Page 93 of Meet Me in Montreal

When there was no response to that, Bobby asked, “So what’s up? What have you been doing?”

“I made an offer to the guy I’m renting from to buy the house. I started doing a full reno on it and I figured, why let him get the benefit of the improvements? It’s bad right now, but it’s gonna look really good.”

Bobby favored him with a sharp look. “You’re buying a house. Why aren’t you moving back in with Vanessa?”

“I signed the papers today,” Santino said abruptly.

Bobby’s eyes widened with shock. He was silent while absorbing the news. When he could find his voice, he asked, “What the hell for? I thought whatever break you guys needed would be temporary. You have to work this out. Don’t let what happened with Zoe —”

Santino leaned forward, clasping his hands together between his knees. “It’s not about Zoe or Malone or anybody else. Your sister doesn’t want to be married to me anymore. I finally had to accept it. It’s what they call irreconcilable differences.”

“Even though she’s got shit to work out, like we all do, I know my sister loves you. I think you know that, too.”

Santino’s laugh was short, an ugly, wounded sound. “I don’t know anything anymore. Look, I’ve gotta go. I’ll see you later.”

Sympathy shone in Bobby’s eyes when he put out his hand. Santino shook it, suddenly incapable of getting words past the lump in his throat. He left before Patrick could demand his presence on the court.

Today was supposed to be a Kelly Day for him, but he wasn’t in the mood to face the next four hours alone in his house until Gina could get off work and come over with the baby. After a couple of listless hours at the station helping clean the rigs, Santino only stopped at the house long enough to change into a tank top and jeans, went back to switch cars with Dom, then somehow found himself on his old path to Vanessa’s. The compulsion was just too strong. He parked down the street in his usual spot after seeing her car was in the driveway.

Her hours were strange now. There was no set routine anymore, no telling when she would leave in the morning or where she might be in the afternoon or evening. At least now he understood why, thanks to Bobby.

Either way, he was now following her more often to a cozy Victorian on the Bronx side of the county line where she would enter and come out swollen-eyed about forty-five minutes later. The sign on the gold plate next to the front door said “Charmaine Drayton-Chang, LSCW” and below that, “Martin Drayton-Chang, LSCW.”

She’d deleted her dating profile. There’d been no sign of Malone, who’d stopped the creepster calls. No new dude to chase away. Fifth Avenue was silent. After the judge signed off on the settlement, there would be no legal ties to Vanessa aside from the money transferring from one account to the other.

She didn’t need his protection anymore. So, what the fuck was he still doing out here?

Being a pathetic piece of shit, that’s what. Aching for someone who’d told him to move on, someone who wouldn’t give him what he needed, despite his best efforts to prove they needed each other, that they belonged together.

This is why he’d decided last night that he had to leave New York and move to Italy for a while. He’d leave Angelo in charge of the reno and rent it out to a family that could use a decent home for reasonable rent; he might be a degenerate, but at least he wouldn’t be a scumbag landlord.

The move to Italy had to happen soon. He had dual citizenship, a place to stay, and people who loved him without conditions. He couldn’t spend another sleepless night in that house wracked with longing for her. Leaving would be his one last hope to free himself from the invisible chains binding him to her.

But as he sat there on that quiet road, hating himself for this unrelenting hunger to see her, this unquenchable thirst for even a glimpse of her, a car drove up to the house and pulled into the driveway beside Vanessa’s. It was a Volvo, a late model hybrid. Sitting up straighter to see who emerged, Santino squinted when the driver hopped out and walked up to the front door.

It was a woman, petite and curvy. She used the doorknocker rather than her own delicate honey-brown hand, then straightened her summery carnation pink dress. After that, with fluttery bird-like movements he’d once known so well, she smoothed down her shoulder-length hair. It used to be a lot longer.

Fucking Antoinette.

Santino’s hand went to the door handle without thinking. He was ready to jump out, walk over to the house and demand to know what the fuck she wanted, now seized with certainty thatshe’d been the one calling again after all. Most likely, she still thought he lived here. What could she possibly want from him now? Another rescue? Or had the Park Avenue Princess grown bored and felt like stirring shit up?

Then he realized that should Vanessa open the door and see him there, she’d know what he’d been doing this whole time. She’d know he was nothing but a stalker who was so pathetic, so desperate, that he’d resorted to crossing boundaries that went way beyond following her into a bathroom.

He had no choice but to stay in the car and hope like hell that whatever Antoinette had to say, it wasn’t anything that would wound Vanessa all over again. Hands clenched on the wheel, stomach roiling, he settled in, his eyes fixed on that house. Then he waited.

33

SAVIOR

VANESSA

Vanessa was on the floor of the living room in what had become her usual spot over the last few weeks, staring at the flickering candle before her on the coffee table.

Marcie’s freedom candles gave off an earthy, piney scent that permeated the entire room. One on the coffee table, another on the side table next to Belle’s picture, a third on the mantle. It seemed they were working their magic, because days after she’d told his wealthiest client to shut the fuck up, Mancini had called her into his office and gently let her go.

That was okay. She’d been expecting it, almost hoping for it in that weak-ass backdoor “let someone else do this so it’s not me” way that was apparently becoming her M.O.

The trial had commenced without her as scheduled. Sandy had been calling with insider updates, which had been entertaining in a gruesome way. Even without Sandy passing her little cups of tea, the reporters covering the trial had been just as happy to inform the public that Claremore had bombed his performancebefore the jury. That even his peers in the “gentlemen’s class” saw right through his bullshit to the rancid inner core.

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