Page 160 of What's Left of Us

This feels wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

Wrong.

It lasts only seconds, but it might as well have been an eternity by the time Luca pulls away and sees my rigid body.

He steps back, staring at me as I wrap my arms around myself and keep my eyes on the ground. “I’ll make a call.”

I blow out a breath.

Clearing his throat, he unlocks the door and turns the knob. “Wait a few minutes before leaving after me. I’ll make sure my father and his men are gone. But, Georgia?”

Cautiously, I lift my head.

“Mangino gives no mercy,” he says. “Not even to his family, and they are the few people he’s loyal to. I would know.”

My lips part, but nothing comes out.

His eyes glaze as he stares down at me. “Andnevertell him that you’ll do anything. Do you understand me? He will take advantage of you. He will use you. Twist your words. If you want out, make him a bargain he can’t refuse. Make it worth his while.”

Taking a deep breath, I find my voice. “Why are you telling me this?”

“Because maybe one of us can get out,” he murmurs, looking at the door. “And thanks to his son’s death, it sure as hell won’t be me.”

It’s hard to swallow.

Luca takes a deep breath. “I’ve made a lot of mistakes, but the one I think I’ll regret is not trying to win you over. Because if I’m going to be stuck in this hellhole of a life, I think you could have made it worth it.”

What? “You don’t mean that.”

When his eyes meet mine, they’re hollow. “I guess we’ll never know.”

He opens the door and makes a quick escape, closing it behind him.

My heart drums in my ears as I wait the longest five minutes of my life before moving from the closet. The receptionist is gone, and so are Luca, his father, and the others they were with.

Locking myself in my car, I glance into my purse at the audio recording still playing.

I turn it off.

Take a deep breath.

And drive home wanting nothing more than a shower and to wipe off my tingling lips.

CHAPTER FORTY-EIGHT

Lincoln/ Two Years Ago

Georgia is sittingat the dining room table in the dark when I get home, her bare feet tucked on the edge of the upholstered cushion with her arms hugging her bent legs.

Maybe it’s the thunderstorm currently raging outside, or maybe it was the shitty meeting I had with the district attorney about a repeat offender who killed three people and struck a deal to get charged with vehicular manslaughter rather than second-degree murder like he deserved, but there is something off-putting in the air.

“Are you okay?” I ask, setting my bag down.

It takes her a long time to look at me, but when she does, there’s something in her eyes that I see all too often at work.

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