by Tracy Wolff
Which is the only reason I’m okay showing him my weakness here. Because he already sees it. Just like I see his.
“I can’t fucking sleep,” I finally tell him, staring down into my empty glass and wishing for a little more scotch to make confession time go more easily. “Can’t fucking breathe. All I can do is think about what he did to her. About how he raped her and then shoved her out of the car onto the street like she was garbage. Like she was nothing.
“And she’s not the only one he did that to.” Because I’m clenching my hand so tightly I’m afraid I’ll break the glass I’m holding, I slam it down onto the coffee table between us. The sharp crack it makes when it hits echoes through the room like a shot. “He just turned twenty-five. He’s running for fucking Congress. It’s his first step toward the White House and there’s a damn good chance he’s going to win the seat. He’s a fucking rapist and he’s going to be a fucking member of the House of Representatives. Give it a few years and then he’ll be a senator and then who the fuck knows? President?
“The thought makes me fucking sick, Sebastian. Chloe still has nightmares about what he did to her and that bastard is going to get a seat in Congress? Over my dead body. Over my dead, fucking body.”
I probably sound like a crazy man, but I can’t help it. Shit, this is Chloe I’m talking about. This is my woman who’s been hurt—and the fact that I unwittingly played a part in it? It makes my skin crawl.
Sebastian must get it, though, because instead of commenting on the fact that I seem a little unhinged, he just watches me over the rim of his scotch as he takes another sip. And then he asks, “So what’s the plan?”
“The plan?” I echo, not because I don’t have one but because—despite the fact that we’ve been friends since we were eighteen-year-old college roommates—I expected more questions from him. A little bit of doubt, maybe.
But there is no doubt. There’s nothing but support and assurance in his gaze when he clarifies, “What are we going to do about it?”
That loyalty, that absolute I’ve-got-your-back attitude is part of the reason I’m here. Because he’s always had my back, just like I’ve always had his.
“We’re going to ruin him,” I tell him, determined that he knows exactly what he’s getting into with this. “I can’t send him to jail—at least not for raping Chloe. Not with the ironclad NDA she’s signed. But I’ve been digging and the son of a bitch has been playing fast and loose with the law since before he was legal. He’s a rapist and a thief and a dealer—and that’s just what I know about so far. There’s no way he’s winning that election. No fucking way.”
“What does Vegas have to do with any of that?” Sebastian asks. “Because you could have filled me in on this over the phone.”
This is where it gets tricky. Not because I think he’ll chicken out, but because I know what I have to say next will enrage him. But it has to be said…and dealt with. “He’s got his fingers—and his trust fund—in a bunch of different pies here. Anthony Zanetti. Gabriel Santini.” I look at him and wait for him to connect the dots.
“Nico Valducci.” He says the name I didn’t want to. “My father’s been in bed with him for years.”
“Yeah, I know. I was hoping to talk to your dad while we were here, get some information from him, but it looks like you’re in charge now.”
“I am. And I have a meeting set up with Nico early next week. To discuss the fact that I’m not as amenable to organized crime in my casino as my father has always been.”
“Do you.” He’s got me thinking now. We’ve got to handle this carefully if we don’t want blowback from the mob—which I definitely don’t, for Chloe’s and Sebastian’s sakes—and I can totally see a couple avenues we can exploit, if we’re careful. And if we don’t mind getting our hands a little dirty.
Normally, I’m not a guy who likes to mess with that. I’ve made it my life’s mission to run a transparent corporation, one that takes care of its employees and the world and does a lot more good than harm. After all, my world is pretty black and white, good and bad—or it always has been until now. I’ve always tried to be on the right side of the line, have always kept my business on that line as well.
But this is about Chloe and what was done to her. There isn’t much I wouldn’t do to avenge her. And there isn’t much I wouldn’t do to stop the despicable excuse for a human being that is my brother from getting the kind of power that would let him hurt more people with impunity. To bring him down and guarantee Chloe’s emotional security? I’ll get my hands dirty for that. And I probably won’t even feel bad afterward.
