Chapter 2
The polished black leather of his loafers stopped right in front of me.
The club manager, knowing exactly which mafia Don stood there, trembled like a leaf. "Don Moretti, I swear on my life, I am so sorry. We didn't mean to ruin your reunion with Ms. Bennett."
"This idiot doesn't know how to hold a tray. I’ll have the boys bring out a fresh bottle of the smuggled reserve immediately."
The manager gripped my arm, his fingernails digging into my skin like claws.
The stinging pain was nothing compared to the time the loan sharks broke my ribs, but my shoulders hunched instinctively.
My stomach churned, twisting into a knot of nausea.
Dominic sighed, his voice sharp with annoyance. "Forget it."
He pointed at me. “You broke it. Pick up every shard of glass with your hands. If my sister steps on even one piece, you swallow it.”
The hallway was lined with thick, soundproof carpeting.
The glass shards had buried themselves deep into the weave. It was nearly impossible to see them.
I dropped to my knees, using my palms to probe the floor, scraping my skin over and over to find the jagged edges.
Lena stared at my back, squinting. Then she tugged Dominic's arm. "Brother, I'm tired."
"Spoiled thing. Alright, I'll carry you. It's dangerous here."
The black leather heel stepped directly onto my hand.
He pressed down. He twisted his weight, grinding the glass deep into my flesh, and stepped over me without a second glance.
I knelt in the dead silence, staring at the jagged glass embedded in my bloodied skin.
These were the same hands that had wiped his spit and bathed his paralyzed body.
The same hands that worked five underground shifts a day to buy his medicine.
I started to laugh.
The tumor in my brain gave a sharp, violent throb, and tears streamed down my face.
The manager looked down at me, his face pale with panic. "What the hell is wrong with you? Why is your nose bleeding?"
I stood up, swaying, and wiped my face with my sleeve.
A streak of crimson smeared across my cheek.
"I guess I’m finally reaching my limit," I whispered.
I walked out, leaving a trail of blood drops on the rug.
When I pushed the door to our apartment open, the sound of shattering porcelain greeted me.
Dominic was slumped on the floor, struggling to heave himself back into his wheelchair.
When he saw me, he froze. His eyes welled up with a look of pathetic shame.
"Scarlett... I just wanted to make you something to eat," he stammered, his voice slurred and broken.
He looked every bit the broken, helpless invalid he had spent five years pretending to be.
A wave of dizziness hit me.
Before he was diagnosed with ALS, Dominic had been a germaphobe. He used to wash his hands twenty times a day; he wouldn't let a single speck of dust touch his suit.
Yet, for Lena, he had lived in this filth for half a decade.
For five years, I had been the fool, buying into his masterpiece of a performance.
I wanted to reach inside his chest and see what was in there.
Was it still a heart, or had it turned into solid, frozen steel?
He ducked his head, his voice trembling. "Do you hate me now, Scarlett? I'm just a burden. You should leave. Just let me rot here."
He gripped the armrest of his chair, his knuckles white, veins bulging as he failed—yet again—to pull himself up.
I walked over silent. I lifted the wheelchair, helped him back into it.
I got a warm cloth and wiped his face and his hands.
I'd done this every day for five years. It was muscle memory now.
He grabbed my wrist, and saw the cuts on my palm.
"What happened? Who hurt you?"
I looked right into his eyes, at the fake, perfect concern there.
"Someone who looks a lot like my brother hurt me."
I paused, and held his gaze. "At Stardust Club."
