CHAPTER FORTY-TWO
Apologies in pink
Nixon
I stared at my phone for a good ten minutes once the guys left me alone with my thoughts.
I sat in my car with the AC on full blast, just letting the cold air hit me as I stared at my phone, at her number. Calling her would probably be a mistake. Texting her? It was the same thing, wasn't it? But I couldn't help myself. My fingers hovered over the screen. Finally, I typed the only thing I knew I could say, given the situation.
Me: I'm sorry.
Within seconds, she responded.
Trace, my Bella: Can you come back? Need to talk…
Well, that was better than getting cussed out.
Me: Sure give me a minute to find a bulletproof vest. U do realize I was shot at last time I was in that house?
My phone rang while I was waiting for her answer. It was Trace.
"Trace—"
"Please, Nixon. Please."
Pain drilled its way through my chest, piercing my heart with what felt like a million needles.
I sighed long and hard, ending my exhale with a curse. "Give me an hour."
"Thank you."
"Oh, and Trace?"
"Yeah?"
"Do me a favor. Tell your grandpa you invited me so that they don't shoot me on sight. You don't want innocent blood on your hands."
"Are you?" she whispered.
"What?" I was almost afraid of what she was asking, what I would tell, what it would reveal.
"Innocent?"
"No." My voice shook. "Not since the day I was born, not since the first day my dad raised a hand to me, not since the first time I watched my mom huddle in the corner, and definitely not since the first time you let me kiss you. No, Trace. I'm anything but innocent."
The line went completely silent.
I cleared my throat. "Do you still want me to come?"
"Yes."
"See you soon, Trace."
This time, driving to her house, it wasn't apprehension that had me sweating, but excitement. She wanted to see me, which meant she wasn't as angry as I thought she'd be. What the hell had Frank told her?
Before I'd even put the car in park, a few men filed out of the house and waited at the bottom of the stairs. Great, now it was my turn to have a welcoming committee.
Things sure had done a one-eighty since Trace's arrival at Elite. I had a sudden flashback of her tears, her smile, her glare, and her trembling body when I touched her. I wiped my face in irritation and slowly got out of the car. I walked toward the stairs, fully expecting her to reject me just like I'd rejected her that very first day…
"Farm Girl," I said. Beautiful… I thought.
"Dirty…" I hissed.
Pure… I'd focused in on her clear brown eyes, so pure that it hurt to look at her...
My legs were heavy, weighed down by responsibility, but still moving, pressing forward because of hope.
A hope I'd never known existed.
A hope I'd never known I needed.
All in a girl I'd thought was dead.
A girl I'd been fighting for — my entire life.
When the door opened, I saw her, and my world felt right again, everything came into focus. This wasn't about the Mafia; it wasn't about bad blood; it was about her and the meaning she had in this universe, in my life. I made a vow right then and there I would fight to the death for her, even if it meant in the end I wasn't the victor.
Our eyes met, and I offered a smile, one that would reassure her that her crazy grandpa wasn't going to shoot me.
Frank held her tight, his gaze shooting laser beams through my body, setting it on fire.
I tried not to look intimidated, and it wasn't like I was fearful of him. I was more afraid of what he wanted me to do than what he would do to me.
Our conversation on the phone hadn't lasted long. I'd immediately called him after Trace had hung up the phone, not trusting her to tell him that I was arriving and not trusting myself not to pull a gun on him if he tried pulling one on me first.
I'd told him I was coming over, and that if he tried to stop me, I would simply ram my Range Rover through the front door and wave around my semi-automatic until he led me to Trace and assured me of her safety.
He'd laughed.
The old bastard had laughed.
And said in a low voice, "Of course you'll visit… you need to say goodbye, after all."
"Goodbye?" I repeated.
"I'm calling in a favor, Nixon." His voice sounded tired, so strained I felt a twinge of pity in my gut. "Boss to boss, leave her alone. I cannot lose my granddaughter… I've lost too much. Do me this favor, Nixon, and I'll stand down. Just leave her."
He may was well have asked me to cut out my own heart and offer it to the Alferos as a sacrifice.
Leaving her alone was basically the same thing.
But I agreed.
Why?
Because he was right.
I hated him for it.
But he was right. She deserved a chance at normal. The more attention I paid to her, the darker I painted the target on her back. If she was viewed as being special to me, important, then my enemies would stop at nothing to destroy her.
And Frank was right. Their family had suffered enough.
But so had I.
Trace tilted her head in my direction. I forced another smile, allowing myself to memorize every single detail about her face from the curve of her lips to the cadence of her breathing.
Would those memories be enough to satisfy me at night?
No.
But they had to be. Because she would be safe. And I needed her safe, at all costs.
I lifted my hands into the air as one of Frank's men patted me down. He pulled one of my guns from the back of my pants, a knife from my boot, and a set of brass knuckles from my pocket. I thought Trace's eyes were going to bug out of her head, I wanted to laugh but knew it would probably just prolong the process, and I really really need that girl in my arms.
Frank released her.
And Trace launched herself in my direction. I barely had enough time to brace myself before her body met mine.
This was what I was giving up.
My head lifted, my eyes slowly meeting Frank's steel gaze. The bastard better keep her safe, or it was his head.
Because this… I inhaled… this was what I was saying goodbye to.
I couldn't take it…
We hugged for possibly a few seconds before I let out a hiss and pushed her away. Funny, how a few weeks ago her touch damn-near destroyed me. Now? It was a drug that I craved on a daily basis, one I would never again be able to experience.
Ha, I thought I'd felt true pain before.
I'd felt nothing.
Trace reached for my hand, but I pulled it away and shook my head slowly. This wasn't the time or place, and we had an audience.
The sound of stiletto heels hitting marble interrupted the stare-off between me and Frank. A lady cleared her throat. A pretty woman with straight black hair smiled at Trace. "Lunch is ready."
Frank turned around and followed her into another room. I did the same, as Trace trailed behind me. If I wasn't invited, he'd make it known by the bullet-sized hole in my forehead.
The medieval-looking dining room was just as I remembered. A long, wood table was in the middle of the room. Dark wallpaper lined the walls, and a few bronze chandeliers hung in the middle, casting a glow on the cold pastas and bruschetta that were ready for consumption.
I'd always been terrified of that room as a kid… it had just seemed too dark and a lot haunted. I was too little to know that ghosts didn't exist, and all too aware of how darkness could consume you from the inside out.
My glass was filled with red wine.
Thank God.
Trace looked at hers with narrowed eyes then glanced at me with a pleading look. She reached for my leg. Damn, but her touch brought me way too much comfort. Wasn't I the one in the wrong? Shouldn't I be comforting her? Ki
ssing her? Telling her that I was sorry?
It was backward.
So freaking backward.
I was the reason she was hurting, yet she still reached out, which just goes to prove how amazing the girl was, and how unworthy I would always be.
Lunch was silent. So silent I wanted to laugh at the ridiculousness. Since when were Italians silent during mealtime? Tex would have swallowed his damn tongue over that.
Loud chewing was our soundtrack, well, that and Frank's sudden outbursts of cursing, thanks to his inability to do anything except stare at every movement Trace made in my direction.
"Grandpa, may I be excused?" Trace asked politely, finally breaking the tense silence.
He nodded his head as she reached for me. "I need to talk with you."
I glanced at Frank.
He cleared his throat and said under his breath, "Remember the terms, Nixon."
"How could I forget?" I sneered and grabbed her hand to keep myself from jumping across the table and smacking the old man in his wrinkled face.