Page 34

Amelia---Decisions

My alarm goes off, and I scramble to find it. I am wrapped in several blankets. There is a warm arm draped around my middle, and it tightens when I attempt to sit up. A grumble comes from behind me, making a smile break out across my lips. Rhodes slept in the same bed as me last night.

I let him sleep in my bed.

I remove myself from his grip and stand, stretching my body and groaning when my muscles protest. I had been cleared for work yesterday and today is my first day back at the office. I still don’t have complete recovery in my hands, and I am still slower off the mark, but considering the state I had been in? I will take it.

I make my way to the closet, grinning at the way Rhodes has integrated himself into my home; his shirts now hang beside mine, those worn Bludstones rest next to my shoes. It was an easy decision, asking him to move in with me. He spends all of his time here anyway, and I love having him here. I can’t explain it, but Rhodes feels like home to me now, not these walls. My eyes peruse the options before me, and I feel the way my body is tense. There are waves of anxiety rippling through me. The only thing I can do is to keep pushing forward.

I need to dress this morning in harsh lines and sleekness; there is no room for leather or softness or comfort today. I need to drape my body in a way that keeps the world out. After months of healing, I have to don my armor once more because if I continue to hide, nothing changes. I choose a pair of black and cream pinstripe pants with a tapered leg, pairing it with a deep maroon blouse. This is my favorite shirt. It is sleek but has bishop sleeves in a slightly darker color chiffon.

Slipping both over a matching bra and panty set, I move to the shelves holding my heels, trying to decide which pair fits the day. My body aches, and I ignore it. I had planned to wear my Jimmy Choo Cass 95s, but my eyes pause on a glittering pair I’ve never worn.

Maison Christian Louboutin Kate Strass pumps, size 38.

A masterclass in beauty, the pumps are over four inches tall and absolutely covered in crystals. The way the light reflects off each shoe was what initially pulled my eye when I purchased them, but there is a small part of me that is saving them for if I ever get married.

I scoff at the thought. These shoes will never see the light of day.

I grab my Cass 95s, walking back out to the bed. Rhodes sits against the headboard, and his eyes roam my body. I let his gaze linger. There are still parts of me I’ve kept hidden, and I don’t know if I’ll ever feel safe enough to let him see them.

“You look damn good, kochanie .” His voice is rough from the gravel in his throat. “Come here and give me a kiss, pretty girl.”

I duck my head, padding softly toward him, my pale pink heels still hooked on my fingers. He grins as my mouth meets his, our lips dancing in harmony. He places one hand on the back of my head, holding me there as he deepens the kiss and I moan. Gods. This man.

Chuckling, he pulls back and runs his hand over my cheek. “Where are you headed?” I pull away from him and sit on the edge of the bed, putting my pumps on my feet, flexing at the way they feel. It has been a minute since I’ve worn them and I am grateful for the pair of flats I keep in my glovebox.

“I have to go to the office today. Duncan said that there are several matters that need my attention.” I sigh. “He’s right, Rhodes. I can’t keep sitting here while I have an Outfit to run. I have to go back at some point.” His eyes are full of concern, and while I know he worries, the reality is that I have been cleared to resume normal activity. The Mafia doesn’t stop its dealings just because shit happens.

I stand, putting my weight into the pale pink heels and taking a few steps, measuring my ability to walk in them. It’ll do. I spin around, grinning as I see the tenting of the rich green sheets gathered around Rhodes’ legs. It is the confidence boost I hadn’t realized I needed and I walk out of the room, Rhodes’ deep laughter behind me.

/////////////

“Medina made contact.” My head whips up at Duncan’s statement, a flood of confusion hitting me. I lick my lips as my Underboss takes a seat before me.

“What do you mean, ‘made contact’?”

“He sent a message through Denaro. Something about how unfortunate it was that you were recovering.”

My blood boils as the hairs on my hair stand on end. No one outside our inner circle knew that I was injured. My men were used to my involvement being as needed. For many of them, I was simply a name, a signature on their checks at the end of the week. My eyes lock with Duncan’s.

“Did we ever recover traffic camera footage of the night I was ambushed?” The look on Duncan’s face gives me the answer. “Did Denaro say if Medina mentioned anything else, Duncan?” I pin him with my stare, feeling my jaw set in frustration.

“Ames.”

I hold a hand up, silencing him.

“Did. Medina. Say. Anything. Else.” I question him, the words coming out harshly, but I don’t care. Duncan Russo fidgets under my glare, and I wait. He may be married to my best friend but at the end of the day? Duncan Russo is just another man on my payroll. He answers to me.

