Page 6 of Connected

I see myself out of the office and head straight down to the main level. I don’t bother to check on Pablo’s status, nor do I tell any of the staff I’m leaving for the night. I’m disposable after all, therefore, they can all manage just fine without the Puerto Rican.

Instead of the front door, I leave through the back and spot the sleek town car waiting for me at the curb. Aside from the money and the supped-up penthouse apartment with a view of the water, a personal driver is another perk to having sold my soul to the mafia.

It’s a short drive seeing as my apartment is conveniently located a couple blocks from the club. When we first started this gig, I didn’t feel comfortable having a driver and often walked to and from work. That shit died though, and I got used to having my ass driven the few blocks. It especially came in handy when Pilar was around. I’d sneak her out the back door with me and spend the short ride kissing her neck and stroking the inside of her thighs, teasing her mercilessly.

Tonight, seeing her sprawled across one of the leather booths completely unconscious opened my eyes to a lot of things. Mainly, how hopelessly in love with her I am. But I also realized how much I regret having pushed her to do what she did. It’s a guilt I’ll have to live with for the rest of my life, one that I’m sure will eat at me like a fucking cancer.

The car comes to a stop in front of my building and I get out. Desperate to get to Pilar, I bypass the doorman and make my way toward the bank of elevators. My phone rings again . . . and again, I ignore it. In fact, I shut the fucking thing off completely. I don’t recall a time in which I’ve ever done that before. I’m always waiting for a call, ready to make a move. I’m a fucking puppet to anyone who holds the strings.

The doors open to the top floor and I unlock the door to the penthouse. Miguel immediately pushes off the leather sectional.

“Where is she?” I ask, tossing my jacket on the back of the couch.

“In your bed.”

My eyes narrow and my jaw tightens.

“Lose the death glare, Joaquin,” he says, rounding the coffee table. “I didn’t touch her.”

Maybe I was wrong to assume my relationship with Pilar was a secret, or perhaps he’s come to the conclusion by witnessing me with her tonight. Either way, relief swarms my being knowing he had enough sense to know not to touch what is mine.

“I figured she needed a shower, so I took Mariana off table service. She went back to the club after we got Pilar situated.”

Giving him a curt nod, I unbutton the top two buttons of my shirt.

“How is she?”

“I don’t think there’s anything left in her system to throw up,” he answers, crossing his arms. “She probably should’ve been taken to a hospital, but you know that already, don’t you? In fact, you knew that when you ordered me to shoot her with a dose of Narcan.”

“You got something you want to say to me, then say it. Don’t be a pussy.”

He shakes his head.

“What happened tonight wasn’t some fluke thing, Joaquin. You know it and so do I. The only people who don’t is the woman lying in your bed and Rocco. I get it, you’ve got a lot on your plate and you need to take care of her,” he says, motioning toward the bedroom. “But when the dust settles, you might want to take a look around because Pablo should’ve never gotten through those doors much less been able to sell his product.”

Everything he says is true, I just haven’t had a chance to process anything that went down tonight. Still, I don’t like having the truth brought to my attention by someone under me.

“Is that all?”

“Yeah,” he mutters. “That’s all. I’ll see myself out.”

“You do that,” I tell him as I start for my bedroom.

I hear Miguel close the front door and I take a step inside my bedroom immediately spotting Pilar in my bed, her brown waves still damp from the shower are splayed across my gray pillows. An ache stirs in my chest as I stare at her and soon my throat begins to tighten. I should’ve felt like this two weeks ago when she stood in this very room with tears streaming down her face, begging me to choose her. To have faith in her love. Instead, I gave her a thousand dollars and sent her on her way.

Swallowing past the emotion clogged in my throat, I kick off my shoes and start for the bed. I peel back the comforter and gently climb in next to her. For a second I remain completely still, simply taking in the gentle rise and fall of her chest.

“Lo siento, hermosa. Lo siento por todo,” I rasp.

I’m sorry for hurting you.

I’m sorry for loving you.

But most of all, I’m sorry for what we lost.

My eyes drift lower and with a trembling hand, I lift the hem of the t-shirt she’s wearing, exposing her flat stomach.

For a short while, there was life inside there.

A life we created.

A life I asked her to terminate.

Tears fill my eyes as I rest my hand to her stomach, and I bow my head.

“I’m so fucking sorry.”

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