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Chapter Thirty-Six

Lux

“That’s right,” I confirm.

My mind spins, screaming at me to stop.

We have it good here. We don’t have to worry about money or having enough food or paying the rent. Think about it, Lux, don’t be stupid.

But I know that I can’t do it. I’ll never be able to do it. I’ll always hate him, just a little bit, for how easily he takes someone’s life. Violence is never the answer and death isn’t a choice for mere humans like us to make.

“Lux, can we please talk about this?” he pleads, pulling on a shirt and following me down the hallway. I stomp to the living room, shivering at how cold and dark it is.

“I hate this stupid modern apartment, too,” I snap, really spiraling out of control now. I know I’m acting a little crazy, but the hormones, exhaustion, and my near-death experience are conspiring against me.

“We can move,” he says simply. “I have no sentimental ties to this place. We can move tomorrow, if you want. I don’t care. All I want is you and our child.”

“Our child?” I screech, cringing at my own voice. Shit, relax woman. But I can’t, because he’s just brought up a great point. “Our child! You want our child to grow up watching their father live a life of crime? Just because you’re powerful and protected, doesn’t mean you’re not a criminal.”

“Of course I don’t want that,” he says gently, sensing that he must approach me as if I’m a scared, wounded possum on the side of the road. But I can’t be stopped now. Everything that’s happened to me since I met him comes crashing down on me, reminding me of the ridiculous reality I’m living in.

“Then what? We lie to our child like you lied to me for our entire relationship?”

I’m really getting screechy but I can’t stop now. I’ve committed to saying all the things I’ve been shutting inside of myself. All the things I tried to sugarcoat and convince myself weren’t that bad. And for what? So that my child wouldn’t grow up knowing poverty?

At least poverty is more respectable than crime.

“Okay, Lux,” Rafael says, irritation coating his voice. “I need you to calm down so we can discuss this rationally.”

“Rationally,” I spit out. Oh no, the hormones don’t like that word. “Rationally? I’m sorry, but were you thinking rationally when you stalked me, got me fired, stole my car, planned to murder me, convinced me to marry you…”

“Okay, I get it,” he interrupts me. “I did a whole lot of stupid shit. But I’ve also apologized, profusely, and promised to spend my life making it up to you.”

“Don’t bother,” I spit, bitterness clawing at my throat, coating my heart. “I want this moronic sham of a marriage dissolved. I’m filing for divorce.”

“Have it your way,” he growls, spinning on his heel and marching back to the bedroom. “But don’t you think for a second you’re keeping my kid away from me.”

***

I stare down the empty hallway as the elevator doors slide closed. I can’t believe he just…left.

Of all the reactions I could have expected, this wasn’t one of them.

I thought he might be upset or angry, but just leaving me after everything that’s happened is even more harsh. The apartment suddenly feels too large and empty.

Most of the lights are off, and my imagination runs wild, conjuring up monsters and foes in every darkened corner.

I hastily make my way into the kitchen where soft lights from the living room lamps make it feel cozier and safer.

Popping open the fridge, I stare at the almost-bare shelves and debate cobbling together some sort of dinner. Exhaustion washes over me so I slam it shut, settling on a bar stool at the island instead.

The air conditioning kicks in, making me jump. I briefly wonder if this level of anxiety affects the baby in some way, so I force myself to do some meditative breathing. Once I feel more settled, I make myself a chamomile tea and grab some snacks. I refuse to spend the night worrying about our fight.

When Rafael gets back home, we’ll talk about this like grown adults and make the right decision together. Until then, I’ll distract myself with mindless reality shows and way too many salty chips. I plop onto the gigantic sofa and snuggle into the pillows, draping a throw over myself.

This is fine. See? You’re safe and cozy. Nothing to worry about.

Just as I’m about to turn on the TV, the lights go out. I bolt upright, sending the bowl of chips in my lap flying into the air. Traumatic memories of walking into my old apartment at gunpoint wash over me.

Oh, hell no, not again. I’m so sick of this. Every time the power goes out, bad shit happens.

I sprint into the kitchen, smashing into a lamp on the way and toppling it over. The moonlight streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows gives me enough light to move around, but panic makes me clumsy.

I skid to a stop in front of the cabinets, pulling out the biggest knife I can find.

Slowly, knife in hand, I creep into the hallway. The small screen above the elevator flashes PH , showing that it’s stopped on our floor. Weird. It should be in the parking garage, unless Rafael came back and got stuck because of the power outage.

I almost run to the elevator and call his name, but a little voice deep inside tells me not to be too hasty. I stand frozen in the hallway, clutching my knife, staring at the unmoving doors.

