Page 63 of Caesar DeLuca
Craig Goose learned the hard way. I’ve been obsessively tracking him for weeks now.
The night I’d seen him almost creep into Ariana’s bedroom was the only justification needed.
But everything else I uncovered on the man only fueled his downfall. The guy was obsessed with Ariana, finding excuses to invite himself over or intrude on her space. He’d invent some reason or another, like he was such an upstanding guy for helping out his wife’s friend.
I had my men follow him. We conducted a thorough background investigation and reviewed any camera footage around town that we could get our hands on. The guy had a record for public intoxication and driving under the influence. He ran a barbershop business in town but was financially in the hole. He had a habit of driving out to Ariana’s house a couple times a week just to sit out of view and take photos of her windows.
Ariana had no clue, though she must’ve sensed something off about him the night he towed her RAV4.
She hadn’t even told me about the slashed tires. That’s something I had to figure out myself after my men investigated. She was hiding the fact that somebody in town had waited until she was inside a restaurant to cut open her tires. We’re still unclear if it was Craig or someone else…
I pad over to the massive bed in the center of the room and check my phone that’s plugged into the wall charging.
All my notifications are about business. I have a missed call from my cousin, Enzo. Messages from Vasco and a few others about their tasks for the day. But none of these things are what I’m invested in at the moment.
My mind’s on Ariana. It’s been another month since I’ve seen her and yet I’m still hung up on the woman. The number of times I think about her each day has become embarrassing. She’s an unshakable thought on my mind.
A curse for a man like me who’s used to compartmentalizing. I’m too calculated, too analytical for love. I view marriage as a contract and little more.
I should be able to forget her.
I fight the urge and move to set down my phone when it rings in my hand.
“It can’t be,” I mutter, staring at the number on the screen.
The shock lasts for the first couple rings and then I rush to answer.
“Ariana?”
22
ARIANA
It hits me when I’m already halfway there how crazy this is. I’m strapped into my RAV4, driving three hours to Atlantic City. I’m wearing the only cute sparkly dress I own and my face is painted in makeup. Fake lashes are even glued to my real lashes.
I’ve gone all out.
The last time I got this dressed up, I was still part of the outside world. I hadn’t removed myself and gone into hiding yet.
It was for a family wedding. The day was bright and warm. I had brought Freddie as my date. He had too many bellinis, smacked my aunt’s ass, and then proceeded to call me a fat bitch on the heated drive home.
By the time we arrived to his house, I was in tears.
It wasn’t long after that I realized the trouble I was in and how I had to save myself.
The memories used to upset me. But thinking about them tonight of all nights, they embolden me.
My foot presses down harder on the gas. I concentrate on the road ahead and the rest of the drive into Atlantic City.
Tonight’s not just any night. Tonight’s my birthday, and I’m going to make the most of it.
For once, I’m going to be unpredictable.
What that means remains a mystery even to myself.
When Ms. Bev called me up to let me know Mr. Craig had been found bloodied and bruised, reeking of liquor after what was apparently another bender of his, she asked me about my birthday. I told her I was doing what I always do on my birthday—cooking myself a nice meal, sipping on some wine, and reading a book.
Still a perfectly acceptable way to celebrate your day, as far as I’m concerned.
