Page 62 of Wicked Sinner

brIDGET

It’s over. Those two words, said with such assurance, send a flood of relief through me. I look at Caesar, and I realize that I believe him. Just because he said it, I believe it.

I trust him with my safety. With my life. I know he’ll do anything in his power to keep me and our child safe—I just saw it. I believe he wants me safe and protected—that he wants the best for me, for us, always.

So why can’t I tell him how I feel? Why can’t I open my mouth and say yes, Caesar, let’s do this?

Maybe because his willingness to keep me safe at all costs is a reminder of how much danger there is to keep me safe from.

And I think, too, that I’m scared of what I feel. Of what it would mean to let a man like this have all of me, to trust him with not only my life, but my heart as well.

I bite my lip, wanting to give him something. Some reassurance that I believed in him. "I knew you'd come,” I say softly as we start to move toward the door. “I knew you'd find me.”

He goes still, his blue eyes searching mine. "You knew?”

"Of course I knew." That I can tell him with absolute certainty, at least. And I can see, from the look that crosses his face, that it means something to him.

"Why?" The question comes out raw, vulnerable in a way I've rarely heard from him. "After everything I've done, everything I've put you through—why would you trust me to save you?"

I can't help but smile, even in this blood-stained warehouse room with a corpse cooling on the floor. "Because you're too arrogant to ever let anyone else take what's yours."

For a moment, he just stares at me. Then his mouth quirks up at the corner—not quite a smile, but close. "Is that what you think this is about? Arrogance?"

"Isn't it?" I look at him, suddenly wanting to hear what he’ll say next. For him to convince me that I can let go. That it’s worth all the fear of trusting him with everything.

"It started that way," he admits quietly.

"When I first took you, it was about control.

About showing everyone that Caesar Genovese was back and wouldn't be challenged.

" His hand drops to my wrist, tracing the marks there from the handcuffs, his jaw tightening with anger at the evidence of my captivity.

"But it's not about that anymore," he continues, looking back up at me. His hands linger on my arms, like he needs to keep touching me to believe I'm really here. "It hasn't been about that for a long time."

I can feel my pulse thudding in my throat, my lungs tightening as if it’s hard to breathe. He makes me feel this way. He always has. And it feels impossible, I realize, to imagine feeling it for anyone else. It feels like a loss, to imagine it gone. "What's it about then?"

He's quiet for so long, I think he might not answer. When he finally speaks, his voice is rough with emotion.

"You want to know what I thought about during those hours when I didn't know where you were?

When I thought I might never see you again?

" He reaches up to cup my face in his hands, his thumbs stroking over my cheekbones, as if Tristan’s not standing right there.

And, when he touches me, I forget, too. All I can see is him, as Caesar looks at me, his blue eyes locked on mine.

"I thought about how you never backed down from me, not once.

From the very first night, when you could have been terrified and compliant, you fought me. You challenged me."

My throat tightens. "Caesar—"

"I've never known a woman who's more stubborn, more capable, more ferocious than you are," he continues, his eyes intense on mine. "You're going to be an excellent mother to our child. I couldn't imagine a better wife."

I feel tears pricking at the back of my eyes, that feeling like I can’t breathe intensifying. No man I’ve ever tried to date or slept with has ever looked at me like he’s looking at me now—like I'm something precious, something worth fighting for.

"I respected you when you were my captive," he says softly. "But somewhere along the way, I fell in love with you."

The words hit me like a physical blow. I stare up at him, searching his face for any sign that he's lying, that this is some kind of manipulation. But his eyes are completely sincere, vulnerable in a way I've never seen before.

"I know I agreed to give you a divorce when this was all over," he continues quickly, like he's afraid I'll stop him from saying what he needs to say.

"I know that was our deal. But Bridget, I can't lose you again. I can't go through what I went through today, thinking you might be gone forever. I know I’m supposed to let you go after this, but I can’t—"

He takes a shaky breath, and I realize my silence is making him nervous. Caesar Genovese, the man who faces down rival crime bosses without blinking, is nervous because of me.

"I should have told you sooner," he says.

"I should have told you before it came to this.

But I was afraid—afraid you'd think it was just another way to control you, another lie to keep you trapped.

