Page 79 of Confession
My throat tightens. I don’t know what to say to that. I don’t know what to do.
I wait for him to lose patience with me, to get annoyed with my silence and refusal, but his eyes are soft like he understands something that I don’t. And he holds out his hand.
I’ve pushed his boundaries. I’ve chased him, again and again. But every time I’ve really needed him, he’s been there, ready to meet me where I’m at.
I need him now.
So I take my hands from my pockets. I walk down the two steps into the sitting area. I take his hand and lean down. I pressmy forehead to his and stay there for a moment before I draw back.
Quinn has one leg folded on the couch. His other is extended, his foot resting on the footstool. That’s where I sit, cross legged, my knee against his leg.
“I want to fire you,” I tell him because that’s where I’m at.
His eyebrows draw down. I brace for him to say,Fuck no, orFuck you, but instead he asks, “Why?”
“Because you’re not my employee anymore. You’re my … hell, I don’t know. You’re mine.”
“And you think that would keep me out of shit like what happened with the DiMaggios? You think I was there because I work for you? You think Sasha was there because she works for you?”
“I don’t know.”
“Yes, you do.”
I look away, frustrated.
Quinn says, “We’re allowed to love you too, you know.”
“That’s not what this is about.”
“Yes, it is, Vitali.”
“Why’s it hard for you to understand that I don’t want you in danger?”
“It’s not hard for me to understand that.”
I glare at him. He’s so damn stubborn. “Then why won’t you accept it?”
“For the same reason Sasha won’t. For the same reason Roman won’t. We love you too.”
Frustration twists me up inside. “It’s not about that.”
For some reason, I can’t make myself say what it’s really about, what’s been eating at me to weeks, months. Years.
“Vitali … being the head of this family doesn’t mean doing everything alone.”
My throat tightens as I see how much he’s paid attention, how well he understands me. He just doesn’t agree.
But this isn’t something I know how to yield on. It goes too far back. It runs too deep. It comes from something that I don’t know how to talk about.
But if there’s anyone I can talk to, it’s Quinn. It’s always been that way.
“I’m just trying to—” My throat closes up, cutting off my words. I can’t say it. I just can’t.
But Quinn, even though we’ve never talked about this directly, knows. He says, “You’re trying to live up to your father.”
I close my eyes, hating how they sting, hating how ashamed I feel.
“He would be proud of you,” Quinn says.
