Page 157 of Remy

Her voice is barely audible as she says, “I still want you.”

I scrub a rough hand over my mouth and divert my gaze, focusing on the crone’s house. At the frail silhouette that stands in the middle of the closest window, backlit by an orange glow.

Jesus Christ. That old bitch has sonar on my ass.

“I need to go.” The option of walking Ollie to her door is dead and buried. In my current state I wouldn’t be able to stop at her threshold. I’d follow her inside, drag her onto the nearest horizontal surface, then fuck her senseless, virginity be damned.

Ollie opens her door. “Why does it feel like I might not see you again?”

Because that’s how it should be. How any motherfucker with two brain cells to rub together would act.

“I’m not messaging you about disposals anymore.” It’s not up for negotiation. “You should be confident in my process by now. And I’ll make sure Wesley double-checks everything before your employees arrive at work. You’ve got more important things to concentrate on.”

Dejection ebbs from her. “But I’ll still see you?”

“Yeah, Pyro. You’ll still see me.”

“Okay.” She climbs out and pauses to glance back inside. “Thank you for being honest. I understand how hard it must’ve been to betray my father’s trust.”

I suppress a flinch at the reminder. “Will you be all right on your own?”

“I’ll be as all right as I can be given the circumstances.”

I fight not to clench my fists. Not to shove from the car. To haul her into my arms and drag her back to my penthouse, giving her a Lorenzo Cappelletti death sentence at the same time.

“Call if you need anything.” Weak prick. “I’ll unblock your number.” Stupid fuck.

“Is that a smart idea?”

No. It’s the dumbest of dumb. But that’s become my calling card where she’s concerned. “If you need anything I can send Russo or Valenti.”

She cringes, then quickly masks the distaste. “I’ll be fine.”

“A gorgeous woman once told me fine is never a comforting descriptor.”

“I think that woman may have also thrown you in a working retort, so rest assured she can take care of herself.”

28

OLIVIA

Monday night was hard.

Seeing Dad the next day and having to pretend I don’t know he’s dying is even harder. The only saving grace is my acclimation to dishonesty. I lean into our shared bond of mistruths and concoct a lie to excuse being melancholy. To warrant hugging him a little tighter. A little longer.

Apparently, one of my fictional high school friends died in a freak moped accident while in Thailand, so I’m super sad.

I give no names. No descriptive details. Dad’s too busy pretending not to be exhausted to ask challenging questions. And I don’t harbor any guilt because it gives me the excuse to be clingy.

I use getting to know Lucy as justification to have lunch upstairs with them every day. The problem is, with each shared meal, I notice how far my father’s health has deteriorated.

Before Remy shared the truth, I’d thought Dad’s symptoms were caused by chemo. That the treatments were making him lethargic, achy, and slightly jaundiced.

I know better now.

His pain is from the cancer, although he continues to try and hide it. He’s barely eating. And rapidly losing weight. The yellow tinge to his skin only increases with the passing days. But I don’t bring it up. I nod through the hypocrisy when he repeats how having Lucy around “isn’t a big deal” or “cause for concern,” hating all the mistruths, yet regretfully understanding them at the same time.

Mom’s cancer battle was hard. By far the hardest thing I’ve ever endured—current underworld drama included.

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