Page 25 of Billionaire's Sins
"Ah," Arpad snaps his fingers, "so the information Antonio’s been sending us is correct then?"
Arpad’s referring to one of the Sicilian Mafia who is also one of our informants.
"How the hell does Baron keep track of everything that’s happening from wherever he is?" Saint mutters. "You’d think he has someone keeping an eye on us."
Silence in the room. The men look at each other, then Sinclair widens his stance. "Wouldn’t put it past the bastard." He scowls.
"Not that it matters." Damian shrugs. "We don’t have anything to hide from him. If he kept in touch with us, we’d simply share everything anyway."
"How did Baron contact you, Ed?" Sinclair finally asks. "The last time we heard from him was when—"
"—he wrote me with advice for Damian, telling him not to marry Julia," Arpad takes up from where Sinclair left off.
"Knowing full well that’s exactly what I would do as a result," Damian mutters.
"And now he’s written to you, saying he’s coming back?" Sinclair frowns.
"Because what, he knows Edward is in a similar quandary of the heart?" Damian asks.
"I am not in any quandary." I draw in a breath. Another.Stay calm. You’ve just asked for the Lord’s forgiveness; now, all you have to do is hold it together. Don’t think about her. Don’t think about her. Don’t. Think. About. Her."About her." I suck in a breath, attempting to retract the words that slipped out, then curl my fingers into fists.
"So," Saint drawls, "you are in a quandary about her."
"I said I’m not in any quandary about her."
"But you actually…are," Damian frowns, "in a quandary about her?"
"Not about her." I scowl.
"Yes, about her." Weston smirks.
"All about her?" Arpad offers.
"No," I square my shoulders, "not at all."
"Yes," Sinner insists, "you are."
Anger thrums at the base of my spine; heat flushes the back of my neck. "It’s. Not. About her," I grate out. "It’s about me, and the fact that I haven’t been able to live up to my vows, my promises, the word I gave to the most important presence in my life when I set upon this path. I haven’t been able to adhere to them. Do you understand how that feels? To have your entire world turned upside down in a matter of seconds?" I glance about the room, take in each of their faces in turn. "To look at yourself in the mirror and realize that everything that you’ve stood for so far was a lie. That the only thing that mattered, the one thing that you thought you could rely on—yourself, your honor, your ability to be truthful to yourself? It’s all gone. That you were fooling yourself so far. That you thought you’d come a long way in healing yourself, but really, all you’ve done is hidden behind a mask—which you thought was your true self, but it isn’t, not really. For all there is, is you and the wound that never heals. The one that turned you into your worst nightmare. The one you couldn’t live with. Yourself."
By the time I finish ranting, I realize I’ve said too much. I wish I could retract my words. My chest rises and falls. Goosebumps dot my skin. A bead of sweat slides down my temple as I tuck my elbows into my sides. "What am I doing? Apparently, I can’t even control my temper." This is what the thought of her does to me. She’s crept into the crevasses of my disguise, torn off the mask I’d donned. She’s exposed exactly how weak I am at my core. Is this why the Lord sent her to me. To hold up a mirror to my frailties? To reveal just how fragile my relationship with Him is? To tell me that I haven’t changed, not really? For beneath it all, I am still the sad and lonely, tortured boy with a past that will never let go of me.
"What bullshit is this?" Sinclair growls. "Stop being so hard on yourself, Ed." He walks over to me, grips my shoulders. "Of all of us, you and Baron were affected the most by what happened at the incident. And yet, neither one of you has never told us the details."
"And I’m not starting now." I shake off his grasp. "I think it’s time you guys go."
"Oh, fuck off," Saint snaps.
I glare at him and he glares back.
"No swearing. Not when you are in the house of the Lord."
"What-fucking-ever," he responds.
"Saint," Sinclair warns, "keep it down. The Father’s already hurting. You’re not making it any better."
"Of course, the Father’s upset." He snorts, "He’s realizing that he’s not perfect. He’s one of us. As flawed, as fallible, as prone to falling in—"
"Stop," I growl. "Don’t go there."
