Page 141 of Veil of Obsession
I clear my throat. “Get up.”
She groans into the pillow.
I try again, sharper this time. “We leave in ten.”
Her head snaps up.
“Ten?” she rasps, mascara smudged, hair a storm around her face. “You couldn’t have said thatbeforenow?”
I shrug, already pulling on a clean shirt. “You’re not that high-maintenance.”
She scowls, but throws the blanket off anyway, stumbling toward her bag like she’s still half-asleep and half-ready to kick my ass.
We don’t talk while she gets dressed. I don’t explain. She doesn’t ask. The air is too thick with things we left unsaid last night—venom laced into every kiss, every touch, every damn apology neither of us was brave enough to say out loud. Princess packs up Frankie’s things in a bag while I pick up our sleeping daughter.
By 3:08, we’re in the car, the motel sign fading in the rearview mirror like a bad decision. I watch our daughter sleep in her car seat, used to the routine by now. Guilt eats at me. She shouldn’t be in this fucking position.
Princess doesn’t say a word. Neither do I. The silence between us is glass. Brittle. Close to cracking.
The roads are slick from a storm that passed sometime after midnight. Vegas is always quieter when it rains, like even sin has to sleep. Streetlights reflect off the wet asphalt, making the city look like it’s made of ghosts. She pulls her hoodie tighter around herself and rests her forehead against the window.
I glance at her once. She’s still mad.
I could say something. I should. But every word that comes to mind sounds either like surrender or war, and I don’t know which one would break us faster.
Instead, I turn up the heater and keep driving.
We pass casinos still lit up like they don’t know how to die, diners with their open signs half-flickering, liquor stores closed but glowing like temptation. Out here, past the noise, the desert breathes slower.
She finally speaks as we pull off the highway. “Where the fuck are we going?”
I park in front of the diner—empty, glowing warm behind a rain-flecked window. It looks like it belongs in a different decade, like it’s been standing in the same place since the world was less broken.
She squints at it. “What is this? Breakfast? You dragged me out here at three in the morning for waffles?”
I smirk. “Trust me.”
Her arms fold across her chest. “Last time I did that, your brother tried to shoot me.”
Fair.
I get out anyway. She hesitates, but follows, grumbling under her breath as she slams the door. I grab Francesca’s car seat and bring her inside with us before locking the car. The bell above the diner’s entrance jingles when we step inside. It’s warm, too warm, smelling like syrup and grease and late-night regrets.
There’s no one else here. Perfect.
A tired waitress behind the counter blinks at us like we’re psychos for being awake at this hour. I give her a nod.
“We’ll be quick.”
She waves us off. “Take your time.”
Princess scans the empty booths, suspicious, arms still crossed.
“Lucio…” she says warily. “What is this?”
I take a breath. “It’s ours.”
She frowns. “What?”
