Chapter 26

twenty-six

Nevaeh

I’ve been officially married for three weeks. It’s been bliss. Perfect, wonderful, bliss.

Eventually, the shoe will drop, because it always seems to for me.

But it hasn’t yet, so I’m soaking it up.

Every minute of it. Happily.

My new husband—crazy as he is—bought me a totally pimped out 4Runner as a wedding present. The thing is practically armored. I swear, I could drive over a cliff and survive. It’s ridiculous, but I totally love it. As a bonus, it came stuffed with an assortment of candies that Kane claims should prove his love for me, if nothing else does. I’m still not sure about love, but lust is a very real thing.

This car is his way of keeping me safe even when he’s not with me, equipped with GPS and tracking, the man will always know where I am. The man is sweet. And flirty. I’ve been to a few shows and seen the way the man flirts with the ladies in the crowd. There’s nothing innocent about those blue eyes landing on a woman. No way. But flirt as he does, he’s never serious. The man could charm a snake, but he’d never take it to bed.

I’m more than aware the only woman my man has true eyes for is me.

Not only does he tell me often, but he proves it every night. More than once a night.

It’s a wonder I’m even able to walk upright. The man has the sex drive of an immortal. I’m not even convinced he needs to sleep anymore.

Pulling my shiny new yellow—of course it’s yellow, with matt black accents—4Runner in front of my parent’s house, I kill the engine and text Kane that I made it safe. It’s a deal we have so he’ll actually leave for work each day. He’s also posted a man at the house. Which is frigging bananas. There is literally a man that sits every day on my front porch, waiting for chaos that never comes. Three months ago, I was a woman with less than three hundred dollars to her name. Now I’m a woman with a bodyguard, married to a man richer than the devil.

Who’d have thought?

Something tall and dark appears at my side when I slide from the driver’s seat, shrieking loudly at the sight of a nearly unrecognizable Antonio. He’s not wearing one of his suits, but sweats and a loose sweater with a ballcap pulled low over his face. But it’s him.

Fear sparks inside my chest even as he holds up his hands in a placating gesture, dark, bruised eyes pleading with me. “Please, Ne—I don’t mean any harm. Just call off your dogs.”

“My what?”

“The fucking gangsters!” Antonio shouts, wincing and lowering his voice. “The gangsters, Ne. Call them off.”

“I don’t know what you’re talking about.” All I feel when I look at him is cold and sick with a pinch of fear. Oh, and hate. Yes, I feel crisp, clear hate. My tone reflects exactly how I feel. “How did you know I’d be here?”

“I’ve sat for days waiting for you. You always visited—” He winces again, leaning into the side of my car as he holds his ribs. “It doesn’t matter. I get it, I fucked up and you chose someone else. You’re married. Off the market. Not mine. I get it, Nevaeh. Just tell them to stop. Tell them to leave me alone.”

I shake my head. “I don’t know what you’re talking about, Antonio.”

“The psycho in the suit. The one who likes to put his hands inside people!” He looks like he’s going to cry, but I’m horrified. “Says he’s your family, and no one fucks with his family.”

Oh my God, is Antonio crying?

I admit, I’m a little concerned, because I think there’s a solid chance, he’s lost his mind. I don’t know anyone in a suit who likes to put his hands inside another living person. Breathlessly, I ask, “What happened to you?”

His eyes, even though they’re swollen, widen. “You know what happened to me.”

“I don’t.” I take a quick step back when he stumbles forward. “You need to go, Antonio.”

“Tell him to leave me alone.”

“For the last time, I don’t know who you’re talking about!”

His face crumbles, like he’s truly afraid if I don’t concede to his request, whoever did this to him will come back to finish the job. He speaks, voice low and broken, “I woke last week to men in my house. They took me from my bed, bound my wrists and ankles and carried me naked, Ne—naked—to an unmarked van. They threw me inside and drove me to a filthy, old house.” His voice is rattling, swollen eyes desperate. “They took me into the basement. It had no windows and the concrete—it was red. Stained that way, Ne. From blood.”

Ice claws at my flesh. I shake my head. He’s insane. This is insane.

