CHAPTER FIFTY-FIVE

The hostess approaches the intruder. “Can I help–”

He removes the gun from his hoodie and silently points it at her.

She shrieks and crouches behind the wooden podium.

Every customer looks toward the scream, and the room falls silent. Several people crawl under their tables.

I desperately want to be the woman who is calm under pressure, who speaks flawlessly, who keeps her fear in check.

But I’m not.

My body won’t allow me to be.

“Valen-fucking-tina,” he growls.

My voice is a shaky squeak. “Vic.”

“My brother is dead.”

I nod.

“You knew?”

“Yeah.”

“Here’s how this is going to fucking work. You’re going to do what I tell you, or I’m going to start kneecapping these nice hostages. Understand?” he asks, pointing the gun around the room.

I nod.

“Say yes.”

“Yes.”

My heart pounds so hard that I worry it’ll break my ribs. My legs tremble, and I’m not sure how much longer I can stand upright.

“This,” Vic says, pulling a folded piece of paper from his pocket, “tells everyone what you did. You’re gonna fucking sign it.”

In my head, I say, ‘Sure, whatever you say.’ Aloud, I sneer, “Why don’t you just kill me and get it over with?”

I’m as shocked as everyone else by that remark.

“Oh, I’m not going to kill you, Valentina.” A horrifying smile spreads over his face. “I’m going to fucking destroy you! Sign the goddamn paper!”

When Angelo tries to take a step, Vic points the gun at him. “Don’t fucking think about it.”

During one of our boxing dates, Angelo told me that a gun is a great equalizer. If a guy has a gun, all bets are off on hand-to-hand combat.

I wonder if he’s having that thought now.

“It’s okay,” I whisper, trying to keep the guys in position. They’re only a few inches back, diagonal of my shoulders, and I know they want to do something–and likely get themselves shot in the process.

I take a single step and reach as far as I can until Vic hands me the white paper.

It’s folded into thirds, and when I unfold it, my jaw drops.

It’s not a statement or letter.

It’s a photocopy of two receipts.

I am staring at proof of my greatest, most shameful secret.

He’s right. This will destroy me.

Fuck.

“How did you get this?” I whisper.

“Sign it,” he growls.

The paper rattles in my trembling hand. “I need a pen.”

He pulls a soft-tipped flair pen out of his pocket and tosses it on the table.

I pick it up and take off the cap, which rolls onto the floor. “Wh–what do you want?” I stutter. I swallow to try to steady my voice. “You obviously know what you have. What do you want?”

“I want you to get what you deserve. If Damon’s going to die in prison, you should too.”

My rapid pulse thunders in my ears, and I don’t know what’s more terrifying: Vic shooting me or linking myself to these receipts.

I’m gripping the pen in my shaking hand, but I can’t convince my fingers to write.

“Do it!” Vic yells at me. “Do it, or I’ll fucking start shooting people.”

As if outside of my body, I watch my hand create lines and loops. It looks like the shaky signature of a child, but it is definitely my name.

“Give it to me!” he demands. When I hand it to him, he shoves it back into his pocket.

We stare at one another, both assessing what the other might do. Finally, I say, “Let the rest of these people go.”

“Not yet,” he says, waving the gun at me. “We’re going to have a little chat.”

My mind is split between the gun and the paper. “Sure.”

“When you called the cops that night, you knew you were killing Damon. When you dialed nine–”

“She didn’t call the cops,” Jarel says. “I did.”

Fuck.

Vic points the gun at Jarel. “You called the cops?”

“Yes.”

Vic squints. “Do you even know what the fuck we’re talking about?”

“The night Damon broke into her house and terrorized her.”

Vic glances at me. He’s debating how much to tell Jarel. He says he wants to destroy me, well, here’s his–

“That wasn’t who my brother was,” Vic says. “They were in love. Real love.”

He sounds sincere.

And I’m not sure I disagree.

“Real love isn’t abusive,” Jarel says flatly. There is no tremor to his voice, and his hands are steady.

He’s fearless.

“Abusive?” Vic repeats slowly, as if he’s never heard the word before. He looks at me. “You told him that Damon abused you?”

“I know about the last time,” Jarel says.

“Last time?” Vic says. “What do you think you know about last time?”

With Vic focused on Jarel, Angelo slides close to me, partly protecting me. He gestures for me to stand behind him, but I can’t do that. I don’t know if I deserve to die, but I know that Angelo definitely does not.

“I know about the fight. The dishes, the furniture, the hospital, all of it,” Jarel says.

I’ve never told any of that to Jarel. He must have heard it from Bea.

And I swear I know Vic’s next questions before he asks it.

“And did she tell you why they had that fight?”

There it is.

“She didn’t have to,” Jarel says. “Nothing would have justified what he did.”

For the moment, Vic’s anger has simmered. It’s been replaced with the cruel satisfaction he receives from picking apart the events of my life.

“Did she tell you why she doesn’t drink anymore?”

“No.”

“My god,” Vic says. “You don’t know her at all.”

“I do know her. I know who she is at her core.”

Vic scoffs. “Yeah, so did Damon.” Suddenly, his eyes light up with recognition. “You’re that dick from the record store. The asshole who forced Damon to leave.”

“Yes.”

“Well, this just got interesting.” He waves his gun at the other guests. “Women and children out through the back. Get out!”

Three children and maybe a dozen women flee, leaving their dates, husbands, and brothers behind.

Vic aims the gun directly at Jarel’s head. “You shouldn’t have touched my brother.” He shakes the gun. “I hope the last few months were worth it.”

“They were,” Jarel says.

And then everything slows.

And the gun fires.