“Denaro said that Medina seemed smug about it, like he was almost giddy that you were injured. Mentioned something about the tragedies of it all.” He pauses, taking a deep breath before continuing. “The Families want a meeting.”

Un-fucking-believable.

I straighten my shoulders, inhaling deeply. I run my tongue along my molars before speaking. And then I drop my voice deeper, settling into a role I’ve never played with the man before me. My fingers itch, wanting to curl around the handle of my blade on the desk.

“You didn’t think you should have told me?” I look down at my nails, examining the ripped cuticles. “You could have called me. Texted me. Hell, you could have had Parker break the news.”

Shame covers his face. I don’t care. There is no excuse for Duncan keeping this from me. I cannot excuse it.

“I should have called,” he sputters, my simmering rage evident from where he sits.

I erupt.

“YES YOU FUCKING SHOULD HAVE! Gods-fucking-dammit, Duncan. I am your MOTHERFUCKING DON.” I push to my feet, slamming my palms on my desk. “You are my employee. You report to me.”

“Ames.” I am angry. No. I am furious.

“You do not get to call me ‘Ames’ right now, Duncan,” I seethe. He moves to stand, and I cock my head.

“You’re right, I should have told you. But I wanted you to recover and not worry about the business.”

“DO YOU NOT REMEMBER WHAT I HAD TO ENDURE THAT GODSFORSAKEN NIGHT?!”

My demons start to slip in through the cracks as I lose the composure I’ve clutched to. I just want them off. The water. The water wasn’t hot enough. I need it to be hotter. I need to be clean.

“YOU SHOULD KNOW BETTER THAN JUST ABOUT ANYONE WHAT I HAVE FUCKING GIVEN UP TO MAKE SURE THIS FAMILY SURVIVES.”

I watch Duncan blanch at my words. I know it is a low blow but I will not apologize for it. I have not given the Mafia every piece of my broken soul just to have it ripped from my clutches by a fool of a man.

“Why do the other Dons want a meeting?” My voice is lethal, a silent dare for Duncan to hide information from me again.

“They want to ensure you are still able to lead the Family.”

Motherfuckers.

“Set the meeting. Get the fuck out of here.”

He stands, taking a small step my way, his hand out.

“Don’t.” I spin, dismissing him. I keep my eyes focused on the photograph of my father sitting on a shelf as the door clicks.

Two seconds later, I lose it.

Gods-fucking-dammit.

/////////////

I make my way into our bedroom, sighing as the door closes behind me.

“You were out late,” Rhodes remarks, closing the book he’d been reading while waiting for me.

“Rhodes,” I breathe, my voice cracking from both physical and emotional exhaustion. I haven’t been sleeping well, tossing and turning most—if not all—of the night. There are remnants of my brush with death that neither of us wants to bring into the light, but they are affecting our daily lives. Couple that with the revelation that Duncan withheld crucial information from me today? I am a walking disaster.

“Come here, baby.”

I walk toward him, my steps unsteady from the height of my heels. I don’t know why I wear them. Sure, they make my ass look incredible, but I don’t care about that anymore. I stop short of the bed, my shoulders slumping, and I feel my bottom lip start to tremble. Rhodes turns, placing his feet on the ground and running his hands along my hips.

“Amelia. What happened?” Rhodes dips his head, trying to meet my eyes, but I won’t allow him to see them. I don’t like him seeing this version of me. I am broken today, and I need to process that alone. There is nothing he can do to fix this part of me.

Rhodes moves his hands down my curves until he reaches the back of my knees. He brings one leg up, resting the ball of my foot on his thigh. My hands come up, settling on his shoulders. I feel him slip the heel off and begin massaging my aching arch. I’m torturing myself in these shoes. I take a deep breath as his thumb places more pressure in the middle of my arch. Gods, that is glorious. I know I’m blaming myself for my ambush, that I’m compensating for something that was out of my control. He gently sets my foot down, repeating the process on the other.

The glare on Rhodes’ face tells me he knows what is running through my head as well.

“On the bed, kochanie .”

I raise an eyebrow, and I crawl across our linen duvet, smirking. I wonder what he has planned, and knowing him, it’ll likely end in me screaming his name. I flop onto my back, and Rhodes sits next to me, pulling my feet into his lap. He pushes his thumb into my arch again, and it hurts in the best way. I settle against our pillowcases, rubbing my shoulders back and forth; the satin feels nice along my skin.

“What happened, Amelia?” He asks again, increasing the pressure from his hands, squeezing my feet.

