Cross + Catherine: The Companion Read online

  Good.

  Hurt like she does.

  Dante leaned over Cross with his gun pointed at the man’s face as Cross choked on blood.

  He could only laugh.

  The arrogant little shit could be knocked down.

  Hard to believe.

  “All right, Dante, you made your point,” Lucian said. “Let’s go.”

  Dante never looked away from Cross, and actually, grabbed his throat to keep him staring back. He had shit to say, and Cross needed to hear it.

  He needed to fucking heed it.

  “Stay the fuck away from my daughter from here on out,” Dante said while his molars ached from clenching so hard. “Don’t you ever even breathe in her direction again, Cross. Stay far the hell away. You come near me or mine again, and I will ruin you and yours. This city will crumble from what I will do to your family. In fact, make it easy on all of us and get the hell out of this state. Understood?”

  Cross blinked.

  Pain stared back at Dante.

  It was not the same kind of pain Catherine had to be feeling, but it would do.

  For now …

  “Understood?” Dante asked firmer.

  “Yeah,” Cross croaked.

  Dante could have let him go with that said, but instead, he shifted his aim, and fired. The bullet tore through the top of Cross’s shoulder. More blood spilled instantly. “So you’ll have something to keep from this meeting. A reminder, if you will. A gift.”

  “Dante,” Lucian hissed.

  He stood, and left the penthouse, and Cross.

  Let him fucking die there for all I care.

  Lucian followed. “Now what, Dante? What will you do when his father wants someone to answer for what you did tonight?”

  Dante said nothing.

  He now had nothing to say.

  The Therapy

  Catherine POV

  It took four weeks, and eight sessions before Catherine opted to do something else other than greet Cara Guzzi from the floor. The therapist barely batted a lash at the sight of Catherine sitting on the bench in the window nook that overlooked the back property.

  “Anything to see out there?” Cara asked.

  The woman opted to stand rather than take a seat beside Catherine.

  “Not at the moment,” Catherine said. “All the snow should be gone by now, but it’s not.”

  Cara gave Catherine one of her soft, warm smiles. “So, what exactly does it look like to you?”

  Catherine looked out the window again, and took in the property. She chose to say the first things that came to her mind at the sight, and not filter her words like she might with someone else. Cara didn’t like when Catherine filtered her thoughts and feelings.

  “Cold and barren. There’s no one out there, and none of the things that usually decorate our yard. The snow is far beyond the pretty point of winter—you know, when it’s clean and bright, and sparkles somedays. Now, it’s at that ugly stage where you can see everything it has killed as it made its way in. It’s like the weather can’t decide if it wants to be winter or spring right now.”

  “And so what does that do?”

  “Well, it leaves you with a mess.”

  Cara laughed softly. “Or, you could be seeing something incredible at work here. Say … a new start. A recharge, or a rebirth. The beginning stages of healing that a colder, lonelier time has left behind.”

  Catherine snuck a glance at Cara. She didn’t think the woman was only talking about the snow and yard anymore. Cara did things like that quite often—delivered cryptic words meant to be advice. Catherine found herself spending days deciphering things Cara had told her.

  On more than one occasion …

  “Did you try to do what we talked about during our last session?” Cara asked.

  “I seriously considered it.”

  Cara openly frowned—something she didn’t do very often. “But it sounds like perhaps you didn’t actually follow through.”

  “No.” Catherine looked toward the entryway. “Where are my parents today?”

  “I believe your father said he was going to take your mother out for lunch. Don’t worry, no one is listening in on our conversation, Catherine.”

  “No one ever does,” Catherine replied. “You make sure of that.”

  Cara smiled. “I’m glad you trust me enough to believe that I will continue to keep that promise because I will.”

  Well, truthfully, at the moment, Cara was the only person Catherine trusted. She was the only person Catherine currently felt comfortable enough to have a conversation with that went deeper than the things on the surface of her life.

  No one wanted to push Catherine.

  Everyone was scared of hurting her.

  The silence in her home was sometimes deafening. Not that she blamed her parents, or the rest of her family. What could they really do or say for her when they couldn’t possibly understand her? It wasn’t like she gave them anything to go on.

  It was what it was.

  “What stopped you from talking to Dante and Catrina?”

  Catherine shrugged, and looked back at the window. Shoving her hands under her armpits, she wished in that moment that her oversized sweater would just swallow her whole.

  Where she couldn’t be seen …

  Where she didn’t have to talk, or think … or hurt.

  Where she wasn’t constantly being examined.

  “I’m not ready to talk to them about my rape,” Catherine finally said.

  “But you have talked with me about it on several occasions,” Cara pointed out.

  “You’re not them.”

  “Fair enough.” Cara sighed, and then asked, “What do you think is the reason you’re holding back—what is the issue keeping you at this not-ready stage, Catherine.”

  “I don’t know.”

  “I think you do. Or you have a good idea of what it is. Otherwise, you would have no reason not to tell them, so they could help you and understand you more.”

  “But what if they don’t?”

  “Hmm?”

