At first, I’m a little stunned. Rafe is an excellent observer of people and he can customarily see through bullshit like he has an actual superpower. It’s one of the many reasons I never wanted him hanging around me for an extended period of time. I deal in bullshit. Unless we’re on the same side, Rafe and I can’t coexist in the same city—and he’s never been particularly interested in being on my side before.
Naturally though, as she does, Mia has changed things. That he even took my call when I reached out to him about helping me demonstrates that.
But he thinks he figured out Mia? In two weeks? Now I’m the one calling bullshit.
“No, you didn’t,” I say, shaking my head.
“I have. Between what I’ve seen with my own eyes, what Meg told me, what Mia told me, and what Adrian told me before he ran off to his domestic jail, it all fits together pretty perfectly. He didn’t believe me either, but I think it’s because you’re all operating under the wrong suppositions to begin with. You can’t see how simple the answer is because you don’t believe the facts of the problem.”
“Explain.”
“Well, you’re operating under the reasonable expectation that Mia hates the things you do but loves you anyway, right?” He doesn’t wait for me to agree or disagree, just continues on. “But she doesn’t. She doesn’t hate what you do. All your mind fuckery, the way you orchestrate your plans, compose and conduct chaos—Mia doesn’t hate it at all. It impresses her. She’s your biggest fan. She’s basically your groupie.”
“My groupie?” I repeat, eyebrows rising.
“Yeah. You know, rockstars, athletes, actors—performers of virtually any kind can acquire those, right? Well, you perform for a much smaller audience, but seems like you hooked Mia right away. She obviously likes danger and excitement, but ultimately is drawn to people who protect her. It’s all in the Mateo package. You’d burn down the city to protect her, but you might also mindfuck her until she doesn’t know which way is up. You’re a unique performer, but Mia became a part of the audience and liked what you were selling.”
I mull over what he says, matching it up with my own years of experience with her. He’s not entirely wrong. I know Mia doesn’t appreciate the extent of my destruction or she wouldn’t plant her little ass directly in my path every time I try to kill someone who fucks with one of us, but maybe she does like the other part. She’s actually said things to indicate she loves my mind, even at moments when I wasn’t sure how she would respond to what I was revealing I’d done.
I can’t help grinning, privately amused as I conclude, “I’m her favorite villain.”
Part
Two
Chapter One
Vince
I shouldn’t be alive.
I don’t mean to be dramatic; it’s just the simple fucking truth. I don’t know why I am. There’s no logical explanation, and I’ve run through ‘em all. I’m not suicidal or anything (though I guess you could think otherwise looking at my track record) I just know how life works. I know the rules, I broke them on purpose, and yet, here I am, beating heart and all. I figure I won’t be for much longer. I’m not doing much to hide now. I left Vegas and moved east, found a town in Connecticut of all places, and now I wait. I know he’ll find me, I just don’t know what’s taking him so fucking long. I don’t even dread it; I just dread all the waiting. A time or two I’ve considered skipping this part and going back to Chicago.
It’s too much like giving up, though. He’s clearly won, and once he finds me he’ll put a bullet through my skull; I should at least make the motherfucker work for it.
The sky outside is starting to get brighter. With every minute that passes, I dread the possibility that she’ll wake up a little more. I guess I should get out of here and head back to my apartment. I tried to sleep, but I can’t sleep next to this random woman. I don’t even know why I came home with her. Every encounter makes me feel emptier.
I don’t so much as glance at her as I climb off her bed and start gathering up my clothes off the ground. My shirt ended up on her dresser, half hanging off, half covering a picture frame. I retrieve my shirt and right the picture frame, cocking my head when I recognize the woman in the picture as the woman I spent the night with—not so strange, given this is her bedroom. A little less expected is the wedding dress she’s wearing, and the smiling prick in the tuxedo with his arm wrapped around her.
Well, shit.
I guess I didn’t ask if she was married, but that still kind of pisses me off. That’s the kind of information you should volunteer. Better yet, if you’re fucking married, don’t let other men pick you up; a difficult concept, I realize.