I want to feel sorry for him, but I can't. He chose this path. He connived and manipulated his way in here and if he gets excluded by my dad, he deserves that and everything else for lying to me and breaking my heart. He twisted himself into someone he's not just to get ahead and that never pays off.
Renzo peers at my dad with stars in his eyes. He must think he's part of the family, or he's going to be soon, because he's eating this up.
As we move through the courses of fine Italian cuisine, the pressure between Foster and I builds like we're frogs sitting in a heating pot of water.
Foster looks at me across the table and the skin on my arm grows goosebumps. Something evil and convoluted is going on under the surface, and it's breaking what little resolve I could muster tonight. I feel terrible for flirting with Renzo. I'm confused why Foster is here. I have to flee this dinner and whatever Foster's cooking up with my father. My heart needs to run and hide under a pint of ice cream and a handful of melatonin.
My hands shake and my voice cracks as I place my napkin on my plate and stand up. "I, uh, I have to go."
"What's wrong, sweetheart?" my dad asks.
As Foster stands, everything about him mocks me. He laughs with his tall body, his trim waist, his broad shoulders, and the green fabric of his shirt playing off his eyes. He's gorgeous. He fits in here. He used me to get his spot at the table. I'm the fool.
This is too much. I can't stand it. "I'm sorry. I feel ill." I step away from the table and scuffle to the door. "My stomach didn't take the food well."
My dad stands. "Don't be silly, sweetheart. Stay and have cake. Presents."
"I'm sorry, Dad. I'm really not well. I need to go get some medicine at the store." I lean forward and press my hand to my stomach as I leave the dining room.
My father follows behind me. "We'll send someone for whatever you need."
"I'll just go. It's faster."
Foster appears and holds out his hand, palm up. "Please, Mila, stay." Foster's pleading voice slices my heart like a box cutter through cardboard. He expects me to stay and suffer through this torture? No. Never. He can carry on with his Machiavellian plan outside of my presence.
Before he can say another word, I have my keys and bag and I'm at the elevator.
Foster moves toward the elevator with his mouth open like he wants to say something, but he's too late. The doors close with me inside, him out there. Two different worlds, never to be meshed.
The elevator takes forever to reach the parking garage. My dress pulls tight as I run to the safety of my car. The beep of my vehicle and the silence inside when I close the door feels like a refuge. I made it. It's over and I'm never going back. If Foster is going to be at Sunday dinners, I won't be there.
I hate him and I never want to see him again.
He wanted to sit at the table with the Bianchis and pretend I meant nothing to him? I hope he gets everything he deserves. I hope my dad messes with his head and casts him away like Foster did to me. Foster looked so damn arrogant in his tailored suit! He had the nerve to stare me down like I had done something wrong. I did nothing! He's the one who betrayed us and what we were building.
A flash of something hits my windshield and the car skids to a stop.
Oh my God. Foster is lying flat on his chest on the hood of my car. His arms are wide out to his side and his palms are flat. He's clinging to the car like Spider-Man, his eyes wild like a demon possessed!
The momentum of the car stopping pushes his face right up next to the windshield.
"Stop!" His angry face scowls at me. I'm mostly reading his lips because I can't really hear him from outside.
"I am stopped!" I scream back, but he's probably reading my lips too.
His eyebrows furrow as he slides off the car like he's mad at me. He's the one who jumped onto a moving car. I did nothing wrong except try to leave this nightmare of an evening—and him—behind. As he stomps to the passenger door, I fumble for the lock but he opens it before I can get my brain and my hand coordinated. He plops in the passenger seat of my Jetta and glares at me.
"Get the hell out of my car!"
"We're talking now." His voice is commanding and harsh. Who the hell does he think he is talking to me like that?
"The hell we are. Get out!"
"Drive to the beach." He points through the windshield telling me which way to go. The Brooklyn accent has returned to his voice and he looks a lot more like the fighter I once knew. That guy was hot when he was angry. This dickwaddle in a suit is just pissing me off.
A car behind me honks for me to get out of the way.
"I have to move."
"So drive."
"Not with you in here."
The car behind me gives up on waiting, honks, and goes around us.
"Get out!" I reach over his lap and open his door. My arms brush his thighs and darn, darn, they are still ripped and tight.
"Drive," he says like he can give me orders.
"No." I cross my arms and stare forward through the windshield.
"Your dad has probably sent someone out here to follow me. Did you tell him about us?" he asks me.
"No." Of course I didn't. It would put us both in the crosshairs.
"I didn't either, so unless Donnie or Renzo did, he doesn't know."
"Donnie and Renzo didn't tell him. I would have heard about it."
"Then drive if you want to keep it a secret," he says with a condescending tone.
"I hate you." My foot stomps the gas and my wheels squeak as we tear out of the parking lot.
Chapter 12 I Hope You're Right
I reluctantly follow his directions to Sky Tower on 52nd Street in Lower Manhattan.
A card from his wallet grants us entrance into the parking structure of the highly coveted, extremely expensive apartment complex.
"What are we doing here?"
"Park. 3503." He points to an empty space near the elevator.
"Is this your place?"
He doesn't answer me as we park. "Let's go."
"No. You get out here," I say.
"Come up with me." He speaks through gritted teeth, showing his frustration with me. I don't care. He's inconsequential to me now.
"Is this your place?" I repeat my question.
"Come up with me." He repeats his non-answer.
"I don't see the point."
He exaggerates his groan, climbs out of the passenger seat, and slams the door. Good. I'm disappointed he gave up but relieved this horrid evening is over.
I switch into reverse and look over my shoulder to back up.
My door swings open and I slam on the brakes.
"Hey!"
He reaches over me and unbuckles my seat belt. I catch a whiff of his hair and skin. God, he smells clean like soap and sweet like fine wine.
I have no choice when he tugs on my arm but to pull my legs out from under the steering wheel and place them on the ground. It's awkward and my skirt flies open. He's not deterred. He scoops one arm under my knee and another behind my back. He grunts and tries to lift me out of my seat but I wiggle and make myself as heavy as possible. "No."
He doubles down and fixes his grip deeper around both legs and my back and hoists me out of my car.