Page 55 of Wicked Sinner

CAESAR

Inever want to let this woman go.

I knew that already. But last night, today, right now—all of that has only made it more clear.

I don’t care that she’s not one of the socialites in the Miami criminal underworld—I want her more because of that.

What I can’t figure out is how to make her happy when I can’t just walk away from everything that I’m meant to inherit.

Everything that I need to prove to myself that I can do.

I don’t know how I can make her stay.

I look at her in the dim light of the moon, this woman who's just spent the day showing me what normal looks like. Her hair is still messy from our impromptu session in the car, and there's sand clinging to her clothes from the beach.

“Take me home,” I say softly, leaning back to run my fingers through her hair and look her in the eye. “Take me to your home for the night. I want to stay with you. Like I’m just some guy you brought home.”

An instant wariness fills her eyes. “You want to go home with me? To my house?”

“Yes. I want to see—”

“No, you don’t,” she interrupts me. “It’s old. It needs work. It’s had the same curtains since I was five. My mattress is a spring-type my dad bought for a hundred and fifty dollars. The linoleum in the kitchen is turning yellow.”

"Bridget—"

“It’s not what you’re used to.” She looks at me desperately, and I reach for her, brushing a finger over her lower lip.

“I haven’t always lived in luxury, bellissima. I’ll tell you more about it later. But it’s fine. I won’t judge your home. I promise.”

She looks as if she’s not sure that she believes me. “Why?” she asks softly, and I wonder if I should answer her honestly.

“Because today was the best day I’ve had in years,” I tell her quietly. “Because since last night, I’ve felt like a new man. And I want to see your home. I want to see you, and that’s a part of it, Bridget.”

She swallows hard. “Okay,” she says finally, and my heart feels as if it’s suddenly lightened, as if a weight has lifted off of me.

“I’ll let security know to keep an eye on it tonight,” I tell her, reaching for my phone. “Just put in the directions for me.”

"As long as they stay outside and don't knock on the door unless someone's actually dying," Bridget says flatly, and I nod, stifling a laugh.

"Deal."

Twenty minutes later, we’re driving through the quiet suburban streets of her neighborhood.

The houses here are modest but well-maintained, with small yards and mailboxes shaped like fish or flamingos.

It's the kind of place where people know their neighbors' names and kids still ride bikes in the street. Bridget’s house is further off, isolated about ten miles from the neighborhood proper.

As I pull into the parking lot of the garage, I hear her indrawn breath, see the look on her face at being home again.

It makes me feel like an asshole for ever taking her away, even if I still think my reasons weren’t entirely wrong. She couldn’t stay here alone and be safe, not pregnant with my child. But still…

I should have done it all differently. And it’s never been clearer than it is in this moment, as Bridget stares at her home, and I can tell she never wants to leave again.

It’s simple. There’s a small garden out front that’s empty and tilled right now, with no fences, no gates, no cameras, no keycards. No visible security.

It’s a home in a way that nowhere I’ve lived has ever been.

Bridget gets out without waiting for me to come around and open her door.

She goes to a potted plant and fishes out a key, then pauses as we walk through the garage.

For a long moment, I see her look at the cover over her Corvette, the project car she was working on the night I took her away from all of this.

I can see the yearning in her face for her life, the life she no longer has, as long as she’s trapped in my penthouse.

Because she still is. Even if things are better between us, they haven’t fundamentally changed.

And then she gasps softly.

Stuck to the side door, I see, is a note. Bridget strides forward and pulls it off, her hands trembling. “It’s from Jenny,” she says softly. “I need to let her know I’m okay. She’s worried about me. She’s come here to check on me, and I wasn’t there…” She trails off, her voice trembling. “Caesar—”

I let out a heavy breath. “You can text her from a burner,” I say finally. “But you’re going to have to find some reason to explain all of this to her later, and not to see her. Will she trust you if you say you can’t talk about it right now?”

Bridget bites her lip. “I think so,” she says finally, and I nod.

“Alright then.”

I get a burner for her out of the car while she unlocks the house, and meet her just inside of the kitchen.

Bridget is turning on lights, and I see worn carpet and linoleum, chipped counters, old appliances.

There’s worn but comfortable furniture, family photos on the mantel, books stacked on every available surface.

