Page 49 of The Biting Bargain

"Answer it." Vincent turns to go.

And while Dad, still completely befuddled, takes the call, Vincent pushes me out the door, his big hand in the small of my back firm and unyielding.

ChapterTwenty-Three

Vincent

"I should deductthis from your money," I growl into the silence that has spread through the limo like freezing fog.

"Whatever," Polly says. She's sunken into the leather seat next to me, arms crossed, staring straight ahead. She’s fidgeting with a little matchbook she’s taken with her from her father’s restaurant, turning the little paper square in her fingers like a coin. It’s maddening.

I growl, suppressing the urge to punch a hole into the window. Rage is racing through my veins, hot and cold at once.

No idea why it's even there in the first place.

Why the hell did I do what I just did? Why save her family from ruin? On any other day, the fate of any third-class family eatery would have been so far down on my list of priorities, it wouldn’t even have made said list.

But something is off, and it takes some time before I can pinpoint that strange feeling creeping up on me and sinking nasty little claws into my chest.

It’s guilt. And it’s totally uncharacteristic. It’s not my fault, those mobsters trashed up the place and busted up her father. But then again, I could have just paid Polly her part for our first meeting at Club Sanguine. She could have paid off DiMartino, and that place wouldn’t lie in shambles. So technically, I am to blame. But in the universe I usually live in I wouldn’t give a damn.

Yet here we are, in the back of my limo, not talking, and Polly fidgeting with a matchbook while I try to keep my rage inside.

"Don't think this is some kind of special treatment," I say, as if to reassure myself more than anyone else. Vincent Renard, prince of darkness, saves family restaurant. Perish the thought of the club members finding out...

"Awesome," Polly hisses, scrunching up tighter and staring straight ahead. She looks like a human fist.

* * *

"So,why didn’t you tell me the real reason why Balzar DiMartino wants money from you?" I ask as we enter my living room a mere half hour later and with my patience close to breaking point.

Polly startles, turning towards me, still fidgeting with the matchbook.

"Don’t know what you’re talking about."

She’s looking past me, twirling the matchbook. And I am fed up. I want answers. And now.

"Don’t you dare play stupid."

I plant myself in front of her, fighting to keep that weird anger at bay that has been simmering since the second she asked me to go see her family with that haunted look in her eyes. It’s still there. Something inside me clenches.

Very well. If she won’t talk, I will.

"It is actually your ex who owes the mobsters, not you." She flinches as I say it. "That Patrick Threehorn guy."

She evades my eyes. "If you already know everything, why ask at all?"

"Because you lied to me again."

I pluck the matchbook from her fingers. That shakes her from her stupor. Her eyes widen, her mouth forming a scandalized „O.”.

"Give me that!" she says, angling for the matchbook, but I keep it just out of her reach, stepping back. She follows.

"You lied to me, dove." I pull the matchbook higher and her hand reaches into nothing. "Twice now."

"I wasn't lying," she yells. "It’s none of your business why I need the money."

I take another step back, and another. She follows, eyes on the matchbook.

---