Though Sebastian hasn’t said anything else, I can all but see the wheels turning in his head. So I ask, “What are you thinking?”
Before he can answer, there’s a sudden commotion at the door. I watch, astonished, as a woman in a red dress bursts into Sebastian’s office. She’s beautiful, but disheveled and one look at her face says she’s upset about something.
Sebastian sees it, too, because he’s on his feet in seconds, making his way toward her. “What’s wrong, Aria? Are you—”
“Fuck me,” she tells him.
I would have thought I’d heard wrong, except Sebastian freezes in place. “What did you say?” he demands.
“I want you to fuck me. Right now. Please.”
Sebastian doesn’t answer right away, just stares at her like he’s been hit by a two-by-four. Figuring this is absolutely the last thing I should be watching unfold, I rocket to my feet. “I’ll take that as my cue to leave.”
Another quick, amused glance at my friend tells me he’s barely aware I’m still here. Keeping my head down and my eyes averted, just in case his Aria decides to start stripping to speed things along, I all but sprint for the door, making sure to close it firmly behind me as I exit.
Sure, I’d like to have spent more time fleshing out my ideas with Sebastian, but it seems like he’s got his hands full right now. Besides, all I really needed to set things in motion was his agreement. Now that I’ve got it, tomorrow is soon enough to get started. Tonight, I have a beautiful woman of my own to take care of. And I can’t wait.
Chapter 7
“So, how do I look?” I ask, stepping out of the dressing room in the first of the ten dresses Tori set aside while I was with Ethan.
“Like you’re engaged to a vampire.” She steps closer, presses a finger to the darkest of the bruises on my collarbone. “I mean, seriously? Did he gnaw on you or something?”
“Oh, shut up!” I slap her hand away. “So I take it this dress is a no, then?”
She snorts. “Honey, they’re all going to be no’s if you plan on letting those bruises stop you. I mean, seriously,” she demands as she circles me, poking at the numerous love bites. “How many freaking hickeys did the man give you?”
“None of your business.” I step back into the small cubicle and slam the door before she and that finger of hers can leave me with even more marks. “So, should I try on some long-sleeve dresses, then? To hide them?”
“Don’t you dare!” she squawks. “It’s summer in Vegas. You’ll look ridiculous.”
“More ridiculous than I do with all of these?”
“You don’t look ridiculous. To be honest, you look kind of hot. Especially if I think about Ethan being all caught up in the moment and biting on you like that. I bet he’s gorgeous when he’s doing it.”
I throw a hanger over the top of the dressing room door at her. “Excuse me, but that’s my fiancé you’re lusting after.”
“Hey, you’re the do-gooder here. Consider it a community service. It’s been a while since I’ve had a man that fine in my bed.”
“Yeah, well, my social conscience just isn’t that developed. I don’t share.”
“I wouldn’t, either, if he was mine.” She snorts. “But you’d better get used to wading through the drool. Ninety percent of the women in the Western world are lusting after your man. And can you blame them?”
No, I re
ally can’t. Ethan is an incredibly beautiful person, both inside and out. He’s brilliant, funny, rich and yet still humble enough to have his own set of insecurities, insecurities he finally let me close enough to be privy to. Is it any wonder women pretty much trip over themselves for a chance with him?
There’s a little voice in the back of my head telling me that maybe one of them would be better for him. Or at least, healthier. She’d fit into his world better and being with her wouldn’t destroy every important familial relationship Ethan has.
It’s a realistic thought—and a dangerous one because I can see myself falling down that rabbit hole way too easily. But Ethan didn’t ask any of the millions of women lusting after him to marry him. He didn’t fly one of them to Vegas for a quickie wedding because he couldn’t stand the thought of being away from her for one more second.
He asked me. He flew me here. This is my wedding day.
