He drops onto the sofa, eyes boring into me. I sit down beside him, perched on the edge like I might run at any moment. And who knows? I might.
“I… gave back the phone.”
“Thank fuck for that.”
“But—”
“But?” he growls, turning towards me. “There shouldn’t be a ‘but.’”
“I accepted a job with him,” I blurt.
He blinks at me for a few moments. “I’m sorry, did you just say what I think you said?”
I nod. “I’m head chef now. It’s a step up.”
I don’t know why I skip over the part where Anton basically forced me into the gig. It just sounds better this way. It puts the onus on me, instead of Anton. Makes me feel like I’m the one in charge of my life.
“I just have one question, and my question is, what the fuck? What the fuck, Jess?”
“I know it sounds stupid—”
“Maybe because it is stupid!” he suggests. “Not to mention dangerous. This guy is a murderer. You saw him shoot a man right in front of you. He’s been stalking you for weeks now and the moment you manage to get him off your back, you—” He stops short, his eyes going wide with realization. “Wait, did he threaten you into saying yes to this shit?”
“No,” I say quickly.
But Chris stares at me until I look away in shame. “He did!”
I shake my head. “I wanted to take the job.”
“Did you have a choice?”
No.
“Yes.”
“You’re doing it again,” he says. “You’re making the same damn mistake all over again.”
“He’s not Dane,” I snap.
“I know—he’s worse!” Chris spits.
“He—”
“He’s a fucking Bratva don, Jessa! A very bad dude who may have murdered his own goddamn wife!”
“We don’t know that!”
“Why the hell are you defending him?”
“Because…”
His eyes narrow. “Because what?”
“Because I don’t want to believe he did it, okay?!”
The atmosphere in the room gets so thick that I struggle to breathe. I get up off the sofa, storm to the window, and pull it open to let some fresh breeze in, but it doesn’t help.
“Jessa?”