His (A Bad Boy Mafia Romance)(30)

“Hey. You’re okay, sweetie. What’s going on?” I ask.

She sniffs. I’m a bad friend for hoping she’s not smearing her makeup on my blue Chanel knockoff jacket. It only cost me $45 in a bargain bin and it’s my favorite top. It has cute, oversized buttons and deep black-hemmed pockets, cuffs, and neckline. At least, it was my favorite piece of clothing before Vince bought me the Prada dress last night. It still feels unreal when I think about it, and I can’t quite believe that the night ended like it did.

“It’s Ronnie,” she says. “You seemed like you had so much going on so I didn’t want to worry you. I thought he was just blowing me off until I got here. His coaches are going crazy trying to figure out where he is. No one has heard from him since yesterday. He’s gone.”

She says all of this into my shoulder, so I don’t have to worry about hiding the guilt that’s all over my face. Vince. What did he do? It’s one thing to know he’s a bad person and that he probably does bad things. The reality of it all is hitting me hard now. Why did I think I could just sideline that for a good time? Was the way he made me feel really worth getting tied up with someone so dark?

I push her back by the shoulders and look into her eyes. I’d be an even worse friend if I didn’t tell her what I know, so I sit her down on an unoccupied bench and spend the next five minutes telling her everything, including my shameful encounters. I can tell she wants to ask more about the sex by the glint in her eyes, but her worry over Ronnie keeps her quiet. By the time I’m done, her face is white and she covers it with her hands, releasing a fresh wave of sobs.

“He’s dead,” she sniffs.

“No,” I say. “No. Vince doesn’t seem like that kind of guy.” I feel guilty talking about him like I know him, like he’s my boyfriend or something. After all, he’s the guy who probably left Ronnie lying bloodied in a dark alley somewhere. “He would have just done enough damage to send a message. If he killed Ronnie, there’d be no way he could get the money back.”

Aria gives me a look that cuts me deep, like she’s seeing the real me for the first time. “How can you be so logical about this? He could be dead.”

I sigh, searching for the right words. “I’m not being logical or writing it off like it’s no big deal. It’s terrible. I hate that I got involved with someone who would do something like this. I just...I wanted you to know that I think Ronnie’s okay.”

“You’re talking about him like you are still involved with him.”

I open my mouth to speak but can’t find the right words. “I-Just. I don’t-”

“You’re unbelievable.”

“I never asked for any of this. I can’t just walk away from him. It’s not safe.” There’s some truth to what I say, but in reality, my hesitation to break things off with him once and for all has nothing to do with fear of what he would do to me. I’m in too deep, whether I want to admit it or not. “Besides, my best chance of finding out what happened to Ronnie is talking to him.”

Aria scowls at me and nods her head savagely. “Yeah. Thanks for that. I’ll just go home then and have a great night’s sleep because your psycho boyfriend probably didn’t kill Ronnie.”

She turns and storms off. I would go after her, but a quick glance at my phone tells me I’m on camera in five minutes. I can’t afford to risk my job. Too many bills. Too many problems. I guess she has a right to be mad at me. Wouldn’t I be pissed at myself in her shoes? Still, it doesn’t help take away the sting.

I’m about to run over to Eric and try to get on the air before I get fired for missing my cue, but a burly man in a suit steps in front of me. It’s like bumping into a semi-truck, and I nearly fall over. A passing Jets player catches me by the shoulders, barely looking as he stands me upright and then continues toward the field.

I look up into the man’s dark, Italian features. He has stubble and an arching brow, but there’s only cruelty in the expression he wears. He’s a complete stranger, but the way he looks at me says he knows me.

“S’cuse me,” he says in a deep voice, but he doesn’t move, and he doesn’t look away.

I get an immediate overdose of creeper vibes and try to back away, but he steps toward me.

I open my mouth, but he silences me with a sausage-like finger. “You can call for help, and I’ll have to walk away. But I’ll come back, and I’ll come when you’re alone and somewhere no one will hear you scream.”

I swallow hard. It takes everything in me not to scream. “What do you want?” I ask, voice shaking a little.