Her hair is loose around her shoulders, damp at the ends like she recently showered.
She’s wearing an oversized sweatshirt and soft grey shorts, every inch a girl I should’ve protected instead of destroyed.
“F-Fiero?”
Her voice barely makes it out.
My throat tightens. “Hi.”
She steps aside. “My dad’s awake,” she says quietly.
Now I feel doubly guilty, and selfish, for turning up here in the middle of the night because of a mistake thatImade. Because I’m coming after somethingIwant, without thought for the fact she has a life and a routine and a father to care for.
The apartment is tiny. It’s clean and loved, but stretched thin.
She takes me straight to a small kitchen barely separated from the living room. It’s tidy and smells like lemon.
And there are signs of an older man everywhere.
Reading glasses are folded neatly on the table. Medication is lined up near the coffee machine. A blanket is draped carefully over the back of a chair.
A bitter fist clenches around my heart. This is what she was carrying while I played revenge games with her life.
“Fifi?”
A rough male voice sounds from deeper in the apartment.
Her eyes flick to mine before she turns.
“In the kitchen.”
An elderly man appears slowly from the hallway, one hand braced briefly against the wall. At first I’m disarmed by his likeness to Callum—a man I carved to death. But where Callum wore a sneer, Pfeiffer’s father has a pleasant face and a warm smile. I can see where Pfeiffer gets her softness.
But the smile falls as soon as he sees me.
“Oh,” he says. “You have company.”
Pfeiffer clears her throat. “Dad, this is Mr. Bellucci. My… former boss.”
The words hit like a grenade.Former boss. That’s all I was to her. That’s how she’s describing me to the only family member she has. But I did that. I pushed her away.
I swallow hard and step forward, offering my hand. “Sir.”
He shakes it slowly, his pale eyes darting over my face as if he’s trying to remember something. “Frank.”
“I left something behind at work,” she mutters, flustered. “He just came to drop it off.”
“Oh, um, yeah.” I reach into my jacket pocket. She couldn’t have given me a more perfect segue.
I hold out a wad of notes.
“Your final pay check,” I say, nodding for her to take it.
There’s about ten thousand right there. I’ll wire her the rest—whatever she needs for her father’s treatment.
He watches the exchange, then the blood seems to drain from his face. But it isn’t the bundle of notes that causes it. It’s something else.
“Where’s mom, Fifi?”