*
Grant plodded toward the ship, grateful that his workplace was not far from the courthouse. A shooting pain seared through his left side any time he shifted the wrong way. He wondered if Logan had caused permanent damage with that last jab. But despite the pain, he had punished his body with a grueling workout. Perhaps he’d overdone his early-morning exercise regimen, but pushups were strangely calming for him, reminding him of his orderly days in the military. And running was all he knew to do when the demons of his family started chasing him again.
A paroxysm of anger and regret seized him. Recalling his heated exchange with his brother the night before, Grant ran his hand across his jaw, careful to avoid the tender bruise on his left cheek.
He hated how he’d acted like a child around his big brother the previous evening. He’d behaved like an eight year old, crying and telling Logan he wished he were dead. Grant winced as that wounded comment looped through his mind once again. What a horrible thing to say—but at least he’d gotten Logan to leave his apartment.
“You’re early!” Roger bellowed when Grant stepped onto the deck. He squinted into the July sun and saw his boss descending the steps from the bridge.
“Where’s your better half?” Roger inquired jovially.
“How should I know? I’m not her keeper,” Grant responded testily.
“Whoa. Trouble in paradise?” He noticed his employee’s battered face. “Yikes, did you let yourself get hit by a woman, Madsen? Should I call the cops and report domestic violence?”
Observing Grant’s distraught expression, Roger stopped kidding around. In a softer tone, he asked, “What’s wrong?”
Grant gulped. “Nothing. I’m going to go clean toilets.” The shit had hit the fan, and now it was time to start cleaning it up.
Roger watched him hustle aft, appearing eager to clean the restrooms for some bizarre reason. Shaking his head, Roger muttered, “Fucking parolee.”
About an hour later, Roger was reading the food section of the Chicago Tribune, drooling over a recipe for Italian sausage meatballs, when he heard his name being called. Peering down his nose, he saw Sophie looking up at him nervously.
“Is Grant here?” she asked while Roger made his way down the stairs.
He was bamboozled by her sexy black pantsuit, and he ogled her while inquiring, “How are you going to serve drinks wearing that?”
Sophie glanced down at her pantsuit. It was nothing special, particularly since she’d been wearing it two days in a row now. She hadn’t had the courage to put on one of her mother’s outfits, even though her father kept Laura’s entire wardrobe hanging in the closet.
“Rog, I, um, I can’t work today.”
“What?” he countered angrily. “I gave you yesterday off, Taylor. One day. I expect you to work today.”
“Actually, I can’t work any day. I have to, um, resign. I’m sorry.”
Roger’s jaw dropped. “You’re quitting? Why?”
She bit her lower lip. “I’m sorry, Rog. I hate to do this to you—you’ve been so kind to take me in when I really needed a job, but I …” She stopped talking as she sensed another presence on deck and felt intense gemstone eyes on her.
Swallowing hard, Sophie looked to the left, confirming that Grant had indeed emerged from wherever he’d been hiding on the ship. He looked pained and had a deep bruise on his left cheek, which made him look even more like a criminal. Her heart pounded furiously as she carefully stepped back toward the railing.
Perplexed by her fear, Roger studied Sophie, then Grant. Grant took a step forward, and Sophie inhaled sharply, her eyes growing wider.
“Sophie,” he pleaded.
“Stay away from me!”
Roger continued to stare back and forth between them. “What the fuck is wrong with you two?”
Seeing her so sickeningly scared of him made Grant want to run, to give her the sense of safety she desperately seemed to need, but he felt compelled to speak. He couldn’t help himself.
“Please, Sophie. I need to talk to you.”
“I have nothing to say to you,” she insisted. “Go run your con on some other woman.”
“It’s not a con,” he protested. “I had no idea what Logan did to you—I promise. I … I love you.”
“You lied to me!” she cried.
“I didn’t know what Lo did to you! How can I lie about something I know nothing about?”
“Stop playing games, Grant Barberi. You lied to me every time you pretended to be someone other than the son of Enzo Barberi. You lied to me every time you failed to admit you were the brother of Logan Barberi!”
Grant looked over to see Roger staring at him with an apparent new understanding, a look bordering between fascination and respect. Grant felt sick.
There was nothing he could say to refute her words, and he hung his head low. He felt utterly defeated, like a little boy who’d just been scolded. Sophie’s throat constricted, picturing him as an innocent four year old, beaten within an inch of his life. She had to look away, drawing her hand to her mouth to stifle a cry.
Grant noticed her distress and fought the urge to scoop her into his arms. She would never let him hold her now. How had this all gone so wrong?
Sophie backed up another step, and it was obvious she was about to flee. She delivered her last words in a seething tone, masking the tears in her voice. “I don’t want anything to do with you and your family! Your brother ruined my life!”
She leaped from the ship, running as fast as her legs would carry her.
Heartbroken, Grant held his head in his hands. “He ruined my life too.”
She was gone.
30. CONsequence
Logan rubbed the sleep from his eyes as he made his way down the deserted warehouse-district street. It wasn’t the first time he’d slept outside on a bench by the lake, but for some reason it seemed he’d sunk to an all-time low. He was responsible for putting two people—the only two people he cared about besides his son—in prison. A man responsible for such pain certainly did not deserve the finer things in life, like a warm bed or fresh, laundered clothing.
Although undeserving of others’ help, he’d still reached out for some financial assistance with the hope of affording a warm bed tonight, maybe in a hotel room somewhere. He’d called the one man who could not refuse him: his godfather, Angelo. Although Angelo had not sounded pleased about shelling out even more money, Logan knew he couldn’t turn away his nephew and godson.
Entering their rendezvous point, an abandoned warehouse on the west side, Logan stopped short when he saw who was waiting for him. It was not the calm, grizzled patriarch of the Barberi family. Instead, it was his menacing, envious, black-haired son, flanked by two imposing Mafia thugs. Logan eyed his cousin Carlo and the muscled men standing at a respectful distance behind him.
Logan nodded to the behemoth on Carlo’s left, who had somehow added to his bulk in prison. “Didn’t know you were out, Meat.”