Page 191 of Hate to Love You
I feel her moving, and for a moment I freeze, terrified that she might get up and want to leave, right as I’m about to bare my soul to her.
But she doesn’t. In fact, she lays her hand across my chest, gently running her fingers along my abs.
“But then you came back into my life,” I continue. “And now…well, I want different things.”
“Different things?” She asks, her small frame stiffening ever so slightly in my arms.
“I want things to be different,” I clarify. “And I know that starts with me being honest with you. About who I am.”
She turns, twisting her body so that her chin rests upon her hand on my chest.
“What does it mean,” she asks, her brow furrowing. “To be in the mafia?”
If I thought my heart was pounding before it’s nothing to how it hammers now.
“It means I do bad things, with bad people,” my tone is hoarse and raw.
“Do you…kill people?” She asks.
I’m not sure if it’s the fact that she’s barely reacted to the fact that I just told her I’m in the mafia, or if it’s the intensity with which her eyes scan mine as she asks this question, but it nearly paralyzes me in place.
Softly I tuck a strand of her hair behind her ear.
“Yes, I have,” I answer. “I’ve killed people.”
She stares at me a moment longer.
“Do you kill innocent people?” She asks quietly.
“None of us are truly innocent, Abigail.”
“I mean…what about women?” She says, her breath catching in her throat.
I consider her question, and it doesn’t escape me that perhaps her past is her motivation for asking.
“I won’t lie to you and say I’m some cinnamon roll when it comes to women, or even a gentleman,” I snort.
But when I see disappointment flood her face, and her eyes fall from mine, I reach up and gently grip her chin, lifting her gaze back to me.
“However, I don’t beat up women, or ruthlessly slaughter people for kicks. I’m a businessman, and unfortunately, I run a ruthless business. If someone fails me or betrays me…well…sometimes there’s just no other choice. And when that happens, their gender doesn’t matter to me. Only the offense they’ve committed.”
Abigail’s eyes burrow into mine, searching them for any fraction of dishonesty. But after what feels like a small eternity, I slowly watch her nod before she lays her head back against my shoulder, snuggling closer to me.
“Continue,” she says quietly, her fingers gingerly tracing patterns on my chest. “Tell me about what your life is like. You know, in the mafia.”
I’m grateful that in this particular moment she can’t see the genuine shock that is plastered across my face.
I’ve just told this woman that I’ve wanted her for years, that I’m in the mafia, and that I’ve killed people, and she has barely batted an eye.
What I said to her tonight at the gala is true. Abigail Wayne is quite possibly the most interesting woman I’ve ever met.
She feels like one of those Russian Matryoshka dolls mother used to keep, that stack inside of each other. Just when I think I know all I can about her, she opens another layer, and buried inside is another version of her.
And something tells me that even after all this time, and all we’ve been through together, I’ve only just scratched the surface of who she truly is.
The next morning, Trevor drove Abby back to Forest Hills and I found myself sitting on my balcony, replaying our conversation the night before.
We talked until we fell asleep, with Abby asking anything and everything she could think of. And contrary to my usual policy of keeping civilians at a distance, I told her things about my life that I never intended on telling anyone.