Caitlin
In the silence between sex and sleep, Paolo’s deep voice cracks the darkness.
“Who hurt you, doll?” We’re spooning, my back to his front, his arm around me, hand molded over my breast.
I go still, listening to the sounds of our breath, making sure I know what he means. Even though I’m pretty sure I do, I warble, “What do you mean?”
He waits a beat. Then he says, “Tell be about the checking out thing.”
My heart starts hammering. He must feel it because he shifts his hand to rest over my heart instead. His lips come to my nape. “Don’t be afraid. Just tell me.”
I don’t know if afraid is the right word. But I’m broken. Damaged. And I don’t like looking at my brokenness.
I lick my lips. “The official diagnosis is depersonalization-derealization disorder. It’s one of the dissociative disorders. When I’m triggered, I have this out-of-body experience, not in a good way. Like I’m just an observer. Like you said, I check out.”
“And who made you that way?”
Again, my heart-rate accelerates. Is it so obvious someone damaged me?
“Breathe,” he commands, pinching my nipple, and I realize I was holding my breath. “Tell me.”
He’s so confident, so sure of himself. Six months of therapy and I could never bring myself to even hint that something happened. What if my therapist had just demanded the truth, like my dommy boyfriend? Would I have gotten over it?
I force my lips to move. “Wh-why?” I think I already know the answer.
“I’m going to avenge you.”
My stomach somersaults. His solution is so simple. So obvious and overt. Someone wrongs you, there’s retribution. I stole from him so I deserved to be kidnapped and have my brother threatened. It’s like an equation or truth in his world.
How would I feel about my foster dad swimming with the fishes?
Actually, I’d be fine. I guess I have no moral compass, either. But I don’t want him to commit murder for me.
“What will you do?”
“What do you want me to do?”
I suck in a long, shaky breath. I’m blanking out. Leaving my body.
When I don’t answer, he says, “I’m trying to figure out if killing him will just traumatize you more.”
“Maybe.” I force the word across my lips. “Can you just beat him up?”
“Oh, I’ll make him sorry he was born, doll. Give me his name.”
My body starts to shake.
He holds me tighter. “I don’t want make this worse, bella. I just want you to be free.”
“Do it. Do it for me. I want you to.” The shaking comes on harder. But I’m in my body, experiencing it.
It’s a release of some kind. Like I’m shaking off every unwanted touch. Every cruelty I endured. It’s some kind of rebirth as the fissured part of me I’ve been trying to keep together finally cracks apart.
“His name,” he repeats in my ear.
“Andy Watson. My foster father.” The room itself opens up and I drop into an abyss, free-falling through shame and awareness. Falling and falling and falling.
Until I land, squarely in Paolo’s arms. Safe in bed. Protected. Defended.
Soon to be avenged.
“I love you, Paolo Tacone,” I say into the darkness.
He kisses my neck and squeezes me even tighter. “You’re my wildfire. I’m not gonna let anyone put out your light. Not ever.”
Paolo
Ravil Baranov, the boss of the bratva, lives near Gio in a high-rise apartment downtown on Lake Michigan. Actually, from what I gather, his entire cell inhabits the building, making it a Russian fortress.
Even the front door guy is covered in tattoos and greets us with a thick accent. Vlad speaks to him in Russian and we’re both patted down.
I didn’t wear a piece or even the brass knuckles I used to put Andy Watson in the hospital Monday. I made sure Caitlin’s former foster dad will never touch another child. Not if he wants to live.
I haven’t seen Caitlin since our flight home Sunday where she officially joined the Mile High club. She needed time to catch up on her work after being away all weekend, and I’ve been following up on the promises I made to her.
We take the elevator up to the top floor where we’re patted down again by two surly tattooed men.
Ravil takes his security seriously. I respect that.
When we’re finally led in, the head of the Russian bratva greets us in a sweater and a pair of jeans. His tattoos show on his knuckles and up his neck. The Russians use ink to mark every crime they commit. Every murder, every theft. Every act documented for their cell to see. Those with the most ink are the most dangerous.
He says something curt to Vlad and doesn’t greet me at all. He just eyes me speculatively and says, “You asked for meeting. Why?”
“I’m looking for information about the death of a low-life thief by the name of Lake West. Used to do a little business with both of us, I believe. I have no beef with his killer, I’m just making sure he’s really dead.”
Ravil’s brows shoot up. I surprised him with the last part. “Killed by Tacone Family. That’s what I heard.” He shrugs. “You know something different?”
“I don’t think we did it. But that’s the word on the street. Thing is-there was no body discovered, so I’m wondering if it was faked. He owe you money?”
Ravil considers me for a minute before he nods slowly. “He was moving electronics for us. Your outfit was buyer. There was a double-cross and you killed him. We never got our money. We were new in town. We didn’t want war with Tacones, so we didn’t register complaint. West was dead, what could we do?”
I nod. The pieces are starting to come together. I have to say, I’d hoped Ravil would tell me they’d killed Lake West, but to me it all points to a faked death.
Except who would abandon his children for a lousy truck of stolen goods?
That man had better be dead or I’ll make him wish he were when I find him.
Caitlin
I roll out of bed and run for the bathroom, but when I get there, I just dry heave.
Ugh. Three days I’ve been nauseous. This is getting so old.
I haven’t had a drop to drink since Friday night at the Bellissimo, I really don’t understand…
Oh fuck.
I yank open the drawer under the sink and stare at my packet of pills.
Sugar pills. Five gone. I should be bleeding now.
Dizzy, I throw the toilet seat down and sit on it.
Holy, holy crap.
I’m pregnant.
And it must be the hormones that make me feel like bursting into tears rather than dropping out of my body.
I gulp in my breath and release it slowly. Remember I have a pregnancy test under the sink from the last time I had a scare. It was a two-pack. I pull it out and pee on the stick.
Try to ignore the way the room spins when the pink plus sign appears.
Okay.
I’m pregnant. With Paolo’s baby.
And he’s not interested in having kids. There are suddenly too many disturbing possibilities crowding me. Would he ask me to get an abortion? Or would he support me keeping it?
I have a feeling if he did support me keeping it, we’d be locked in together. There’d be no getting out of our arrangement. He would own me for the rest of my life or at least until the kid was eighteen. Keeping this baby means keeping Paolo.
Forever.
A hitman for the mob.
I stuff my knuckles in my mouth as the tears hit hard. I don’t know what to do. I can’t tell Paolo. Not until I’ve had time to think through things.
Somehow, I get myself showered and ready for the day and out the front door.
And that’s when my craptastic day gets even worse.
The two FBI agents who arrested me before are standing at my door.
“Ms. West? We need you to come in and answer some questions.”
I don’t feel a shred of remorse for puking on his shoes.