Page 60 of Vengeful Vows
As we pull onto the road, I glance over my shoulder to see Antonio right behind us. Not on our bumper exactly but close enough that no one else is getting between us.
When we accelerate through a yellow light, Antonio guns it, even though it’s now red.
I tip the driver well, pretending not to notice Antonio is now illegally parked on the downtown Houston street, waiting.
With my shoulders back, I enter the coffee shop that’s bustling with office workers heading to work.
My brother is already there, his shoulders hunched, his gaze fastened on the door.
The moment he sees me, he stands.
I hurry over, and he has what appears to be an untouched cup in front of him.
“We need to talk,” he says bleakly.
After what happened last night, that’s the greeting I receive? No “hello” or “how are you?”
Desperately needing caffeine before I deal with whatever he has to say, I pull my phone out of my purse and open my app to place an online order. Then, not knowing when I’ll have a chance to eat, I also select a breakfast sandwich. Only then do I drop into the seat across from him.
Now, instead of looking at me, he’s staring at the table.
“Alessandro?”
At the sound of my voice, he shakes his head and looks up. His eyes are bloodshot, and their depths are haunted in a way they haven’t been for years. Since his engagement party, he seems to have aged a decade. “Have you slept?” I ask.
“No. Not that I deserve to.”
Curious, I wait for him to go on.
“I should ask how you’re doing.”
“I’m okay.” I haven’t screamed out loud or dissolved into a pile of tears, so I’ll take that as a win.
“What are you going to do?”
“Well, since I have no place to live, I think I’ll go to a hotel for a while and figure it out from there.”
He frowns. “About marrying Moretti, I mean.”
Curiosity gives way to confusion. He was there last night, saw me throw my ring on the table as I ran away. “I never want to see him again.”
Alessandro goes white.
I blink. “I thought you’d support that.”
“There are things… Things you don’t know about.”
Dread—a now familiar feeling—uncurls in me. “Like…?”
My name is called, so I excuse myself to grab my food and drink before slowly sitting back down.
“Moretti owns us.”
“What do you mean?” I struggle for comprehension, but it’s as if my brain has suddenly turned to mush.
“I don’t know how to tell you this…” He picks up his coffee, and the liquid sloshes over the rim and onto the table, and he ignores it. “Dad left a financial disaster behind.”
I knew that. I remember the move from a nice, large home, to a fixer upper in the suburbs. Not long after, Mom succumbed to a short illness. From the stress, no doubt. Within months, Dad suffered a heart attack.