“They beat me over and over. When I thought I’d die, they’d stop. Then they did it again. They poured water on me, and I thought I’d drown. They—they’re monsters. They choked me and,”

Something inside me snaps. The memory of hands around my throat, the burning squeeze—no air.

“How did it feel?” I ask softly, and he startles, rattled, I think, by my calm.

Swollen eyes search my face. “What?”

“How did it feel to have someone wrap their hands around your neck and squeeze until you couldn’t breathe? Did it feel like your lungs would burn? Like they might—” I pause, then say, “Pop.” He flinches when I accentuate the P, but I keep going. “How did it feel to have someone there when you woke up in your home, in your bed where you should be safe?” I cock my head to the side, plain curiosity on my face. “Was it scary? Did you try to scream, but they wouldn’t let you? Did you try to fight, but they were stronger? Did they hurt you so badly, you ended up in the hospital?” My words soften even more, something hateful and monstrous leaking from the core of me as I smile a spiteful smile. “Do you have nightmares, Antonio?”

“Fuck you, Ne.”

“I feel nothing for you, Antonio, because you’re the reason that I know what all that feels like.” I spit. “Go away and don’t come near me again.”

“Just call them off,” he begs tiredly.

“I already told you I don’t know what you’re talking about.”

The door to my parents’ house flings open and my dad—my very blue-collar dad, who wears floral shirts because it makes Mama giggle and watches reruns of M.A.S.H for fun comes running out in socked feet, swinging an orange blown glass vase he’s hated since my childhood. Mama isn’t far behind, but at least she has a cast iron frying pan.

“You get away from her!” Dad yells. “I’ve already called the police. You’re not welcome here, hear?”

Antonio is already backing away, still holding his ribs. “Please. Tell him I’ll never contact you again. Tell him!”

“Go on, now!” Mama shouts, but Antonio is already at a car I hadn’t noticed across the street. He slowly lowers into the driver’s seat, and without buckling up, speeds away.

Dad shakes the vase, yelling obscenities I’ve never once heard him utter, much less roar them down the quiet street he’s lived on since before they had me. When the car disappears, his shaking hand lowers the vase and he turns to me, teasing, “Well, kiddo, I was really looking forward to breaking this thing over that pissant.” He shrugs. “Looked like someone worked him over good already, though.”

Mama snatches the vase. “Give me that thing.” She shoots him a glare. “You’ve always hated this poor vase.”

She starts to strut back up the walk in a huff when she turns, catching Dad’s silent admission of her accusation before she mutters, “Inside, Nevaeh. Quick now.”

I do as I’m told, because Mama doesn’t get that tone often, but when she does, I know better than to question it. Questioning it could get me a swift kick in the pants.

Inside, Mama says, “I called Kane.”

My eyes pop wide. “You what?”

Hers narrow into a pointed glare. “I called. Your. Husband.”

“Why?”

“Because that man—” Mama’s hand whips to the front door. “Was near you!”

I know in that moment, when Mama’s lips quiver, that Dad told her everything. I’d been ten shades of livid when Kane told me he’d told Uncle Miguel and Dad about Antonio and the whole mess. But he’d kissed me and—ahem—fucked me until I got over it.

My face softens. “Mama.”

“Don’t Mama me, Mija.” She shakes the vase at me. “How could you not tell me?”

“I didn’t want you to worry.”

“It’s my job to worry!” She’s still shaking the vase and Dad’s watching her with a little too much hope that the thing might just shatter after all.

I give him a pointed glare but say to Mama, “I didn’t want to take the risk that—if I involved you—” I stop talking and nibble my lip. Mama stops shaking the vase, waiting. “I was afraid that he’d hurt you if I involved you and I was already just—so hurt, Mama.”

“Oh, baby.” She tugs me into her chest, shoving the vase at Dad again who catches it—just barely. “It’s not your job to protect us, Mija. It’s ours to protect you.”

I don’t realize a few tears have slipped free until Mama swipes her thumbs under my eyes, holding my face in the palm of her hands to study me. “Come,” she says softly. “I’ll make you some cocoa.”

Sugar.Just the thing the doctor ordered for a brutalized, haphazardly put back together again, heart.