Page 155 of Remy

It’s how I’ve always seen him, right from our first meeting when he shook my hand with a firm grip and a kind smile. He’s never judged me. Never held my actions against me.

Carlo treats me as if I’m a man doing my best despite the shitty cards I’ve been dealt. Not as if I’m a rich boy with a silver spoon who’s decided to forsake good over evil just for shits and giggles.

“I’ll miss him, Ollie.”

Her nose scrunches and she looks away, the pliancy of her body replaced with stiff sterility. “I hope you plan on elaborating on the whole father-attempting-to-kill-you comment.” She pushes from my lap and stands above me. “You can’t let a statement like that slide.”

“We’ve had enough revelations for now.” She’s looking for a diversion and I don’t blame her, but the topic of my dad always leaves an unfavorable aftertaste. “Let’s save the legacy of Emmanuel Costa for another night.”

I lead her back to the car, her frailty shadowing me one step behind.

I open her door. Watch as her devastation folds into the passenger seat. Then climb behind the wheel to drive her home.

She remains quiet. There’s only her occasional sniffle to interrupt the faint hum of a forgotten playlist through the speakers.

She focuses out her window, her idle fingers tempting me to grab them to encase in mine. To do sweet, loving things instead of all the dark and twisted shit my hands are accustomed to.

“What happened to the Bentley?” she asks at a red light.

“I torched it.” There was too much blood. Too many fucked up memories.

She drags a listless touch over the contoured leather of her seat. “I like this one.”

Flynn would’ve too.

I imagine he would’ve begged me to drive it. Then pretended he gave it a thrashing while he barely nudged the needle past the speed limit.

I fucking miss that kid—his bullshit antics, his laughter. Even his goddamn scattered shoes at my penthouse door, but my housekeeper straightened them back into neat rows a few days ago, stealing his personality from the penthouse.

I pull into her drive and cut the ignition. “Let me walk you in.”

“I don’t think that’s a good idea.” She releases her belt. “You blocked my phone for a reason. I know you want to keep your distance.”

“You’re mistaking wants for needs. I don’t want to stay away from you at all.”

She contemplates me. Reads me. It’s unnerving how easily she settles under my skin. “But you have to because of Lorenzo.”

“He’s an issue. But one of many.” I unclasp my belt, the thought of letting her walk away irking the fuck out of me.

“Name the rest.”

“We’d be here all night.”

She sighs. “Then name the most important.”

How the hell isn’t it obvious? “I’m not someone you should want to be around.”

She makes a slight sound of offense. The subtlest huff. “I can make my own informed choices.”

“But you’re not informed.”

Her brows pull into a mini scowl, her grief still present in those sad hazel eyes. “I know what you do for your uncle.”

“You don’t know the half of it. You’ve been given broad strokes.”

“Maybe, but I’ve seen your redeemable side. I’ve been a recipient of your compassion. You’ve protected me. Defended me.” She pauses, as if realizing she’s arguing the merits of a cold-blooded killer on the lowest night of her life. “All I’m saying is that you’re more than what your job makes you.”

“Do you know how many men I killed last week, Pyro?”

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