He rubs the back of his neck. “So you won’t even consider the security firm?”
“I don’t want to be a fucking chauffeur to these arrogant asshole millionaires! I want my life back.”
But even as I say it, a small part of me resists the words.
Same way it did when I told Sergio I wanted out.
Because that tiny part is intrigued at what my life could become if I stayed.
Damn.
Where the hell did that come from?
I convinced myself it was time to move on.
And the mere mention of what happened between me and Anya has me conflicted.
“Dante,” Matteo says. I can see he’s struggling to keep himself under control right now. “I can’t keep tabs on you when you’re buried in some obscure corner of the world doing a hit. You’re good. Very fucking good. But what happens when one day, someone is better?” He shakes his head. “I have a responsibility to the family, to Papa. It’s to protect you all however I can. You haven’t been in the same spot for longer than a couple of months for the past ten years!”
“I know. And it’s made me very fucking rich,” I say with a smirk.
“You can’t take it with you, Dante,” he says. “You also can’t do this forever. I want you to play a bigger role with the family businesses. We’re growing fast out here and I need you to be onboard with our direction.”
I let out a deep sigh and lean back against the lounge chair. “I like my life, Matteo. I miss it.”
“We have a lot of enemies, Dante. Someday, you’ll get a message with instructions for someone you need to ‘handle’ and that someone is going to be you.”
“Jesus, that’s morbid.”
Matteo shrugs. “It’s the way things go. Nobody gets away with murder forever. And you’ve fucked a lot of people over for your career. Unforgiving people. Vengeful people. And your sniper rifle will only get you so far.”
“It’s been a rough year,” I muse. “Can’t argue with that. But you can’t make me change who I am.”
“I think you’re full of shit. I see the way you are with Aisling. I think you want that yourself.”
“Pulling out the big guns now, huh? Why do I need my own kid when I have her?” I say with a snicker. “I get to give her back for the gross stuff.”
He sighs. “Look, all I’m saying is that it may be time to do something different. Find a different way to get your kicks.” His expression darkens. “And I’m not talking about Anya.”
“I’ll consider it.”
“Don’t even think about laying another finger on her. I need you on top of your game.” Matteo’s gaze darkens. “Because those cameras picked up a lot more than just your fucking,” he growls.
Chapter Eighteen
Anya
I stick my key card into the lock and pull open the door to the apartment later that afternoon, careful not to make any noise. Heaven mentioned something about going to lunch with her family once they get in from the airport, so I guess they haven’t gotten back yet. I took Aisling for a walk after her afternoon feeding, and she fell asleep almost as soon as the stroller hit the hot desert air.
I won’t lie.
I like people stopping to admire her chubby cheeks and big bright eyes. I like when they tell me what a beautiful daughter I have. I always thank them for the compliment, never once bothering to correct anyone.
It feels nice.
It allows me to step out of my own shell and be someone else…someone, much as I deny it to myself, that I aspire to become.
Over the past few days of being out here in Vegas, while I’ve been trying hard to conjure up all of the hatred for people who stole my happiness, I’ve realized that harboring all of the emotions is actually preventing me from achieving what it is I really want.
And the longer I suppress the negative emotions — the anger, the resentment, and the disdain — the further away I get from anything remotely resembling a happy ending.
The truth is, the more I get to know these people, the more I wonder about who they really are and what they actually have done.
If anything.
Uncle Boris wants me out here for some reason, but he won’t tell me exactly what it is. He’s being purposely evasive, which he knows I hate. He admitted to completely ignoring me for days on end because something else took priority over his own niece’s well-being.
All of that contributes to my redirected anger.
He doesn’t respect me enough to give me direction.
He never has.
I’m just expected to jump when he says how high.
Makes me think that I’m missing a lot of the dots that have yet to be connected and question everything he’s told me.
I should have started questioning a long time ago.
Because he’s manipulative as hell and uses whoever her can to achieve his goals, which are usually blood-soaked.
So when I see him tonight, I want answers.
I will demand the answers!
And if I don’t like what I hear, I will handle things my own way. I’m not going to be his puppet for a single second more.
If he doesn’t like it, he’ll just have to kill me.
There’s no happy ending to that story. Not for him.
I lean down and scoop Aisling into my arms, carrying her into the nursery. There’s an odor wafting up from her diaper, but there’s no way I’m going to disturb her sleep by changing her diaper. It can wait. I doubled her up, in anticipation of this very circumstance.
No poop will be able to escape my master diaper job.
I turn on the monitor and grab the handheld before backing out of the room.
I pad into the kitchen and grab a bottle of water from the fridge, a tiny moan slipping from my lips. This place, this job, this whole existence — it’s like an alternate reality and I’m caught in the middle of it with no desire to escape.
My job requires me to leave once I’ve delivered on the requirements, whatever the hell they may be.
But I don’t want to go.
I want to stay.
I like the Villanis.
I’m totally hot for Dante.
And I’m smitten with that baby.
Why can’t I have this life?
The question startles me because I’ve always pushed it out of my mind when it so much as threatens to surface.
But now that it’s out there, on the front burner after I’ve pushed it to the back for days on end, it demands an answer.
And I still don’t have one.
All I have are more burning questions…
I mean, why can’t I be a student at UNLV? I’ve always wanted to go into fashion design and merchandising. I love sewing, something I’ve really missed while being away from Brooklyn.
Why can’t I have a tight-knit friendship? Someone to confide in, to laugh with, and to do fun, girlie things with?
Why can’t I find true love? A guy who looks at me like I light up his entire universe just the way Matteo looks at Heaven? Someone who never loses a chance to tell me how much he loves me, just like Papa did with Mama before they died?
Why, why, why?
I’ve never realized, before I hopped on that flight out of JFK International Airport, how much I crave normalcy, happiness, and purpose.
My purpose has never been my own, not since I was a thirteen-year-old orphan.
My purpose has always been the means for someone else to achieve his purpose.
I don’t want that life anymore.
I’m not going to be defined by someone else’s choices.
It’s time I started making my own, not just allowing myself to be victimized by other people’s expectations of me.
I take a long gulp of the water, feeling more and more empowered as the ideas percolate.
What I’m proposing to myself is dangerous.
The job of bratva assassin is pretty much a lifelong position.