29. Emily

Simon takes a shower while I finish cooking. I feel good, a little spinny, heady and silly, as I go for a second round of French toast. I've never made this before and the first few attempts weren't great, but I think I'm getting the hang of it.

I know this is strange. I'm distinctly aware of how weird things are. The way we tumbled into this—whatever this is—should be a red flag. I was emotionally raw from losing Rachel and Simon was there, and things felt good with him, and we just, we fell into bed and we haven't gotten out since.

But it happened before that too. There was a slow, steady slide toward sleeping together. I've wanted him since the day he found me under that desk, and that has to count for something. Having sex with him wasn't just about my grief, it was about feeling good while I can, while I'm still breathing, because Rachel showed me that life isn't a guarantee. And why not enjoy myself? If Simon makes me feel good, that should be enough.

I keep smiling like an idiot. He feels the same way, or at least that's what he said. Can I trust him? Honestly, can I trust the sort of guy that lurks in the underworld? He got Rachel killed—the men that attacked Cucina only did it because of Simon—but I don't really blame him. Not totally at least. He couldn't have known they'd come for him there, and he sure as hell couldn't have guessed that Rachel would be in the way.

Then there's the scam center he took down. I believe him when he says he hates those people and wants to burn them all to ashes, and a sick, vindictive part of me wants him to do it. Blow up the city, I don't care, just get revenge for my father, revenge against the bastards that tried to bleed him dry. I've never had this before—something approaching hope.

Not for a really long time.

I worked myself to a hard, sharp edge. Nothing felt good, nothing tasted good, every waking day was just another opportunity to earn more money for my father. I was an automaton, a walking clockwork version of myself. I felt like my joints were made of copper and my heart had encased itself in steel.

But the metal's gone. Simon helped with that. He tore off the pieces that still clung to my soul and tossed them aside, until now I'm completely bare. It feels good to be vulnerable, and even better to have someone that can worry about me for a change.

I'm making French toast, for fuck's sake. I mean, I never would've done this back home—it's such a silly extravagance for a girl who can barely afford milk, let alone bread and eggs and cinnamon.

There's a knock at the door. I'm mid-cooking and tell them to come in. This is the oasis, which means only family could even be here.

Elena appears in the kitchen. She rushes over to me, looking worried. "Oh, shit, Emily, Davide just told me. He talked to Dad and heard about everything with Simon. Are you okay? I'm so, so sorry he's doing this to you."

I stare at her, completely caught off guard. I'm holding a spatula in one hand, and I use it to wave at her. "Sorry, hold on a second, what are you talking about?" I pull the toast out of the pan and plate it. Not my best, but looking decent. I wipe my hands on a towel and put my hands on my hips. "Something happened with Simon?"

A bad feeling worms its way into my heart. He looked like he was only half in the room when he first came home earlier. The sex woke him up, but he still had a haunted stare in his eyes, like he'd gotten some terrible news and couldn't shake it.

Elena hesitates. She looks over her shoulder and clears her throat. "He didn't tell you?" she asks.

"No, he didn't, but now you're going to." I advance on her. "What do you know?"

"Shit," she mutters to herself and backs away. "I can't say. I mean, I shouldn't say. He probably kept it to himself for a reason." She glances at the stairs like she knows he's up there. "But he should've told you. Why didn't he tell you?"

"Elena, stop with the cryptic bullshit and spill. What happened with Simon and his father?"

She closes her eyes and rubs at the spot between her eyes. "I'm going to get in trouble for this, but you have a right to know."

I feel sick. The way she's acting has me on edge. "Please just tell me," I whisper because I'm not sure I can take much more.

It spills out of her. Simon's meeting with his father this morning and the ultimatum. How his father wants him to marry some girl named Valentina Santoro.

"That's the guy that killed my friend, isn't it?" The words come out strangled and twisted. I lean against the refrigerator, steadying myself with a palm.

"I don't get what my father's doing," Elena says, coming closer, but not reaching out like she's not sure if she's allowed. "We all know Santoro's the enemy, but Dad probably thinks this is the only way to make sure the war ends and never starts again. It's like some sick, manipulative trick. If Simon does it, he promised to step down and let Simon take over as Don."

She keeps talking. I can't hear it. I turn away from her and walk over to the sink, blinking rapidly, afraid I might throw up.

He was just inside me. He was just fucking me and telling me how good this feels. I admitted that I want to be with him, that I like our relationship, and all the while he has a way to get exactly what he really wants. Leave me. Marry her. Become the Don. That's the whole point of our relationship, right? And if he can't get that with me, why not get it with her? What's it matter if it's one set of tits or another?

"I have to get out of here." I turn to look at my sister-in-law and I don't know how she's going to react, but she's one of them. She's part of this sick, twisted world, only I like her, I genuinely like her, and I feel so damn desperate I don't know what to do. "Please, Elena. I can't stay here right now."

"Oh. Shit." She wrings her hands. "Where are you going to go?"

"My dad's place. Please, can you help me? I can't leave on my own, and I can't be here with Simon right now. He didn't tell me. We just had sex, and he didn't tell me."

Elena"s expression darkens. She looks over her shoulder and shakes her head. "That fucking prick," she whispers and rubs her face before gesturing at me. "Come on. Fuck him."

I've never felt more grateful to someone in my life. I follow her to the door and outside. She hustles me down the block and when we reach the edge of the oasis, she tells Matty to fuck off and call a damn car for me. He disappears, looking more than a little aggrieved, but I'm too busy hugging myself and feeling like my guts might spill out on the pavement.

"I don't know what he was thinking," Elena's saying as a black SUV appears. "But he's got to have a reason. When he comes to talk to you, just hear him out, okay? And if he was just being a piece of shit to you, I swear to God, I will cut his dick off."

I pull her into a tight hug. "Don't castrate your brother," I whisper to her, even though I don't think she could possibly understand how good it feels to hear her say it. "I'll be fine."

Which isn't true, and she seems to know it, but she doesn't argue as I get into the back seat of the SUV.

"Where to?" the driver asks. He's one of the young guards I've seen around.

I give him my dad's address and tell him to drive fast. He pulls out and I don't look back as I speed away from my husband with nothing but a pair of shorts and a crop top to my name.