  Catherine abused her bottom lip with her teeth until she could taste blood. Once she finally let her lip go, she clarified, “What if they don’t understand at all—what if all they can do is find fault?”

  “You think they’ll blame you.”

  “I think that I don’t want to find out.”

  “I genuinely believe that if you were honest with your parents, their response would probably surprise you.”

  Catherine scowled at her reflection in the window. Something she hadn’t felt a lot lately came bubbling up before she even understood what was happening.

  Irritation and anger.

  The only thing she ever seemed to feel was lonely and empty.

  It was strange.

  And good.

  “Why is it up to me?” she asked sharply.

  Cara’s calm demeanor didn’t falter as Catherine turned on her. “What do you mean, Catherine?”

  “Why is it always the victim who needs to tell—like it’s our only fucking duty to report what happened to us? Why am I the one who’s expected to relive my trauma again and again just to satisfy everyone else around me? I was raped—me. Not you, and not them. Just me. No one should ever have the right to demand a victim to do anything if they don’t want to do it.

  “It’s not your trauma—it’s only mine,” Catherine finished.

  She was a hell of a lot quieter at the end than she had started.

  Funny how that worked.

  For a long time, the women simply stared at one another. Cara said nothing, and Catherine waited the silence out.

  She had said what she needed to say, after all.

  Nothing more was needed.

  “You’re absolutely right,” Cara finally said. “It’s not my place to ask you to trigger yourself again and again by telling your story.”

  “Thank you.”

  “However …”

  Catherine knew that how
ever was coming. With Cara, there was always something else to be said or done.

  “What?” Catherine asked.

  “The longer you keep yourself in that mindset—the one of a victim—the harder it will be to leave it behind. Many women who have been assaulted don’t like to think of themselves as victims, but survivors. See, they have come out on the other side of their attack, handled the trauma it caused, and walked through the destruction it left behind.”

  Cara smiled, adding, “In other words, Catherine, they survived. A victim is still processing, and not yet beyond that mindset.”

  “So, maybe that’s what I need to be right now,” Catherine replied, shrugging. “A victim. Maybe I’m not ready to move beyond something I have barely allowed myself to think about, not to mention, considering telling someone else.”

  “Maybe,” Cara agreed. “Or, maybe this place is comfortable and familiar to you. This place is easier to control how it leaves you feeling. It probably allows you to control how close you allow others, too.”

  Catherine didn’t like how a lot of what Cara said made a hell of a lot of sense. She wasn’t ready to do anything.

  “Maybe I don’t want them to see me as a victim, too,” Catherine mumbled.

  Cara nodded. “I can understand that.”

  “You don’t agree, though.”

  “Catherine, this is your journey, not mine. I may push or encourage you in certain directions, but ultimately, it will always be you who chooses which road you want to travel.”

  “Oh.”

  “Yes,” Cara said quietly. “Now, I was thinking … why don’t we take a drive today? Go somewhere—do something new for this session.”

  Catherine’s heart thumped hard in her throat at the prospect of getting out of the house without one of her parents practically holding her hand like a child. “Seriously?”

  Cara pulled out a set of familiar keys. They belonged to Catherine’s matte black Lexus. Her father kept them well hidden.

  “Where did you get those?” Catherine asked. “My dad took them away months ago.”

  “I explained to him why he needed to give them back.”

  “And why was that?”

  “Because you are an adult, and not his child to punish. While I know he didn’t take the keys to punish you, I bet it still felt like it. Right?”

  “Kind of.”

  “Exactly. That certainly won’t breed anything good between the two of you. Contempt, maybe. He couldn’t hand over the keys fast enough at that point.”

  Catherine swallowed hard. “Huh.”

  Cara jingled the keys. “Wherever you want to go, Catherine, we will go today.”

  She grabbed the keys faster than she thought was possible.

  “The beach. I want to go to the beach.”

  The Separation

  Cross POV

  This is what hell must feel like.

  Cross’s inner thoughts were like a constant form of torture lately that just wouldn’t let him go. It didn’t seem to matter what he was doing, or where he was, his mind and tar-black heart managed to somehow drag him even lower.

  Emotionally, that was.

  So was his life now.

  The filled-to-capacity Chicago nightclub was supposed to be the hottest place in the city. At least, that’s what everybody said when Cross asked. It certainly had enough people partying inside to say it was popular.

  A good place to escape.

  Somewhere life couldn’t touch them.

  Just what Cross thought he needed.

  Yet, there he sat in a back booth, a full glass of whiskey untouched in front of him, and entirely stuck inside his own head and heart. Not even the conversation between his two friends could drive him out of his thoughts enough to engage them. The great music and beautiful, dancing women with dresses short enough to show off peeks of their ass cheeks did nothing for him, either.

  Six months in Chicago—six months without Catherine—and one might think Cross would have finally left New York, and her, behind.

  Life was not so simple.

  His heart was also a fickle bitch.

  “Yo, Cross.”

  He blinked out of his depressing thoughts, and looked at his friend. Zeke sat beside him in the booth, while Tommaso sat alone on the other side. Both guys looked at him like he had grown a second head or something.

