Page 12 of High Stakes

She hesitates, glancing at the food as if it’s poison, then slowly reaches for it, her fingers trembling. I watch as she picks at the rice with her fingers, each bite small and reluctant, and I have a feeling the only reason she is eating is because I am right in front of her. Usually, she refuses food, but she is probably afraid of me punishing her.

I stand by the chair across from the bed, leaning against the wall as I watch her eat in silence. She doesn’t meet my gaze, keeping her eyes downcast and focused on the plate.

“I’m not a monster, Fallon,” I say after a moment, my voice low. “You brought this on yourself.”

Her fingers still for a moment, then continue picking at the food. She says nothing, but the tension in the room shifts, the unspoken words hanging between us like a noose.

“Finish the food,” I command, turning to leave.

Just as I reach the door, her voice stops me.

“Leone…” It’s a whisper, so faint I almost miss it.

I turn, looking at her, waiting.

“I’m sorry about Angelo; I never would have gone in there had I known.”

Her apology is quiet, almost broken. For a brief moment, something inside me cracks. I don’t want to acknowledge it, but it’s there—a flicker of pain, proof of the loss I buried deep.

I clench my jaw, staring at her. She’s huddled on the bed, wrapped in the blanket like some wounded animal, and her words should ease the tension twisting inside me. She didn’t know. She couldn’t have known. But the sound of his name from her lips—my son’s name—it feels wrong. It cuts too deep, hitting parts of me I don’t want touched.

For a second, guilt threatens to rise again, the same guilt drove me here tonight. I try to push it away, but it lingers, gnawing at the edges of my control.

Then, another thought creeps in, cold and sharp. Is she trying to manipulate me? The timing of her apology feels too convenient. She’s been defiant for weeks, stubbornly refusing to submit, and now, just as I begin to crack, she apologizes. She says the one thing that might make me feel something for her.

My hands curl into fists at my sides. She’s using Angelo. She’s using my dead son, hoping to soften me. She thinks if she plays the right cards, if she shows a bit of remorse, I’ll go easy on her. Maybe even let her off the hook. The realization ignites a slow-burning fury in my chest, and steadily begins to smother any trace of guilt.

She couldn’t have known about Angelo… but that doesn’t matter now. It doesn’t change what’s happened. It doesn’t change the fact she crossed a line she cannot uncross.

I stare at her for a long moment, my pulse quickening as the anger simmers just beneath the surface. The sympathy I’d felt moments ago curdles into something darker. She’s not sorry. She’s scared. There’s a difference, and I won’t let her confuse the two.

And now I realize—she’s the weakness. Not me. She’s the one making me hesitate, making me doubt my own actions. I allowed her to get inside my head, to make me feel things I shouldn’t.

Weakness. She’s becoming a liability.

The air between us grows heavier, my silence stretching long enough that her eyes flick back up to meet mine. The look on her face—cautious, waiting for my reaction—only fuels my rage. She thinks she’s gotten through to me. She thinks I’ll forgive her.

I won’t.

My face hardens, and I take a step closer, the brief flicker of guilt extinguished by the cold fire of anger. “Don’t use himagainst me,” I say, my voice low, sharp as a blade. “You think an apology can erase what you did? Do you think it makes any of this better?”

She flinches, her lips parting, but I don’t let her speak. “You crossed a line, Fallon. And no amount of ‘I’m sorry’ is going to change your situation.”

Her eyes widen, fear creeping back in, but I don’t care. I let it fuel me. “You need to remember where you stand. You’re here because you belong to me. You don’t get to touch the parts of my life I’ve buried. Ever. Again.”

I watch her recoil, and for the first time tonight, I feel in control again. The power shifts back to me, the guilt dissolving into the shadows where it belongs.

She doesn’t say anything else, her fingers gripping the blanket tighter as if it could protect her from what’s coming. But she knows. She knows I’m not the man she can manipulate with soft words and whispered apologies.

I nod once, cold and final, as if sealing a deal with myself. She’s not getting under my skin anymore. I won’t allow it.

Without another word, I turn and walk out the door, leaving her in the darkness. And this time, there’s no hesitation, no guilt weighing me down.

As I lock the door behind me, my jaw tightens. She’ll learn. If she doesn’t—I’ll make sure she wishes she had.

The next time I face her, there will be no apologies, no softness. She’ll see who I really am.

Five

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