He takes a step toward me, closing the distance between us. “The night of our wedding day, before you made escape attempt number one, you asked why I made you move in with me when I hadn’t enforced the same rule with Dasha.”
“In the kitchen,” I whisper, leaning into him as goose bumps form. Memories of that night sweep through my thoughts.
His stance is wide as he stares at me, not breaking eye contact. “I never wanted her. Never even entertained the idea of living with her. But you?” He reaches out and brushes his knuckles over my cheek. “I did. That’s why I made it the only change in our deal when I could’ve made Aleksy give me a hell of a lot more.”
“We hardly knew each other,” I rasp out, nuzzling into his touch.
“Trust me, I’m the last fucking person to believein the moments. It wasn’t love. I don’t do love. But it wassomething. Something I only feltwith you.” He tilts his head down to kiss the top of my head and pulls away. “Now, come on. I’ll call the number she emailed you frommy phone. We’ll get her the cash, and then we’re going home.”
I show him the number, and he dials it.
Dasha answers right away.
Emilio talks to her, setting up arrangements.
I look at the time on my phone.
It’s nearly one in the morning.
After he ends the call, he runs his hand through his hair. “This night is never-fucking-ending. Come on.” There’s frustration in his tone, but it’s not toward me.
It’s toward Dasha.
The day.
All his problems.
I eyeball him skeptically. “Are you serious?”
“Yes, and if this is some kind of setup, she’ll regret it.”
“It’s not; I swear it.”
Emilio was right.
This nightisnever-ending.
When we exit Lucky Kings, there’s a new car waiting for us with the darkest-tinted windows I’ve ever seen. I ask who it belongs to, and he says it’s for whoever needs it. Then he drives us to a high-rise building that turns out to be his condo in the city.
“So, you’re selling this place, right?” I ask, eyeing the living room and calculating how easy it could be used as a mistress spot.
I’d hate to have to burn this entire building down if Emilio got that idea.
“If that’s what you want,” he says before disappearing into a room.
When he returns, a large duffel bag big enough to fit a body is slung over his shoulder.
Our next stop is a run-down twenty-four-hour diner just past the city limits. Emilio pulls into a space under a light and beside an older baby-blue Escalade.
I recognize the vehicle immediately.
It’s David’s, the guy who lived across the street from our family home. He and Dasha had a thing years ago.
She used to sneak out with him during her teens, and he took her virginity. But as far as I knew, it was never anything serious between them.
“Stay here,” Emilio says, reaching into the glove box. He pulls out his Glock, shoves it beneath his waistband, and steps out.
The Escalade door opens.
