“We need to get your inhaler. If they hadn’t fucking left you alone, you wouldn’t be hurt.” She doesn’t believe my words. Neither do I.
I can’t blame them when I’m the one who should have known better. This is the second time I’ve put her in danger.
“No. This happened because you brought me here,” she cries, then steps back to cough. “And look at you.” She waves at the gash in my arm, but I don’t feel the pain.
In the distance, the sound of a door crashing open has the two brothers snapping their heads. Bella doesn’t seem to notice or care. She’s too busy staring me down.
Rico throws my duffle bag at me, somehow getting into my locker while everything else was turning to shit. “Cash is in there.”
“Leave before more shit hits the fan,” Damien growls, already walking away with Rico.
I curse under my breath and reach for Bella’s elbow, but she yanks herself out of my reach. “I know where the car is.” With that, she spins on her heel and starts running, leaving me behind in the darkness. I follow behind her, fumbling with the bag to get her inhaler as the sound of her ragged breaths fills the night air.
If she thinks she can run away from me, she’s wrong.
If she thinks that one word will make me leave, she’s fooling herself.
I made her a promise, and I intend to keep it.
Chapter 29
ISABELLA
1) The romance authors lied. Real-life mobsters are scary, ugly, the bad kind of dangerous, and should not be romanticized.
2) I am beyond sick of getting kidnapped and all the emotional and physical bruising that comes with it.
3) Fuck Roman Riviera.
I realize there’s something off-kilter about my current state of mind, but I think it’s highly justified.
My face hurts. My throat is raw. My lungs burn. My ribs are probably an unnatural shade of purple.
In the span of three days, Roman-fucking-Riviera almost got me killed twice. No guns were involved this time, but the prospect of all the horrifying things the cartel could have done to me is far more terrifying than getting my brains blown out.
And it’s all Roman’s fault.
Sure, I’ll take part of the blame. Yes, I should have had Damien accompany me. Yes, maybe I would have heard the man come in if I didn't drink so much. Yes, I should have insisted not to come. But I’m not the catalyst for all this.
Maybe I should be distraught about thoughts of what ifs. Like, what if Roman didn’t save me? What if Vargas sent more than one man? But I can’t bring myself to truly feel the anxieties regarding the what ifs because what’s done is done, and tomorrow is another day where Vargas and his men still live.
“Riviera killed two of our men. And now, he gives us a pretty, breakable gift,” the man said.
Me.
The Vargas Cartel put a gun to my head two days ago because of Roman. And tonight, the Vargas Cartel almost took everything away from me because of Roman.
I even talked to him last night about the Vargas Cartel, and he still brought me to the arena.
Maybe I deserve all this for being a bystander in countless deaths and beatings. It could be the universe’s way of getting retribution for all the depravity I’ve inadvertently participated in. So maybe I’m not mad at Roman that it happened, but I’m pissed that he could have prevented it, and he didn’t.
After every trauma, I’ve experienced a different reaction. When I found Marcus and Greg, I was shocked about what I saw, but angry that Roman was back. Then, at the Horror House, I was scared and sad, and I only became angry when he started talking. Now? Sure, I’m shocked. Any person would be. But that’s not the emotion pumping through my veins right now. What will I feel the next time Roman puts me in danger? Acceptance?
I’m done. I’m not letting myself get to a point where I’ll feel nothing when a gun is aimed at my head. I can still recall the click of the safety, but in my messed-up reality, my brain has already decided that the sound is something to expect in my everyday life. I always thought Roman’s recklessness would get him killed, but I was wrong; it’ll get me killed.
“Bella, talk to me.”
By my count, this is the third time he’s said those four words in the past five minutes.
He also rotates between a couple of other sentences.
I’m so sorry, Bella.
This is the last time, Bella. I promise nothing like this will ever happen again.
Bella, baby, please speak to me.
I wouldn’t have let anything happen to you, Bella.
I relented and helped him bandage the cut on his arm that probably needs stitches. But other than that, I’ve refused to even look in his general direction. Instead, my entire body is angled outward, and my lips are sealed shut. My heartbeat is still thundering, the blood in my ears still roaring, and my lungs are still squeezing and burning for oxygen.
The pain in my cheek isn’t improving, and I can already feel a whole bunch of nasty bruises forming on my face and body. I’m convinced that the cut on my cheek will open back up if I look at him, and I’ll bleed all over him and his goddamn clothes.
But, of course, he came to save me, like always, with his fists and a damn inhaler.
I’ve slapped Roman’s hand away every time it comes near me, but my hand hurts from hitting the shit out of my abductor, and I think I pulled several muscles trying to get away from him. But ultimately, Roman’s hands still ended up on me, and, if I’m being honest with myself, they’re the only thing stopping me from bawling my eyes out.
Before Roman went to prison, I—the Isabella from before—probably would have found a corner to cry in and clung onto Mickey like a lifeboat on a sinking ship. She was a scared, traumatized, and weak little girl.
I used to only feel fear when Marcus looked at me in the leering way he did. I would toe the line of hyperventilating when I’d get groped or hit on by strangers. The fear was and is alive and well. But my terror made friends with rage, which makes a toxic combination.
I’m still weak; I admit that. If it weren’t for the support his hands are bringing me, my head would be between my knees as I struggle for breath as the shock and rage takes over. If Roman hadn’t found me when he did, who knows what sort of nightmare I would be experiencing. But the fact remains, he is the whole reason something happened to me.
I wouldn’t need a lifeboat if he hadn’t set the ship on fire.
The difference between directing my anger at him or having Mickey as a lifeboat is that one has the paddles in my hand, and the other has them placed in someone else’s, someone who might jump overboard at any second. Paddling will wear me out, but at least I’ll have control and can rely on myself.
We pull up in front of our motel room, and he locks the doors when my finger touches the handle.
“Let me out, Roman,” I grit out.
I need to wash away the feel of that man’s hands on me and all the dried blood beneath my nails, crusting on my hands and face. Then, I’m going to scream into a pillow while letting it soak up all my tears.