Page 68 of Tainted Blood
I lift my glass again, keeping my gaze fixed on my ring. It’s a subtle hint for her to exit the same way she came in, but of course, this is Lola. Subtlety isn’t a word in her vocabulary. Apparently, neither is distance, because she doesn’t ask before offering herself a seat across from me.
Her expression tightens. “You look like hell.”
“Gracias.”
It’s meant to be sarcastic, but there’s an off-key note of pride in there somewhere. Good. Now the outside matches the inside. I haven’t bothered to shave in days, and my slacks and half-buttoned shirt have seen more than a few bottles of Añejo.
“How long have you been holed up in this office?”
Good question. One I can’t be fucked with trying to figure out.
Swirling the amber liquid in my glass, I shrug. “A few hours? A day? Fuck, I don’t know.”
“Try two,” she says sharply. “I’ve been trying to reach you for two days, Santi.”
Forty-eight hours of spinning rings and silence. And a shit ton of tequila…
My last coherent memory is of my blood vow to Thalia. After hearing the penthouse door close, all I remember is grabbing the first bottle I could find and drowning in it.
“Nothing personal,” I mutter, indulging myself with a slow sip.
“Nothing personal?” Leaning forward, she snaps her fingers in my face. “You had me bitch blocked. Your new gatekeeper almost got a foot up her ass for refusing to let me see you.”
My new “gatekeeper” was just following orders. Which apparently Lola took as well as being fired as my secretary. A couple of days after returning to New Jersey, my stubborn sister tried to resume her duties. I didn’t terminate her internship to be a dick. She needed to stop taking care of everyone else and get some fucking rest for once.
For all the good that’s done.
“I haven’t been in the mood for company.”
“Even family?”
“Especially family.”
My father to be exact. I scarcely remember him storming into my penthouse to find me passed out on the couch. With some concerted effort, I probably could’ve strung a few coherent words together before he and máma left for Mexico, but I had no interest in his pity.
Didn’t care to twist that knife.
It didn’t stop him from imparting a few last words of paternal wisdom, though.
“Love is not weakness, Santi. It takes a stronger man to let it go than to imprison it. A veces, el final es solo el comienzo.”
“The end is only the beginning,” I murmur, repeating his words.
She snorts. “You’re starting to sound as cryptic as pápa.”
I look away, ignoring that jab. “Speaking of cryptic, how long have you known about RJ screwing Rosalia Marchesi?”
Her face blanches. I’ve caught her off-guard, which was fully intended. I saw that look my sister and cousin shared in Italy. It was private—secret.
Exclusive.
Clearing her throat, she hesitates while examining her nails. “Since you had him tailing me at Rutgers.”
“A year and a half?” I chuckle darkly, betrayal simmering beneath my splintered smirk. “Seems I was unaware of quite a few conspiracies around here.”
She palms the back of her neck, uncomfortable, but cornered. “There was no conspiracy. I followed him to a restaurant in North Caldwell one night, and he swore me to secrecy. Seeing as how he knew I was chasing Sam, neither of us was in a place to—”
“He fucking what?”