No, but I wished I would’ve thought of that.

Ish followed suit, leaping to his feet and throwing his napkin on the table. “Bryleigh, what the fuck did you do? Are you so stupid you can’t remember Father drinks his coffee black?” he scolded as he helped Vincent wipe up the dark brown spots speckled across his own shirt. “And look what else you caused! His shirt is now ruined.”

Neither cared to ask me if I was all right as red blisters appeared on my pale white skin, and after Ish ushered his dad to the front door, apologizing profusely the entire time, he returned to the kitchen to punish me properly. When I woke up the next morning, the small burns from the coffee looked like child’s play compared to the insides of my thighs and my backside.

It would later take multiple plastic surgeries to remove the skin where my husband branded me with his initials, using only a lighter and personalized cufflinks, over and over again across my most intimate areas.

Cold water beating down on my face jolts me from the memory, and as I turn my head to escape the icy spray, my eyes flutter open and frantically scan my surroundings. Raze’s worried gaze is the first thing I lock onto, and a huge wave of relief rolls through me.

“Are you okay kotyonok . . . what happened . . . where did you go . . . I thought I lost you there for a minute.” The words and questions come out so rushed, border-lining on hysteria, it all sounded like one long sentence.

“Yeah, I’m okay,” I reply through chattering teeth. “Cold.”

As he turns the water to warm, I smile to myself, thinking how glad I am I didn’t shoot the water heater this morning.

“Is that better?” he asks, looking over his shoulder at me. I give him a quick nod. “I apologize for doing that, but I couldn’t get you to wake up and I thought you were going to hurt yourself. You kept trying to rip your sweater off, clawing wildly at yourself and crying that you were sorry.”

I glance down at my fully clothed, soaking-wet body and chuckle to myself at the ridiculousness that is my life. “Just a flashback,” I say with a weak smile. “Give me a few minutes to reset and I’ll be fine.”

He tips his chin with approval, but reaches out to grab my hand, silently letting me know he’s not leaving my side. Slumping back until my head rests against the side of the tub, I close my eyes and remind myself of what’s important. I’m safe. It was just a flashback. Ish is dead. And in three days, Vincent will be too.

AS I SIT IN THE hard, uncomfortable pew of the chapel, dressed in my best suit, blending in with the sea of other dark fabrics and shaken faces, I tune out the funeral officiant’s droning voice and mentally run through the incredulous events that have taken place over the last few weeks, yet again. Blake’s abduction. Emerson’s confession. The secret trip set up by the Russian mobster. And now, Emerson’s death.

It feels as if I was living a halfway normal life, and then one day, I woke up trapped in an alternate universe, where crazy shit I never could’ve even dreamed of happens. But unfortunately, as I steal a confirming glance to my left to where my parents and brother are seated, and then across the row to where the Listers are huddled together, I’m forced to accept this has become my reality. And I don’t know how to make it stop.

If things weren’t fucked up enough with everything involving Blake’s situation concerning two rival mafia families, the FBI, and the US Marshals, they only became more convoluted Saturday night when Emerson’s parents found a suicide note at her townhome, stating that she couldn’t go on living after she had messed everyone’s life up the way she had—namely mine. At first, when Easton told me what had happened, I didn’t believe it. As bad as it sounds, I thought Emerson was much too self-absorbed to take her own life, and I assumed it was only a ploy to get attention and make me feel sorry for her.

However, after a homeless man reported seeing a red-headed woman throw herself from a fishing jetty at one of the pocket beaches not far from where she lived, and the police subsequently found Blake’s empty car parked nearby, it appeared I was wrong. Even though they’ve been unable to find her body—which most likely became shark bait not long after she flung herself into the Pacific Ocean—and the case is still under investigation, for all intents and purposes, it seems that Emerson Lister is indeed dead. And I’ve had to answer to a thousand questions, not only from her family and my parents, but also the authorities.

After showing them the footage from the night in my bedroom, neither Marshal Doherty nor Agent Lance were too thrilled to discover the method I’d used to coax Emerson’s declaration of guilt out of her, both implying I probably was the reason she ended her life. But even more than that, because Easton blew our cover when he left my house while I was on my way home from seeing Blake, they were downright furious with me for flying to Reno on another renegade mission. Of course, I haven’t admitted to them any of the details of my trip, and thankfully, neither have Easton or Jae. All of us have stuck to the story we’d agreed upon prior to the mission that I’d seen a piece of mail at Blake’s apartment with a Lake Tahoe address, so I’d gone to investigate. And even though they can’t prove any of us are lying, they’re all extremely suspicious, and I’d bet money they’ve got people up there combing the area now.

“Madden, honey, it’s over,” my mom whispers as she nudges my shoulder, pulling me back to reality with her touch. “Please tell me you’ve changed your mind about coming this evening. I need you there.”

I turn to face her and wrap my arm around her shoulders, pulling her close. “Mom, I know these last couple of days have been hard on you and Dad, seeing as though you knew Emerson since the time she was a kid, but I’m serious about not coming to the dinner. I agreed on the funeral, for your benefit only, but I refuse to sit around and listen while everyone talks about how wonderful of a person she was. I’m sorry she’s dead, but I can’t forgive her for what she did to Blake. And to me.”

More tears spill from her eyes, causing additional black streaks to stain her pale cheeks, and even though it kills me to upset her, I’m not giving in on this. She’s brought it up no less than five times since yesterday, and my answer remains the same. I’m not going.

“Keep your voice down, son. And can’t you stop by, even if it’s only for a few minutes? Your brother has agreed to come for a little while.” My dad leans over Mom’s shoulder and pins me with the look that reminds me no matter how old I am, they are still my parents. But even that isn’t going to work this time.

“Dad, I’m sorry,” I give a stern shake of my head, “but the answer is no. I understand why you guys feel the need to do this for Mr. and Mrs. Lister, and Easton is free to do whatever he wants; however, I will not be coming. And that’s the last I’m discussing the matter. Now, please excuse me. I have someone I’m meeting with this afternoon.”

Spinning around on my heel, I leave my distressed parents and spineless brother behind and push my way through the crowd of people still loitering in the center aisle and back area of the sanctuary. No one besides the authorities, my family, and the Listers knows the details of the suicide note left by Emerson, where she eludes to what she did, so most of these friends and family members can’t understand why a beautiful, well-educated young woman with a great job and wealthy, supportive parents would choose to end her life so suddenly. I’ve been asked repeatedly by her parents and mine to not make public the story of what happened, and even though I’ve agreed in principle, if someone straight out asked me for the truth, I doubt I’d lie.