Repeating those words in my head like a mantra, I slip out of the deceptively simple white sheath dress Tori picked out, before passing it through the door for her to hang on the hanger I’d used as a weapon against her. Then I shimmy into the second dress she chose, a long, slender column of white that hugs me from chest to ankle and emphasizes every curve I’ve got—which, if I’m being honest, isn’t many. Still, the dress does an incredible job of showing off the ones I do have.
I kind of fall in love with it at first sight.
But it’s also sleeveless, with a sweetheart neckline that leaves my shoulders, upper back and collarbones bare.
“Hurry up!” Tori calls impatiently from the other side of the dressing room door. “I want to see!”
“What’s the point?” I tell her. “Every single dress you picked out is going to show the bruises.” And it’s not that I’m ashamed of them, because I’m not. It’s just that the love bites are personal. They’re between Ethan and me, his way of trying to take the pain of the past and turn it into something better. Something I could own instead of it owning me.
But other people don’t know that and I don’t want them to know it. What’s between him and me is nobody’s business but ours and I don’t want anyone being privy to this very private, very emotional part of it. Not the people here in Vegas who might see me going into the wedding chapel and not the rest of the world if something goes wrong and the pictures leak. Which they probably will.
“I should pick out a long-sleeve blouse and skirt to wear. Ethan just wants me to marry him. He won’t care how I’m dressed when I’m doing it.”
Tori gasps. She actually gasps. Then, for long seconds, she doesn’t say a word. She doesn’t make a sound, doesn’t so much as breathe as far as I can tell. I’m just beginning to think that maybe I gave her a stroke when the door between us flies open and she’s standing there, eyes narrowed and face filled with a resolve that I rarely see from her.
“You are not, I repeat not, wearing a skirt and blouse to your own wedding!” Her voice gets higher and higher with each syllable she utters until I start to worry about the store’s display windows cracking from the sound.
And I mean, I know Tori takes fashion to another level—hell, it’s pretty much a religion with her, one she insists on preaching to me at every turn—but my relationship with Ethan isn’t about that. It’s never been about that. If it was, he would have given up on me, the girl who rotates the same two suits over and over again and who prefers yoga pants to couture, a long time ago.
“What’s the point in wasting all this time and money?” I complain. “I just want to get married.”
“You will get married,” she assures me. “And you’ll do it in a kickass dress with perfect makeup and perfect hair and the sexiest stilettos that Vegas has to offer. And it will all cost a fortune and your fiancé won’t even notice the blip on his credit card.”
“That’s not true—”
“Yes, it is. Now stop whining and come out here and turn around so I can see the back of that dress because the front looks amazing.”
“The important thing here is I’m marrying the man I love—”
“The important thing here is that you look amazing while you marry the man you love,” she corrects me. “And don’t worry about the bruises. The makeup artist you have an appointment with at the salon will have something to cover them.”
“I have an appointment with a makeup artist? Since when?”
“Since I made it for you when we checked in.” She shakes her head. “You don’t seem to be getting it, Chloe. You’re getting married in five hours! And if I know Ethan the way I think I do, I can guarantee once he puts a ring on it, that’s it. You’re never getting away. Which means, this is the only wedding that we will ever be able to prepare for and even if it’s in Vegas and even if it is rushed, I want it to be perfect.” She glares at me. “It’s going to be perfect.”
“It’s not the only wedding,” I correct her a little desperately. “You’ll get married someday and we can spend months preparing for it. Years, if you want. And—”
“I’m never getting married, Chloe. My taste in men pretty much sucks—and it’s not like I could ever trust a man who wants to marry me, anyway. What would that say about him?”
I freeze, pulling my thoughts away from Ethan and the wedding because this is about as real as Tori has ever gotten with me. She’s always flippant, always dismissive, always wearing an armored shell three inches deep. That she chooses this moment—in the middle of a high-end boutique in Vegas—to lower her guard doesn’t make it any less important. Nor does it mean that I need to be any less careful negotiating the minefield that surrounds Tori’s psyche.