It smells like vanilla candles and a hint of motor oil, a combination that shouldn't work but somehow does.

Maybe because it feels uniquely like Bridget.

She takes the burner and texts her friend, then shoves the phone in her pocket. I see her eyeing me, as if she’s wondering if I’m going to demand to see the texts, but I don’t. I know that will make the difference tonight, and I force myself to trust her.

“Do you want a beer?” Bridget asks, turning toward the fridge. "I think I have some left."

"Sure." I follow her, taking in the details of her life.

The coffee mug in the sink with "World's Best Mechanic" printed on the side.

The calendar on the wall still turned to the month before I took her away.

The photo of her and an older man—her father, I assume—both of them grinning and covered in grease.

This is who she really is, I realize. Not the stubborn woman fighting me at every turn, but this—someone who creates a home filled with warmth and memories and love.

"Is that your dad?" I ask, nodding toward the photo.

"It is." She hands me an open bottle of beer. "He might have liked you, I think. Eventually."

I chuckle dryly. "Eventually?"

Bridget smirks. "Well, first, he would have shot you for kidnapping his daughter. But after that, he would have given you a chance to prove yourself worthy of her."

I laugh despite myself. "Fair enough."

She leads me to the living room, where an old television sits across from a couch that's clearly seen years of use. There are DVDs stacked beside it—mostly action movies and romantic comedies, with a few classics thrown in.

"Movie night?" she suggests, settling onto the couch and patting the cushion beside her. "I've got everything from Casablanca to Die Hard."

I sink down onto the couch, not minding a bit that it’s threadbare and does smell faintly of old cigarette smoke, though Bridget swore her father never did it around her. Can’t entirely get it off your clothes, I guess. "You choose."

She puts in some romantic comedy from the nineties, something with Sandra Bullock and a plot I can't follow because I'm too distracted by the way Bridget curls up against my side.

She fits perfectly in the crook of my arm, like she was made to be there.

Occasionally, she takes out the phone and texts, but for the most part, she watches the movie with me…

just the two of us, present with each other, with nothing else going on.

“My father didn’t want me back here,” I say it out of nowhere as the movie ends. That happy photo of Bridget and her dad, the memories she’d shared with me today, are heavy in my mind.

Bridget pauses, turning to look at me. “He didn’t?”

I shake my head. “I tried to come back. About ten years ago. He said I had my chance, and when I left, I forfeited it. He wanted nothing else to do with me.”

She bites her lip. “What did you do?”

“I went back to England.”

“Is that where you were before?”

I shrug. “All over the United Kingdom. I was mixed up in a lot of bad stuff. That’s why I said I didn’t always live in luxury.

A place like this is nicer than some of the places I stayed, when I was in my late teens and early twenties, and trying to figure my shit out.

I didn’t run away with money. I stole what cash I could out of his safe and ran with that, but it didn’t last long. ”

“When you say bad stuff—” Bridget trails off, and I let out a heavy breath.

“Drugs. Weapons deals, smuggling. Mostly drugs, though.” I frown. “Does that make you think less of me?”

Bridget shakes her head. “Weirdly—no. I think better of that side of you than the side that mingles with people like Isabella. Fake people, socialites, people who care more about what others think of them than who they really are. I don’t mind a little grit.

And it’s not like you’re a drug dealer now—” She pauses, and I chuckle.

“My hands aren’t on them directly, no. But I’m still a criminal, Bridget. Just a rich one, and one who has other men do his dirty work now. I run the men that I used to be.”

I can see her taking that in. “You’re more real than the rest of them are,” she says softly. “I like that about you.”

“And here I thought you’d never say you liked anything about me.” I chuckle, and she rolls her eyes at me, sliding off the couch to pick another movie. This one is Die Hard, and she curls into me, her text conversation clearly over.

“Did your friend take it alright?”

“She’s not happy.” Bridget yawns. “But she does trust me. And I promised her an explanation eventually. So for now, I think she’s just happy to know I’m alive. I made her swear not to come over here.”

“Good.” I don’t ask any more questions, knowing Bridget will take that as a sign of trust.

“Why do you care so much about being a mob boss?” She looks up at me suddenly. “You said you’ve felt better since last night than you have in years. Why do you want it so much, then?”