What happened?

Last night is a blank page. The only memento comes as a pounding headache, a reminder I need to dig my heels in and slow the hell down.

My eyes crack open to the white popcorn ceiling I loathe. Everything in this dated shit hole reminds me how trapped I am in the cell I built for myself. It was all to take better care of my father. I wanted to do it. Gave up my life so I could drive my dad to his doctor appointments when he had a flare up. Helping him felt good until it didn’t. Somewhere along the line, my patience ground into dust.

Before he got sick, I had dreams. Lots of them. I was studying to become a nurse. It was a fast track to a high-demand job with steady income and away from my dependence on Dad. I used to fantasize about cooking for a man other than Daddy, or, hell, being served for once. I wanted to change this place. Popcorn ceilings are dated, and if my father hadn’t been so bad with money, we could’ve remodeled this disaster a long time ago.

Now I’m thirty-three, and my ambition is dried up. I don’t give a damn if I never have a career. No, all I care about is raising a family. Good thing my last hope for that is dead.

I bat the thought aside like a hand to an irritating fly. Pain fills my head, radiating from my temples. Groaning, I peel back the covers and pad toward the shower attached to my room. A broken tile slides under my feet. I slip and grab the sink. Then I glance at the mirror.

Holy hell. What’s that?

A light-purple shadow dusts a spot on my chest, right over my breast. I examine it closer, studying the tiny marks forming a circle.

That’s a fucking bite!

Red patches rise in my cheeks as I stare at the offensive mark. Good Lord. How fucked up was I last night that I don’t remember someone’s mouth on my tits? I am losing control, and it’s unacceptable. Embarrassing. I’m not a twenty-year-old kid anymore.

Stumbling into the shower, I turn the nozzle and let the water blast my head. Warmth trickles down my body. A vivid image of Sébastien burns against my lids. His lips curl into a feline smirk, and his hands grip my neck, and then his tongue strokes my skin. He bites down.

Jesus.

It was him. The silent, handsome soldier dogging me this last week. He kissed me. And I loved it. I can still taste him swirling in my mouth.

Who the hell is he? How did it happen?

I grab my head, straining in the heat of the rising steam to remember, but only fragments come back. Desire swirls where he licked me. He held me upright.

My heart pounds. Way faster than it should.

More details flood my memory, like how his cologne wrapped around me in a seductive cloud of oak and gunpowder. His wicked smile—the timbre of his voice. Bits and pieces of our conversation return. Bastien was like sunshine. He warmed my skin. My cheeks burn as though there’s a fire, and then it extinguishes. Shame takes root deep inside.

Marc’s gone.

There should be more horror suffocating my chest, but what I feel when I think of my dead ex is the same as when they lowered Marc’s coffin into the ground. Anger for the men who killed him, and grim resignation for myself. As long as my father is remembered as a Mafia boss, I’ll be alone. Having a family isn’t in my future.

I stopped going to baby showers a while ago, and the invitations died down as my friends get older. Whenever one pops up in my email, I come up with a nice excuse. I couldn’t take the constant talk about their kids, knowing I’ll have none of my own. It was gutting. I’d go home, cry my eyes out, and try to forget that there’s no escaping it.

Every day I scroll through my Facebook feed. My thumb flicks up, and photos splash across my iPhone’s screen. Pictures of babies. My friends’ expecting announcements. Professional shots of little Benjamin dressed as a watermelon. Happy families. I click unfollow until all that’s left are ads. Somehow there’s always more. It hurts to have them sprung on me, and I should just delete my damn account, but I don’t want to lose the privileged sight of what it could have been for me.

No one understands what this is like. I know what I’m supposed to be. Since I was a kid, I wanted to be a mom. Marc would fulfill that void. I didn’t love him. There wasn’t any time to grow something deeper, but I had the rest of my life planned out. We talked about it, and I was excited.