And maybe it started that way, but it's not that now.

It's real, Bridget. What I feel for you is real. I swear—I would swear on anything you like that it is.”

I open my mouth to respond, but no words come out. My mind is reeling, trying to process everything he's just said. He loves me. Caesar loves me.

The thing is, I think I might love him, too.

I think I fell in love with him the day that he asked me to show him my world. When he ate cheap hot dogs and tried roller skating, and walked on the beach with me. When he saw my house and it made him feel at home instead of disgusting him because it was so much less than what he has.

I saw a different side to him. And I still don’t know how our puzzle pieces fit together—but all of that made me want to find a way to fit them together anyway.

To find out how to love him and let him love me without losing myself.

Even if it means arguments and standing my ground and figuring it all out time and again—I wanted to try. Just like I told him.

And maybe it was also tonight, when I sat in that chair for hours, completely certain that he would come for me. Not because he owned me, not because of my pregnancy, but because he wants me. As I am, as messy as I am, as unsophisticated and plain as I can be.

"Bridget?" His voice is uncertain now, and I realize I've been staring at him without saying anything for too long.

Before I can find the words to tell him how I feel, Tristan clears his throat.

“This is very touching, but maybe you can finish this conversation later. We need to get moving, Caesar. Staying here isn’t helping anyone, and we do have a few injuries on our side.

Nothing fatal, but I’m sure the men would like to get stitched up and get home.

You know it’s better not to linger, Caesar. ”

We need to leave. I know that, can feel the urgency in Tristan’s words and the tension running through Caesar. But I can't stop thinking about Caesar's confession, about the words I didn't get to say yet.

He loves me. And I think—no, I know—I love him too.

Caesar nods and starts guiding me toward the door, but I resist for a moment.

"Caesar, what you said before—"

"We don't have to talk about it now," he says quickly, misreading my hesitation as rejection. "I know it's a lot, and you need time to think—"

"No," I interrupt, catching his hand. "That's not what I was going to say."

Hope flickers in his eyes, but before I can continue, Tristan clears his throat again impatiently.

"Not to interrupt whatever this is, but we really need to move. For fuck’s sake, Caesar—"

“Alright!” Caesar interrupts him, his voice irritated. “Fine. Let’s go. We’ll talk when we get home,” he adds to me, his voice lowering. There’s that hint of hope still in it, like he’s holding onto the idea that what I’m going to say is what he wants to hear.

And it is. But maybe it is better for us to have this conversation later, when we're safe. When we're home.

Caesar keeps one arm around me as we make our way down the stairs and through the warehouse. Bodies are scattered across the floor—Matvey's men, taken down by Caesar's team and Tristan's. The air smells like gunpowder and blood, and I'm grateful when we finally step outside into the cool night air.

Just outside is a maze of black SUVs and armed men. Caesar's people and Tristan's, working together to find me. I feel an odd, warm sensation in my chest at the thought. Maybe things will be better for Caesar after this, instead of worse.

"Mrs. Genovese." Caesar’s new head of security approaches me. "Are you injured?"

"I'm fine," I assure him, though I'm probably going to have bruises from the zip ties and handcuffs.

"What about casualties?" Caesar asks.

"Two on our side, a few injured. Tristan's team has some injuries, too." Cruz's expression is grim. "All of Matvey’s people are dead, that were here, anyway."

Caesar nods grimly. "Get our wounded to the on-call doctor. I want full cleanup here—no evidence we were ever involved."

"Already in motion, boss."

As the men move away to coordinate the cleanup, Caesar turns to Tristan. "This never would have worked without your help. I owe you."

"You don't owe me anything," Tristan replies, but there's less animosity in his voice than usual. "You had your reasons. In your place, I might have suspected me as well. I can understand it, even if I didn’t fucking appreciate it.”

"I apologize for the misunderstanding." Caesar extends his hand. "Truce?"

Tristan looks at the offered hand for a moment, then clasps it firmly. "Truce. But Caesar, if you ever threaten me again—"

"I won't. You have my word."

There's something almost ceremonial about the handshake, like we're witnessing the end of a conflict that’s been steadily brewing since Caesar came home. I think about the gala, about the tension crackling between these two men, and marvel at how much has changed.