“I went to the range today after a few meetings. The meetings were annoying. And then fucking Duncan told me that Medina was apparently aware of my ambush. Oh! And to top it off? The other Dons found it necessary to call an official meeting to make sure I’m, in their words, competent.” My eyes close, and I can feel my nostrils flaring at recalling conversations from earlier in the day.

No one would ever truly understand what goes into being the head of my Outfit, but I know he sees the weight of the immense responsibility bearing down on my shoulders.

“Why did Duncan not tell you about Medina? He answers to you, baby.”

I roll my eyes and flex my fingers to stretch out my palms. “He said that he didn’t want to make me worry while recovering. I may have exploded on him this afternoon.”

Rhodes doesn’t say anything. He just hums, and it is nice to vent without someone trying to fix my problems. He flicks his gaze to my face, his hands pausing for a beat before he speaks. “Did he deserve it?”

I sigh. The truth is, I’m not sure he did, but I also refuse to apologize for reminding him of his position while we are at work. I don’t answer Rhodes, and he accepts that easily.

“How did the range go?” Rhodes asks, changing the subject in his attempt to coax me into letting him in.

“I couldn’t use my blades today. My grip still isn’t strong enough to let them fly the way I love. So I had to shoot. So stupid. I hate bullets.” I reach for my nightstand, pulling a knife from the drawer. I remove the piece from its sheath, the steel edge glinting in the soft light. The handle is wooden, the color of a blazing sunset. The knife is wonderfully balanced and light in my hand. Perfect for flicking it across the room…or slicing an organ.

Rhodes keeps rubbing my feet, moving from one to the other, making sure he is paying attention to the heels now. “Why do you hate bullets?” he murmurs, running his hands up my ankle and giving me some love there. I spin the tip of the blade on my finger, watching the way it illuminates in the night glow. Between the gleam of my blade and Rhodes’ skilled hands, I am slowly being lulled to a state of calm.

“They’re archaic. I’d much rather feel the give of slicing skin open with a blade. Besides, men expect bullets. They don’t expect blades.”

“So you had a shit day at the office, yelled at someone who is supposed to have your back, and then you couldn’t do the one thing as easy as breathing for you.” Rhodes doesn’t try to pin my gaze or force me to meet his eyes. He simply lets me sink into the comfort wrapping itself around my soul.

“Yeah.”

He hums as I pause, knowing that he wants me to let him in. I know that what I’m about to say will be the root cause behind everything I have felt today.

“I was weak, Ro. I hit one shot. One shot of ten. I-I can hit a damn shot. I am the fucking leader of the godsdamn Mafia.” I take one shaking breath in, then another, before the dams no longer hold the waves from crashing into my spirit.

He doesn’t say anything. Rhodes just sits there, letting me release it all freely.

After a while, he speaks softly.

“It took me a month to be able to bear all my weight after my accident.” Rhodes has told me how he lost his partner while on a mission and that he had to recover alone after. He’s never talked about the aftermath until now. “I was so frustrated. All I wanted was to walk again. I remember being so fucking angry, kochanie . Angry at the world, angry at my partner, angry at myself.”

A low chuckle comes from him, his hands trembling for a brief moment before returning to the methodical movement. “I would walk into therapy and refuse to do any of the exercises. I was dropped from two therapists because I was acting out. The third one finally broke through and convinced me that I could actually live again.”

His fingers caress my ankle, lost in thought. “That point when I wanted to give up? That feeling of failure? I felt that, too. It was consuming, like the heaviness of a tidal wave you cannot outswim. I spiraled, thinking of things I could have done differently. Things I should have done instead.” His eyes snap to mine, clear like the ocean after a storm. “But I cannot change what happened.”

I know what he’s trying to tell me, but all I’ve known is the Mafia; to not be able to do my life’s work is a death sentence. “Rhodes,” I start, taking a deep breath. “I am sorry.”

“It was another six months before I could fire a weapon, let alone use one with a sight on it. There are things so ingrained into who we are, and when we no longer are able to do those things, we lose a piece of ourselves. Your blades are an extension of who you are, Amelia. Feeling the way you do is only natural. But one thing I know for sure?” Rhodes squeezes my arches, making sure I am listening to what he is about to say.

“You are not done yet, baby. You are simply sharpening those blades, waiting for the perfect opportunity to strike.” My heart stops, the words settling in. “You have every right to be frustrated. You have every damn right to be angry. I want you to be angry, Amelia. Use your anger as fuel to make Medina pay. But what I will not allow to happen is for you to be angry at yourself for things you cannot control.” There is dominance in his tone now. His hands stop their travel, resting now on my shins, and Rhodes’ face is serious.

“You will throw a blade again. You just need more time, okay?”

Unfortunately, time is the one thing I don’t have much of.