I want to turn to her, to hug her and tell her that any man who gets her will be lucky. I want to list all the wonderful things that make me adore her. But I’m one of the few who knows how delicate she is, how easily a sincere compliment can make her shut down completely.
So I keep my back to her, pretend to still be looking at myself in the mirror when what I’m really doing is looking at her. And say as casually as I can, “It would say that he knows a good thing when he sees it.”
“Yeah, my father’s bank account.”
And there it is, the breezy, who-cares attitude is back in force as she makes the joke that isn’t really a joke. I know her well enough to recognize her tells—and the way she rubs her thumb against her ring finger is a surefire giveaway. She really believes that no man would be interested in her unless he was after the power and position that comes with marrying into her family. And while I admit, for a lot of guys, that would be a big enticement, I also know that Tori is selling herself way short.
Yes, she comes from a family that’s very, very wealthy. And yes, she likes the things that money can buy. But she’s so much more than her monthly allowance and her father’s bank balance. She’s fun and funny, fiercely generous and even more fiercely loyal. Plus she’s smart, really smart and beautiful, even with all her tattoos and the crazy, multicolored hair that she changes almost as often as I change my socks.
I don’t tell her any of that, though. Because she doesn’t see it. Because she won’t see it. Because, more than all those things, she’s also messed up—too messed up to listen to the truths I know, at least not when they contradict her own ideas about who she is and what she has to offer. I don’t know why she is the way she is, don’t know what hurts she’s suffered. But I know they’re there. Like calls to like, after all.
Yes, there’s so much I want to say to her, but this isn’t the place to crack open her wounds. So I go for the joke and promise myself that later I’m going to make her talk to me.
“Hey, you’re the one who keeps telling me Ethan’s bank balance is a good thing. Why should your dad’s be any different?”
“You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.” Her eyes meet mine in the mirror. “But trust me, Chlo, you don’t ever want to compare Ethan and my father. If you knew—”
Her voice breaks and she turns her head, blinks her eyes a couple dozen times. My
heart is beating extra fast now, because Tori doesn’t cry. Ever.
And to hell with her pride, to hell with her getting prickly. I can’t just stand here and do nothing. I turn so quickly that I nearly trip and yank her into a hug that is as strong and fierce as she usually is.
“Ignore me,” I tell her. “I’m so wound up about this whole wedding thing that most of what comes out of my mouth doesn’t make any sense at all.”
She laughs hoarsely, dashes a hand across her eyes. “You’re more together than pretty much any bride I’ve ever seen. And trust me, I’ve been to my share of weddings.”
“Me, together?” I mock-gasp. “That’s not something I ever thought I’d hear you say.”
“Well, maybe that is overstating it a bit. You could use a little polishing.” She pulls at one of my frizzed out curls—Ethan’s hands definitely didn’t do my hairstyle any favors. “Well, a lot, really.”
“Now there’s the Tori I know and love.” I keep my arm wrapped around her shoulders as I turn us both to face the mirror. “It’s not just me, right? This dress looks really good?”
“So good.”
“Then what do you say we don’t even bother with the other eight? You pick out jewelry and shoes to match, I’ll buy everything and if you hurry, we’ll have time for ice cream before we have to be at the spa.”
“Change the ice cream to a margarita and you’ve got yourself a deal.”
“Somehow I knew you were going to say that.” What goes unsaid is that there’s a part of me that wishes she hadn’t.
This time, she’s the one gasping in mock outrage. “Don’t tell me I’m becoming predictable?”
“Only to those who love you.”
“Well, that’s such a short list that I guess it’s okay.” She pulls away and all but shoves me toward the dressing room.
I go, because this conversation is already ten times heavier than she normally lets things get—at least when we’re talking about her. Still, before closing the dressing room door, I turn to her and ask, “Is it really so bad?”