Catching Bianca: A Dark Mafia Romance (Shadows of Obsession Book 4)
Catching Bianca: Chapter 4

Seventeen. That’s how many days I’ve crossed off in my pocket calendar since we checked into this hotel room. Sixty-four since Blaze handed me over to Vaughn after I spent three weeks locked in his mansion.

“You’re beautiful, you know that?” Vaughn’s words send an unpleasant shiver down my spine.

I lift my gaze from the book I’ve been reading for the better part of the afternoon. He’s holding a half-empty bottle of whiskey. His second tonight.

The effects are clearly visible.

When he stuck to one, he looked almost sober, almost unaffected. Since he started asking for two, that almost-sober look is nowhere in sight.

Dark bruises under his blue, hazy eyes betray exhaustion, which tampers with his ability to stay vigilant. The alcohol doesn’t help either. Nor does the fact he barely touched dinner, complaining of a lack of appetite.

His lips pinch into a thin line before his tongue darts out, running over his teeth. The intensity of his gaze roaming my face makes my stomach twist.

“Beautiful,” he repeats. “Inside and out. You remind me of your mother so much.”

I dog-ear the page, setting the book aside, comforted by the comparison. For a moment there, I thought he was hitting on me. These moments come often lately, too often, but they can be explained away…

A stupid thought, born out of fear for my safety, simmering beneath the surface, and the isolation. Vaughn’s not hitting on me; he’s just reminiscing about his late wife.

It’s clear as day that he misses her. I catch him staring at her photo on his phone a few times every day. She was beautiful. Blonde, button-like nose, full cheeks, delicate, dainty.

“We don’t look much alike,” I say, instinctively running my hands through my long, dark, arrow-straight hair.

What wouldn’t I give for lush curls…

“Your eyes,” he says, exhaling a long, shaky breath. “I look into your eyes, and it’s like I’m looking into hers. Sometimes I can almost fool myself that she’s here,” he adds, the words a soft whisper. “You sound like her, too. The same tone and bite…” He wheels himself closer, stopping right by my bed. I’m curled in the corner, propped up by the pillows and wrapped in a cocoon of blankets to keep warm. “Dye your hair blonde, and it’d be hard to tell the difference.”

“Well, there’s a big difference,” I say, my pulse quickening when Vaughn takes my hand, his thumb ghosting my knuckles. Bile churns in my stomach. “I think you should get some rest. You look tired.”

He stares into my eyes with a small, wistful smile. “The longer we’re together, the more things I notice.” He reaches out with the other hand, touching a point on my cheek with his index finger. “Like this blemish… she had one too.”

“Vaughn—”

“And this…” He ghosts that same finger along my jaw, my stomach somersaulting back.

This is too intimate.

He’s too close. Drunk. And the way he stares at me… I flinch away, pressing my back further into the wall.

Vaughn’s face falls, recognition flickering across his face before his hands fall away, dropping to his knees.

“Forgive me, that was inappropriate.” He sighs, his cheeks pink, his tone brimming with apology.

I swallow hard, mustering an ounce of compassion. From the scarce stories he’s told me about the events of the past two years, he’s been doing nothing but failing and hurting, making one bad decision after the other while chasing internal peace.

It all started with Mom’s diagnosis. Ever since, Vaughn’s been spiraling. Rolling down a steep hill to self-destruction. The grief eats him alive. It pushes him forward at breakneck speed.

“I miss her,” he adds, his tone loaded. “I miss my wife. I miss my daughter. I’ve lost one, alienated the other. Now you’re here and… I’m doing it again.” His voice cracks, vulnerability shining through, aided by the alcohol in his system.

The usual composure he maintains is nowhere around. He’s slipping, allowing himself a moment of uninhibited feelings as the first tear rolls down his cheek.

He turns the wheelchair around, hiding away.

My skin crawls, every fiber of my body protesting this interaction. I’ve never been good at comforting people. Maybe because I never received any. My skin’s thick. After a lifetime of neglect, of being tossed aside and pushed away, I’ve learned to suppress emotions.

If I don’t allow myself to feel, I don’t hurt.

I have no idea how to comfort Vaughn. Every sentence forming in my head sounds pathetic, forced, downright stupid.

“Get some sleep,” I repeat, rising from the bed. “I’ll watch the cameras, make sure we’re safe.”

Vaughn reaches for the whiskey bottle, drowning his emotions as he chugs, swallowing and swallowing and swallowing some more.

It always baffled me when I watched my college friends down their drinks. I could barely stomach a sip at a time. Soon enough, I abandoned drinking all together.

But today, I could use a glass of wine. I bet it’d numb the uncomfortable feeling coating my skin.

Setting the bottle on the nightstand, Vaughn gives me a curt nod, no more words leaving his lips. There’s less than a quarter of the amber liquid left when he moves himself into his bed, not bothering to change his clothes or get under the sheets.

I switch the TV off, so the blue light doesn’t bother him, and sit by the window, peeking through the gap between the drawn curtains at the empty, dark street.

Thirty seconds later Vaughn starts snoring, the sound so loud it’s curious he doesn’t wake himself up.

I start my favorite playlist on low volume, drowning out his snoring a little, then settle in the armchair, ready to stay awake while Vaughn catches up on much-needed rest.