  “What?” Cross asked.

  “Man, you’re out of it tonight, huh?” Zeke asked.

  “He’s like this a lot, really,” Tommaso said.

  Cross gave the youngest of the three a look of warning. “I don’t remember anyone asking you, Tom.”

  “Still said it.”

  “Be careful, Tom,” Cross said, smirking, “or I might let one of the bouncers know your ID is a fake.”

  “Mob-owned joint,” Tommaso countered. “Not worried about it.”

  Cross figured.

  He turned to Zeke instead, saying, “It’s just been a long day, man.”

  “Sure,” Zeke replied.

  Zeke didn’t sound like he really believed it, though. Honestly, Cross hadn’t been making much of an effort to hide his shitty moods, either. His troubles were on his sleeve for everybody to see, lately.

  “It’s your first night in the city,” Cross told Zeke, “so don’t be worrying about me, man.”

  Zeke scoffed. “First, how can I even look out for you if you won’t talk to me about shit, huh? As for the second thing—I’ve got a couple of weeks to bug the shit out of you if you want to do this the hard way, Cross. Better to get it over with now.”

  Cross chuckled. “You’re a fucker.”

  “Kind of have to be when my best friend is living a couple of states away from me, now.”

  “I like him,” Tommaso said, tipping his glass in Zeke’s direction.

  Cross ignored Tommaso, and looked at Zeke again. “I’m fine.”

  “Are you?”

  He didn’t—nor was he interested in—getting the first degree from his friends. Besides, he didn’t talk feelings. He just wasn’t the type.

  It wasn’t his style.

  Not giving Zeke a chance to question him further, Cross pushed out of the booth. “I’ve got to go take a piss.”

  Neither of the guys moved to follow Cross. Men weren’t like women who always seemed to need to use the bathroom in groups.

  Like a fucking book club for bathrooms.

  Not bothering to chat more with his friends before he left, Cross weaved in and out of the dancing people on the main floor of the club. The place was so full that it was starting to feel a little claustrophobic.

  Suffocating, even.

  Soon, Cross was closed in the men’s bathroom. He relieved himself at the furthest urinal from the drunk trying to figure out where his piss was supposed to go.

  A fucking shame, really.

  Men like him—criminals—were labeled stains on society, but there was that stupid drunk. Shitfaced, and fucking stumbling around like a fool. At least men like him didn’t get smashed and make public scenes of themselves.

  They did have standards.

  Cross zipped up, and headed for the sinks. He took a little bit longer to wash his hands, but that was simply because he wasn’t ready to head back to the table just yet. Zeke would have more questions. He would push and prod until he got something from Cross that satisfied him. It was just how the two were in their friendship.

  This time, he wished that Zeke wouldn’t do that at all.

  He didn’t want to talk.

  Not about what sent him to Chicago.

  Not about New York.

  Not about Catherine.

  None of it.

  Cross stared at his reflection in the mirror.

  The bruises from Dante’s beating were finally gone—it had only taken a couple of weeks for those to yellow, and heal. He needed a fucking haircut, but the barber he preferred was in New York, and he didn’t trust anybody yet in Chicago to do it.

  He kind of depended o
n Zeke to look out for Camilla while Cross wasn’t close enough to do it. He missed his mother’s cooking on Sunday afternoons like nothing else. He wished the calls he made to Calisto were enough to satisfy his need to have his step-father close, but they weren’t even close.

  Nothing was good enough.

  Chicago wasn’t New York.

  The people here could never replace the people there.

  Mostly, he missed Catherine.

  Cross met his own gaze in the mirror. All over again, he was stuck reminding himself that this was for the best.

  For her.

  Even if it fucking killed him …

  She’s better off.

  She needs to get better.

  She can’t do that with you.

  It was his mantra on repeat.

  Cross headed out of the bathroom, and unsurprisingly, found Zeke waiting for him. His friend leaned against the wall across from the bathroom. Cross joined him.

  “I’m fine,” he said again.

  Zeke nodded. “I know you’re not.”

  “Yeah, well …”

  “Yeah,” Zeke echoed.

  A girl with a pretty face walked past them, and eyed Cross the whole way. She didn’t even attempt to hide her interest in the slightest.

  “Maybe something like that is what you need,” Zeke murmured, eyeing the girl’s backside. “If you don’t want to talk your shit out, then why not try fucking it out with somebody?”

  “Maybe,” Cross replied.

  He headed in the opposite direction than the woman had gone.

  “But no thanks,” he added.

  The Aftermath

  Catrina POV

  With Cross Donati gone from the private dining area, the space turned deathly silent. Such an abnormal thing for these men surrounding Catrina. They very rarely found themselves rendered speechless.

  She supposed an attack like the one Cross launched upon her husband would do just that—leave them all without the right words to say.

  Sometimes, Catrina thought—as much as she loved him—that Dante could be a bit too complacent. Too comfortable, so to speak, in his position at the top. He rarely came up against someone who did not fear him in some way.