Page 321 of Sinfully Savage Mafia

“Right, trust you. I get it.” I roll my eyes. “But here’s the thing. I’m putting a lot of blind faith in you and you’re not giving me anything in return.”

“I don’t owe you anything, Chella,” he says, rising up from the couch. He draws himself up to his full height, staring down at me with those stormy irises.

“And everything you said before? It was all bullshit? Were you working me?”

“Just because I have feelings for you doesn’t mean I can choose you over my work. I have responsibilities, Marchella, responsibilities I take very seriously.”

“You’re trying so hard to battle this, Roman?—”

“Stop trying to psychoanalyze me,” he hisses. “You’re not my fucking therapist.”

I gasp, recoiling. “You asshole,” I seethe. I yank my wrist out of his grip and storm toward the fitting room.

But I don’t get very far.

He closes the distance between us, fisting my hair and backing me against the mirror, pushing his tongue between my lips. I dig my fingers into the back of his head like the twisted addict I am for his affection. I drink him in, all of his angst, rage, and lust flooding my body with unresolved emotion.

I hold on tight to the one lifeline I still have left.

I’ve been floundering for so long, trying to keep my eye on the future, desperate to stay positive and hopeful that things will change for the better, that I’ll be able to fix the damage done to my life.

So I cling to Roman, the most unlikely bright spot in my otherwise murky existence.

“I’m sorry,” he murmurs against my lips when we’re both breathless and sated…at least, temporarily. “I’m sorry for everything.”

The voice in my head begs me to ask why he’s sorry, but the heaviness in my gut already suspects the answer.

He pays for the dress, shoes, and earrings I’d been admiring, as well as some other clothes I picked out for every day, and we head back to his car, driving home with the same ominous cloud of silence hanging over us. It’s thick enough to choke me, and I want to scream to shatter it. Once we pull into the garage, I get out of the car with Bella in my arms as Roman grabs the dress bag from the backseat. He holds open the door to the basement for me and I cringe as I pass the elevator and head for the stairs.

“You gonna tell me what that’s all about?” he asks.

I square my shoulders. He had an emotional breakdown before. I guess it’s only fair to share my abhorrence of elevators.

“The last time I was in an elevator, it was at Memorial Sloane Kettering, on the day my mother died,” I say, tears stinging my eyes at the memory. It stings like I just pulled the scab off of a deep and painful wound.

His hand grazes my arm, tugging me closer even though I just want to get away from the elevator door. I don’t want to hear the door open, the creaking sound still haunts me to this day.

I turn to look at him. “We were going up to her room to see her,” I whisper. “She’d had a good couple of days and I’d left the night before feeling that we might actually have more time. She’d been awake and alert and aware. They were all good signs. And I just felt hopeful, you know? It was like she wasn’t ready to go yet.” My gaze drops to the floor. “But something happened overnight. I’d left because the doctors said I should get some rest, that she would be fine. But I guess they had it all wrong.”

Roman stares at me, silently waiting for me to finish.

My God, every time I think about it, it feels like my heart is literally being impaled with a hot poker and shredded.

I blink fast to hold back the tears, taking one last shuddering breath before I continue. “Frankie and I went back in the morning. I remember getting onto the elevator with him, talking and laughing and feeling positive for the first time in a while. Then the elevator doors creaked open on her floor and my dad was waiting for us. He’d stayed…he was there with her when she…when she…”

And then the hot tears spill over, streaming down my face.

I just can’t say the words.

It’s probably the closest I’d ever felt to my father. In those horrific moments, we were bonded, sharing in the grief and the loss. We were connected, all three of us.

And when he left, when he made the decision that cost him his life, I guess I felt like he deserted me…us. He made a conscious decision to break our connection, to tear apart those bonds, to leave us on our own to battle the heartache and life on our own.

Roman pulls me into his arms, stroking the back of my head as my body quakes with sobs.

I’m still fighting that battle.

And yet it’s a war I will never win.

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