The handle squeaks as I twist it shut. Water drips onto my head, and I wring out my hair. A heavy white towel sits on the toilet seat. I grab it and dry myself. Climbing into bed and sleeping off this hangover sounds awesome, but I can’t do it. Dad mentioned there’d be another meeting at the house, and it’s already noon. The slimy bastards will need plenty of food. Good thing I’m always here to play maid. At least I’ll be able to corner Bastien and ask him what the hell happened last night.

I get dressed in a hurry, selecting a pair of blue jeans and a long-sleeved shirt that hides the bruise. Thank God I spotted it before Dad did. He’d be after Bastien with a shotgun as soon as he saw it.

I head toward the kitchen, grab two butcher paper rolls of cold cuts, and assemble them on a tray. I slice a red bell pepper, some cheese, and arrange them next to the crackers. Then I yank open the wine fridge and pull out a bottle from the last drawer.

Guests filter through the doors at three, when I’ve prepped enough hors d’oeuvres to feed an army. The floorboards creak with their weight, and the house fills with their voices. I stay out of the way even though Dad tries to avoid business at home because I don’t want to be involved in his world. Some news is unavoidable. I catch unpleasant fragments when articles mention his name but stopped reading them a long time ago. When I see Romano, I click away to the next story. That’s not a failsafe, though. There’s always talk with the girls, the other wives in the family who love to revel in this shit—the stolen goods, the protection money, the heists.

I don’t approve of it.

Everything I have was bought with blood, and that sits heavy in my soul. I haven’t made peace with it, but I can’t just pick up and leave with my dad being sick. He’s all I have. I love him even though he’s not a good man, so I close my eyes to the terrible things he does because it’s easier.

I wish there was more than waiting for my turn to live.

Avoiding the voices in the kitchen, I walk into a room covered with books. The bookshelves are so old they sag under the weight. Two chairs sit by the fireplace, deep cracks running through the brown leather, yet another piece of furniture I need to replace. One of them is occupied. A man in slacks sits in a chair by the fire. I can’t see anything but the back of his head and the book cradled in his hands.

It’s a violation of what little privacy I have. First my dad babysits me because he thinks I’ll go off the rails. Now his goons are in my private space, leafing through my goddamn books. This is the one place that’s supposed to be mine.

I stand in the middle of my sanctuary, arms crossed. I expect him to turn around. He must be able to sense the waves of fury directed toward him. I cough. It’s a loud, fake sound that finally grabs his attention. He turns at the waist, and all the anger squeezes from my lungs.

Bastien.

Hot doesn’t begin to describe him. A golden tan covers his handsome face and arms. Thick, ebony hair broken with gray flows down his neck. A powerful chest hides behind a dark-blue button-up shirt. I know because I remember rolling my hands over his body, marveling at how hard his muscles were. Darkness follows him like wisps of smoke. He glances at me over the book he’s reading. Sun Tzu’s Art of War.

I march to his chair. “What the hell happened last night?”

He lowers the hardcover, a smile playing on his lips. “Eva, I’m glad to see you’re feeling better.”

The bastard knows something’s up. “I woke up with a goddamn bite on my chest. Care to explain?”

His face cracks with an evil grin. “I could, but the mystery of it is much more fun.”

“Was it you?” I remember him biting my tits, but I want him to admit it.

“Of course.” His gaze licks me up and down, and a shudder runs through my body. “You were a very willing participant.”

“You’re lucky I’m not in the mood for another funeral.”

“Slow down, Killer.” He snaps the book shut and stands from the chair. “You don’t remember what you did.”

My jaw drops. “You’re going to blame me for biting my tits?”

“Yes.” Shadows move across his face as he looks at me in a way Dad’s men never dared to. “You were handsy last night.”

I stutter a denial. “No, I wasn’t.”

His eyes twinkle with amusement. “I might be disciplined, but even I can’t help myself when a hot girl grabs my cock.”

No, I didn’t.

We were outside my father’s house. We kissed. I remember a haze of desire. The taste of his lips. How big he was through his slacks. Self-disgust rises in my throat, and there’s not a hole large enough to bury me and my shame.

