Then he stands there waiting, holding out a hand.
I walk over to him and take it.
Before we go, I turn back to David and say, “By the way, Damon, your kids don’t look Sicilian. I saw pictures. They look exactly like you.”
As we’re walking out, I hear David’s new wife say loudly, “Who’s Damon? What kids?”
If she’s lucky, it won’t take her more than five years of her life to find out the truth about the man she’s calling Nikki.
I hope she gets half of that one hundred million.
I’m sure she deserves it.
43
Kage
From the time we leave Damon’s, Natalie doesn’t speak to me.
We spend the night in a hotel suite. I order room service and draw her a bath. I watch her eat in silence that’s suffocating. I listen to the sounds of her bathing from behind the locked bathroom door and want to kick it open and force her to talk to me.
I don’t.
This suffering is my penance. However long her silence lasts, I’ll wait.
She sleeps in the king sized bed. I lie awake on the sofa, my heart aching, and listen to her breathe.
The next morning, we fly to New York. She doesn’t ask where we’re going. I think she’s in a state of deep shock at seeing Damon.
I should’ve shot that prick when I had the chance.
When we arrive at La Guardia, she’s sleeping. I unbuckle her seat belt and smooth a hand over her hair. “Baby. Wake up. We’re here.”
Eyes closed, she mumbles, “Where?”
“Home.”
Her lids flutter, then lift. She gazes up at me for a moment, then looks out the window.
It’s obvious she can tell by the view that we didn’t land at Reno-Tahoe International.
But she only takes a deep breath and stands, avoiding my eyes.
She refuses to look at me on the drive into the city. She doesn’t look at my driver, either, or show surprise at seeing the Bentley waiting for us on the tarmac. She just stares out the window, her gaze far away.
I have to keep my hands curled to fists at my sides so I don’t pull her against my chest and bury my face into her hair.
When we get into Manhattan, she cranes her neck to look at the skyscrapers we pass. She looks very young, gazing out the window with wide eyes, her lips parted in awe.
I want to take her everywhere in the world so I can see that look on her face over and over again.
As soon as I regain her trust, I will.
She keeps absent-mindedly toying with the ring I gave her, twisting it around with her thumb. That she hasn’t taken it off is a good omen.
I wish like hell she’d tell me what she’s thinking.
When we pull into the parking garage of my place on Park Avenue, she sits back into her seat and grips the door handle, looking straight ahead. Even in profile, I see her anxiety.
I feel it, coming off her in waves.
I say gently, “This is my home. One of them. We’ll be safe here until it’s over.”
She swallows, but doesn’t ask what I mean by “it.”
I reach out and grasp her hand. It’s cold and clammy. When I squeeze it, she withdraws, sliding both hands between her thighs, out of reach.
We take the private elevator to the eighty-second floor. The doors slide open, but she doesn’t move. She stays frozen in the corner, blinking, looking out into the foyer of the penthouse.
“It’s the whole floor. 8,000 square feet. 360-degree views of New York City. You’ll love it.”
After a moment, she steps forward hesitantly. I hold the doors open for her, ignoring the electronic alarm bell when it starts to chime. She walks out of the elevator and into my home, not stopping until she’s crossed the living room and is standing at the floor-to-ceiling glass windows on the opposite side of the elevators.
For a long time, she silently takes in the view of Central Park.
Then she turns to me and says quietly, “I’m not going back to work, am I?”
Knowing I can never hold back a shred of the truth from her ever again, I answer without hesitation. “No.”
“Or Lake Tahoe.”
“No.”
“Permanently?”
“Correct.”
“What if I said I wanted to?”
I say softly, “You don’t, baby. You would’ve already told me if you did.”
She draws a slow breath. We stare at each other. My arms ache to feel her warmth.
“I left Mojo with Sloane.”
“I’ll bring him here. Along with all your things from your house.”
After a moment, she whispers hoarsely, “Just burn that damn house down. Burn it to the ground.”
When I take a step toward her, my heart throbbing, she holds up a hand to stop me.
“Not yet, Kage. You need to leave me alone for a while.”
Her voice is broken. Her eyes shine with unshed tears.
I’ll leave her alone all she wants later, but right now she needs her man.
When I stride forward, my gaze leveled on hers, she says firmly, “No.”
“Yes.”
I grab her, pull her against my chest, and squeeze her, hard. She doesn’t pull away, but she doesn’t hug me back, either. I dig a hand into her hair and whisper into her ear.
“Tell me what to do. I’ll do anything.”
With her face hidden in my shirt, she sighs. “You can start by getting me a glass of wine. I can’t deal with this shit sober.”
“Are you gonna run away as soon as I go into the kitchen?”
“I had the thought. But I know you’d follow me, so…” She sighs again.
“I would. I’ll always follow you. You’re my north star.”
She makes a strangled noise and burrows her face deeper against my pec. My heart soaring, I kiss her throat and hold her closer.
“Stop sniffing my hair, pervert.”
“I can’t help it. Your scent is my favorite drug.”
“If you say one more romantic thing, I’ll throw up.”
She’s angry, hurt, and shell-shocked, but underneath all that, I hear something else in her words.
Love.
I almost groan out loud.
Buried in my back pocket, my cell phone rings. I don’t want to answer it, but I’m waiting for an important call.
If it’s the one I’m expecting, I can’t miss it.
“Go ahead,” Nat says softly, pulling away. “I can tell you want to.”
“I’ll get you that glass of wine. I’ll be right back.”
Nodding, she turns away and winds her arms around her waist. I leave her staring out the window and head into the kitchen, pulling out the phone and putting it against my ear.
The number is blocked, which is a good sign. Everyone else who calls me is programmed in.
“Talk to me.”
“It’s done.”
The voice on the other end of the line has a slight Italian accent. Massimo only lived in Italy until he was ten years old, but still retains a hint of his motherland in his speech.
“Good. How?”
“A fight broke out in the lunch room. Made it look like he was in the wrong place at the wrong time. Got caught in the crossfire, so to speak. There won’t be any questions.”
Hearing that, I breathe easier. Until Massimo adds, “You owe me for this.”
These pushy Italian fuckers. Always asking for more.