“Are you not a talker, darling?”

“How?” is all that comes out.

“How what?” She blinks at me.

I consider my choices right now. “How do you live with yourself knowing you sent him off to kill?”

I could play her game.

Her smile drops and her jaw clenches. “James, you mean? Or Tony? Or perhaps you mean my daughter, Nicola?”

Or I could humor her.

“All of the above.”

“It’s Company policy, darling. You will send your children off as well. Soon,” she says, pointing her glass at my belly.

Or I could kill her.

“I could snap your neck right now.”

“What?”

“Just twist it, like I did that assassin on the dirt bike who tried to take Sasha.”

“You do know what side you’re on? Whose side you’re on?”

The familiar womp-womp-womp of a helicopter invades the conversation as it makes an approach.

“I could get even for what you made him do. I could—”

I say more and more, but the helicopter is so loud now it steals my words. But I look at her face and that’s all I need. I will remember the horror she feels in this moment when she realizes she underestimated me. When she realizes one half-dead man in a wheelchair can’t save her if I decide to end her reign of terror.

The ship rocks as the bird lands and she spills her drink because those fucking shoes really aren’t appropriate footwear for a boat and they make her stumble.

“Harper,” Vincent yells over the thumping blades as he grips the sides of the ladder and jumps down to our deck. He crosses the room and stands between me and his mother. His hair is a mess. In fact, he’s sort of a mess all over. His shirt is open at the top and he’s got no jacket and no tie on. Like he just rolled out of bed.

Asshole. He probably has a girl in that house who will fuck him. He probably spent the day with her.

“Let’s go,” he says, leaning way down into my ear. His grip on my hand never softens. It’s rigid and tight. He places a hand on my other elbow, guiding me past his mother as we make our way to the ladder that will take us to the heliport.

Her hand snaps out as I pass her and the ice-cold contents of her glass splash all over my face.

“Stop it,” Vincent yells, pushing her back when she comes at me.

“How dare that little whore say such things to me.”

I wiggle in Vincent’s tight grip and manage to turn around enough to snarl at her. “Bitch. You’re a bitch who deserves to die for what you did. I will kill you! I will fucking kill you!”

Vincent actually picks me up and carries me over to the ladder, then places my feet on the third rung and orders me to climb.

I climb. But my heart is beating fast. And I realize, as I’m ushered into the helicopter like we’re in a war zone, it’s not from fear.

It’s from hate.

This is what it feels like to hate.

Chapter Twenty-Two

Harper

The ride back to the house only takes a few minutes. We don’t even bother to put our headsets. And from the look on Vincent’s face, he’s not in the mood to talk.

I’m not either.

When the helicopter lands Vincent pushes me to scoot out, and then he follows me. He puts his arms around my shoulders and walks me out from under the rotating blades.

We don’t talk. We just walk all the way to the house and I wait for him to open the door and allow me to pass through.

“Would you like to tell me what that was all about?” he asks, once we’re both inside the house.

I don’t want to think about it. “I’m tired.”

“Too bad.”

I look up at him with a sneer. “Yeah, too bad for you if you want to know. Because I’m not interested in talking.”

His jaw clenches but instead of continuing the fight, he takes my hand and leads me down the hallway towards the kitchen.

“What are you doing?”

“Eating dinner.” We stop at the entrance to the kitchen and he feels around for the light switch. After the darkness of the house, it’s blinding. I bow my head and close my eyes, too worn out from that confrontation to care about food.

“Sit, Harper. I’ll make us something.”

I walk over to the stainless-steel island and sit on a stainless-steel stool as Vincent rummages around the kitchen looking for things. My legs are so cold from the metal chair I begin to shiver. “I’m not hungry, Vincent. I just want to go to bed.”

“You’ll be in bed soon enough. But first we’re going to eat.” He stares at the assortment of things he’s collected on the counter and then goes looking for something else. “Tell me something, Harper.”

“What?” I scowl at his back. “I don’t feel like talking about it, OK? You’re not going to like the answer anyway.”

“Forget about my bitch of a mother,” he says, dragging a waffle iron out of a cupboard. “Tell me why I’m not good enough for you.” He starts measuring flour and pouring it into a bowl. And as he does that I study him from behind. His back is well-defined. I can see his muscles working through his white dress shirt. He stops what he’s doing and rolls up his sleeves, then proceeds with his preparation. “I look like him. I sound like him.” His voice lowers for that. A deep rumble that makes me swallow. Because he does look and sound an awful lot like James. “I’m sure the fuck nicer than him.” And then he stops what he’s doing and looks over his shoulder. “You’d have to agree on that.”