“Oh my God.” My face heats like a lamp. “I’m so sorry.”

He ignores the apology. “You kept throwing yourself at me all night.”

This is beyond embarrassing. What am I supposed to say? “I’m sorry. Really.”

“Am I complaining?” A wicked grin tugs at his lips. “If you want a good time, all you need to do is ask. Preferably while sober.”

He’s fucking bold. Dad’s guys never flirt with me. Especially under his roof.

It’s hot.

I stamp down on the barrage of inappropriate thoughts. “Thanks for the invite, but no. I don’t want to fuck around with anyone.”

“That’s not what you said yesterday.”

Jesus. “What else did I say?”

He cocks his head. “You were very curious about my relationship status—single—by the way.”

I’m sure I was. I glimpse my flaming-red reflection in the mirror above the fireplace. “Again, I apologize. I don’t think I want to know more.”

“You told me you wanted kids—”

“Okay, you’ve made your damn point! I’m a reckless, inappropriate drunk.” I breeze past him, but he snatches my wrist and blocks my way.

The nerve of this fucking guy. “What do you want?”

“Whatever you’re willing to give me.”

My heart skips a beat. “How about a slap?”

“Could be fun,” he purrs. “Not exactly my kink.”

I pull away from him, hardly believing what I’m hearing, and yet my impulse is to jump into bed with him.

My body wants this overconfident asshole. Now.

It’s waited years for me to find the right man. The one who checked off everything on my list. Over time my bullet points shortened to a few requirements with barely enough deal breakers for the average sane woman.

I just want a baby.

At thirty-three, it’s all I think about. My first thought in the morning. The last before I close my eyes. I should deactivate my Facebook.

Bastien doesn’t give a shit about having kids.

He closes the distance between us. “I’m interested. Thought I’d tell you in case last night was more than a girl who had too many drinks.”

Wow.

I’ve never been stunned into silence by a man. His eyes smolder when he looks at me, as though he’s actively imagining me naked. “I don’t even know you. Before this week, I hadn’t seen you before.”

“I’ve been around, hon. You’re the one who hasn’t noticed me.”

A hot drop slips down my throat. “When did you start work for my father?”

“About six months ago. You were already with Marc.”

I glare at him. There’s no mistaking that tone, laced with greed. “And just when I was thinking you were a nice guy.”

He crosses his arms, not the least bit abashed. “Let me offer you a valuable piece of advice, Eva. You want to marry a wiseguy? Have his kids?”

“Yes.”

He leans in close, his whisper tickling my ear. “Then give up on nice.”

Bastien pulls back before I do, with a smile and a wink that make me wish this house wasn’t full of people. He heads for the hallway.

The oak scent clinging to his jacket fades when I grab his wrist. “I’m not done with you.”

“Usually that’s my line.” He doesn’t pull away from my touch. “What can I do for you?”

I don’t know. I just want to keep talking to him. “How did you come to work for the family?”

He shrugs. “I needed a job. My cousin, an associate of your dad’s, told me about easy money working for the Romanos. Not many businesses will hire a convicted felon.”

My skin pricks with gooseflesh. “What do you do for my father?”

“Things a girl like you would not be interested in. Trust me,” he adds with a faint smile.

“How come you’re single?”

A grin hitches to his face. “We covered that question last night, sweetheart.”

I release his hand. “Oh.”

“It is so typical for a woman to forget the conversation but remember my tongue on her tits.”

“I didn’t!”

“Sure,” he laughs. “That’s why you stormed in here all hot and bothered.”

He’s trying to be funny, but it rubs me the wrong way. “You’re an asshole.”

I can’t bring up the dead fiancé because obviously I didn’t love him. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be hitting on a new guy two weeks after Marc’s gone. The arrangement wasn’t built on affection, but guilt needles me when I look at Bastien and want him.

It’s satisfying to watch the amusement vanish from his face. “Come on, Eva. I’m joking. There’s nothing wrong with moving on.”

Move on to what?

A wave of despair crashes over me. “What’s the point? You all die anyway.”