Chapter 37

I give credit to my stripper name and go very, very still as I stare at the Don of the Romano family like a little baby deer in the headlights. Slowly, the Don’s face stretches into a wicked smile, and I see that he likes my fear – likes his women, perhaps, knock-kneed and trembling.

Something about that realization – I don’t know what, but it makes me raise my chin in protest.

His smile deepens.

But a hand wraps around my arm and I’m yanked stumbling to Christian’s side. “Enough,” Christian growls, glaring at his father as I find my feet next to him. “This is finished. Don’t ask me about it again.”

The Don just laughs at his son’s command like he’s genuinely entertained to see Christian try to boss him around, but Christian just ignores him, moving towards the door and taking me with him. I hear Nico and Frankie’s footsteps following fast behind us as we move through the office door, and then the hallway, and then out into the main part of the house beyond.

As we walk, I glance up at Christian, wondering a little about what just happened in there. Because…I mean, I thought he was the Mafia King? But really, his dad did get the upper hand in there. What is happening in this family in terms of power? Is Christian really in control, as I thought he was, as the media says he is?

Or is Don Romano really the man behind the scenes, pulling the strings?

Either way, what I can see is that this family…it’s not precisely united, is it? Romano is pushing Christian, testing him.

And I’m the little toy he’s using to do it.

I grit my teeth, hating that I’ve found myself again at the mercy of men as we walk out of the house and into the bright sunshine beyond. I cover my eyes, surprised by the brightness, as Christian marches me to the car and opens the back seat for me.

I climb in without a word as Christian murmurs instructions to Nico to take us home.

The car ride home is tense and awkward at best. Not even Frankie opens his mouth to crack a joke and lighten the mood. Instead, I sense that everyone realizes – along with me – that that…

Well, at best it didn’t go as planned.

At worst? It was kind of a disaster.

But…even though I didn’t do anything wrong, and I’m pretty sure I proved my very real loyalty to Christian as asked…god, why do I feel like everything went wrong? Why do I feel guilty, like I could have done something else…

I scowl, though, realizing that I’m again being too giving. I’m trying to solve Christian’s problems for him just because he’s important to me. But the reality is that there’s absolutely nothing I could have done and nothing I can do.

I’m just the captive stripper, the toy in all of this. These mafia men – they’re going to do what they want. My own moves are inconsequential.

“Hey,” Christian’s voice surprises me in the cold quiet of the car. I look up to see him studying me from across the bench seat in the back of the SUV. “You all right?”

I just stare at him for a long, long moment. Because of course I’m not all right.

Christian knows this, though. I don’t need to answer, and he looses a long, long sigh, raising his hand to his face and dragging it slowly down over his features. “I’m sorry,” he murmurs, shaking his head and looking down into his lap. “I miscalculated that. I didn’t know he was going to pull that bullshit.”

The questions are already on my tongue – asking why he miscalculated, and what he missed, and what the hell his dad was playing at by pulling that surprise on all of us.

But I hold the questions back, because I can see the tension in Christian’s shoulders, see the stern set of his jaw. I’m not getting anything out of him today – nothing real, at least.

Instead, I just reach across the car and put a hand on his knee, putting my own anger and fear aside and wanting to comfort him, just a little. Christian goes even more still at my touch and stares at my hand for a long moment before raising his eyes to me. Then he slowly shakes his head.

“You’re too good, Iris,” he murmurs, holding my gaze. “Too good for this world.”

I give him a half-hearted smile at the compliment, but there’s nothing else to say. And no time to say it, honestly, as Nico pulls into the garage beneath the high-rise where our penthouse is located. When we pull to our garage level Christian orders Nico to stop before the elevator before he has a chance to park.

“Frankie,” he says on a deep inhale of breath. “Take Iris up. Nico and I will be back later.”

“What?” I breathe, shocked. He’s…he’s just sending me home? He isn’t coming?

“We have business to attend to,” Christian murmurs, pressing the bridge of his nose between this thumb and forefinger, addressing me but not looking at me. Frankie, of course, gets out of the car immediately and comes around to my door.

“Chris,” I sigh, shaking my head at him. He still doesn’t look at me.

Behind me, the door opens.

“Fine,” I snap, pissed at him for putting me through all of this – for refusing to talk to me, for making me go through an incredibly stressful experience and then just sending me upstairs like I’m some kind of pet or child that needs to be minded.

Quickly, I unbuckle my seatbelt and climb out of the car, moving to the elevator and letting Frankie close the car door behind me. I don’t bother to look back at the car, or at Frankie, or do anything except stare at the elevator doors while Frankie pushes the button.

I can’t help, though, the little sniff that I give as the tears start to sting at my eyes. I try to ignore the tingling at the end of my nose, the thickness in my throat, instead stepping into the elevator and trying to be tough.

But, obviously, I fail. Because I am not tough – not tough at all, let alone tough enough for this world.

Despite my best efforts, as the elevator begins to rise the tears start to slip down my cheeks.

“Don’t cry, Bambs,” Frankie murmurs, reaching out and putting a warm hand between my shoulder blades. “Please – you’ll break my heart if you cry.”

His words have the opposite of his intended effect, and I just start to cry harder. Frankie sighs, but then tightens his arm, pulling me close and wrapping me in a hug as I tuck my face against his shoulder and cry.

“Come on, kid,” he murmurs. “You’re wearing Gucci. You can’t cry in Gucci.”

The door dings and I burst out laughing, raising my head a little to look up at him, grateful for his sense of humor.

He just sighs, smirking at me before giving me another squeeze and then a little brotherly push towards the door. “Come on, I’ll let you make me lunch,” he murmurs, encouraging.

“Oh, so generous, Frankie,” I sigh in reply, rolling my eyes. But he just grins at me, and walks me down the hall towards the penthouse, opening the door and ushering me inside. And then, together, we move to the kitchen and I do indeed make us a little lunch.