Page 142 of Remy

“No. I…” I glance over my shoulder, Remy’s broken footsteps growing louder.

“I insist, mia cara.” Lorenzo pats me reassuringly on the shoulder. At least I hope that’s what the contact means. He could be sizing me up for a casket for all I know.

The problem is, my tattered pride and self-loathing won’t allow me to stick around and weigh the odds.

I need to get out of here.

I nod as Remy enters my periphery, his posture stiffening. “Thank you, Lorenzo.” I maneuver around the lethal monarch and stride for the elevator, ignoring Salvatore’s low-key taunting snicker.

“Ollie,” Remy warns.

My skin prickles as I keep walking. Keep defying.

I can’t look him in the eye again. Not when he’s drunk, distraught, and dangerously determined to make this situation worse.

“Olivia,” he demands.

I flinch at his use of my actual name, and pause momentarily to poke the elevator call button.

This is all on me.

The mistakes. The carnality.

How could I have been so shortsighted? So self-absorbed? And with lust, of all things.

The doors open and I step inside, hoping this is the right choice, and the one with the least amount of disastrous aftermath.

I press the button for the parking garage and hate myself for chancing a glance back into the living room.

Everyone stares at me. Salvatore with his sickening smirk. Lorenzo with his cold, calm concern. And Remy, who scowls with what I assume is seething frustration.

“Don’t forget the antibiotics,” I murmur to fill the awkward silence. “I’m sorry for your loss.”

The doors thud shut, trapping me in a confined space full of regret. A few seconds later I reach the parking garage, still barefoot and disgracefully disheveled while wearing a jacket big enough to fit two of me.

“Ms. Pelosi?” A large, suited man walks toward me from the open back door of a silver Rolls-Royce. “I’ve been told you require a ride.”

I glance from the intimidating stranger, who does well to hide any judgement of my appearance, and take in the shadowed corners of our dimly lit cement jungle. Nobody else is down here. I could disappear and never be seen again.

Given my level of humiliation, maybe that’d be for the best.

“Yes.” I’m too exhausted to keep wondering about threats, intimidation, and death. “A ride would be appreciated.”

I get home shortly before two a.m, the silent thirty-minute car ride giving me a chance to detox the adrenaline but not the disgrace or concern.

I shower, scrubbing my skin of the dirty deeds, then crawl into bed, setting my alarm for a few hours later, only to toss and turn until sunrise.

Having left my car at the funeral home, I’m forced to ride my bike to work, each wiggle against the narrow seat punishing me with reminders of Remy. The way he consumed me. Unraveled me.

I feel like a loose ball of wool as I ride into the parking lot well before business hours, yet Wesley’s Honda Accord is already here.

I enter through the delivery room, the pungent scent of cleaning chemicals poisoning my lungs as I lean my bike against the back wall.

There’s no blood. No evidence of the night before.

From the amount of bleach in the air, I’m confident twenty years’ worth of DNA has been stripped from the building. But I still complete my search for damning evidence, ending the ritual at the retort.

The room is slightly tepid, the machinery lukewarm from Flynn’s cremation.

---