A thud makes me jump, scooting closer to the kitchen. Another thud and a loud curse have me high-tailing it all the way into the kitchen.

That did not sound like Rafael at all. In fact, that dark morose voice sounded a lot like Vince.

Just as I’m debating my next move and thanking the universe that the power is out, the lights flip back on and the elevator dings.

I panic and stuff myself into the pantry, quietly sliding the door almost fully closed. I peek through a tiny crack, praying Rafael walks in and asks me what the hell I’m doing hiding in the pantry.

The elevator dings again.

My heart drops.

A third ding.

As soon as we got home from the Mancini mansion tonight, Rafael had reset the elevator codes to make sure no one could get in. He was worried that other Mancini family members, courtesy of Vince, would learn the codes and break in. Only his uncles and Enzo have the new code, so whoever is in that elevator isn’t supposed to be here.

Ding.

I feel my pockets for my phone, hoping I can quickly text Rafael, but they’re empty. Of course, it’s on the nightstand in the bedroom.

Ding. Ding.

My breathing becomes shallow. I feel a panic attack coming on with every ding of that damn elevator.

Ding.

Sweat breaks out over my forehead, partly from the cramped closet but mostly from fear. More memories of waking up in that closet in Mancini’s mansion come flooding in, skyrocketing my heartbeat.

Bang. Bang. Bang.

The hammering on the elevator doors mirrors my thudding heartbeat. I clutch my knife to my chest, almost cutting myself in the process. Fear runs up my spine when I hear the doors being forcefully pried apart.

No, no, please. Don’t let him get in.

Somewhere deep in my soul, I know it’s Vince coming back to finish what he started. He had a plan and I ruined it. Now he’s going to make me pay with my life.

My body trembles as I force myself to stay still. I barely breathe when I hear his footsteps echoing off the marble in the entryway.

He’s going to search every inch of this apartment until he finds me. The TV is blaring, there are chips scattered across the living room floor, a steaming mug of tea sits on the table—of course, he knows I’m here. How could he not?

Heavy footsteps thud down the hallway toward the bedroom. I can hear him throwing doors open and calling my name. Well, not my name exactly—he’s still calling me waitress , as if I’m not worthy of a name. Anger blooms inside my heart.

I’ve never wanted anyone dead before, but Vince has earned the honor.

I force my brain to work, to think of some sort of survival strategy, but I come up empty. I barely survived my last encounter with Vince—and that was when more players were involved. Who knows what he’ll do to me when it’s just the two of us, face-to-face?

His footsteps echo back up the hallway. I hear him stop as he undoubtedly spots my mess in the living room.

“Come on out, little waitress,” he taunts. “I want to play a little game with you.”

Okay, okay, think brain, think. I have the element of surprise! And I have a knife. I could spring up behind him and stab him. That might work.

I watch through the crack as he slowly walks into the kitchen, looking around. His gaze travels over the pantry door, and I hold my breath, not daring to move an inch. I can see that his hands are empty, but I’m almost positive there’s a gun tucked somewhere in his jacket. He wouldn’t come unarmed.

He circles the island, dangerously close to me. If I throw open the door and spring into action right now, I could probably disarm him.

My heart hammers wildly in my chest and my muscles freeze. I can’t move. I can’t make myself do it. Even after all the pain he’s caused me, I can’t hurt a fellow human.

I hear a dark chuckle, inches away from the pantry door. Suddenly, light floods over me as he throws it open and grabs my bathrobe, pulling me out. The knife clatters to the floor, skittering across the slippery marble. He smiles, evil and depraved.

“I don’t usually like hide-and-seek,” he whispers darkly, leaning in too close for comfort. “But that was fun.”

“Please…”

“Please, what?” he asks cruelly, mocking my fear. “Let you go? Leave you alone?”

“Yes.”

His eyes rove over me, resting too long on my half-open bathrobe. I shrink against the counter, trying to make myself smaller, to cover up more. His gaze darkens and a lewd smile plays at the corners of his mouth.

“Maybe I’ll let you live a little longer,” he whispers, winking at me. “So we can have some fun.”

The anger in my heart multiplies, simmering wildly inside. It seeps into my veins, my blood, and deep into my bones. If this man thinks he can “have some fun” with me before he kills me, he’s sorely mistaken.

I lean back and launch a wad of spit into his face. It hits him squarely on the cheek and he shoves me away, wiping at his face.

I take the opportunity to twist away and run for my knife but the click of a gun stops me in my tracks.

“I wouldn’t do that if I was you,” he warns, his voice cold and hard again. “Turn around slowly, hands up in the air.”

My heart drops but I do as he says.

“We’re about to play a real fun game, waitress.”