling the vial around my palm. “But it’s safe to assume I’m the pathetic emotional wreck.”

I can’t seem to find the strength I once had. That flawless actress is on hiatus. “Even if we find Tilly, I don’t know how to live without my father dictating my every move,” I admit.

“You can do whatever the hell you like.”

I huff a laugh. “Just as long as it fits my uncle’s agenda, right? Isn’t that how the mafia works?”

“He’s not going to do you wrong.”

“That’s hard to believe when every single family member has betrayed me.” I clasp my palms, holding the vial tight between them. “You don’t understand what it’s like when the deepest knives in your back come from those closest to you.”

“Don’t I?”

My gaze snaps to his again.

He stares down at me, tight-lipped.

“You’re right to despise me for how I treated you yesterday.” I swallow over the guilt that dries my throat. “But you never should’ve expected my trust after what I’ve been through. You need to understand that—”

“I understand,” he mutters.

Is he placating me? Or merely attempting to stop the conversation before it starts? “The only control I know is when I—”

“I said I understand,” he cuts me off again. “I know exactly why you tried to manipulate me. And I don’t despise you for it. Maybe I did at the time but—” He shrugs. “—it’s my fault for forgetting who you’re trained to be.”

I hang my head, the weight of regret heavy on my shoulders.

“You’re a master at your craft, belladonna. Don’t be ashamed of that. I understand you’re desperate to save your daughter. Hell, I probably would’ve done the same thing. But it’s in the past, and I’m not going to hold it against you.”

Relief sparks a tiny flame inside my chest. Normally it would be due to the turning tables, the knowledge that I’m winning him back and gaining an advantage I can manipulate. But this time it’s different.

I don’t want to deceive him. I never did.

It had been instinctual. Self-preservation.

Being a deceitful whore is all I know, and God, I hate myself for it.

I don’t deserve his forgiveness. Not even his understanding.

It’s enough to make my eyes burn, my nose crinkle.

I sniff, hating the years of built-up emotion that scream to be set free.

He should run. Get as far away as he can. Because even I don’t know if I’ll attempt to betray him again. When habit will take over and I’ll reach for the part of myself that my father created.

“Don’t cry, belladonna. I’m not good with that shit.”

I nod and rub my nose.

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