“This is one of a hundred, Liliana. It’s gotten out of hand. You’ve gotten out of hand.”

If I had been doing this while high, what else had I done that I didn’t know about? The implications were frightening. I was living in a blackout.

“So you’ve let Sienna listen to these messages?”

“Of course. She’s my girlfriend. We don’t have secrets.”

“And was she pissed when she heard them?”

“Wouldn’t you be?”

And the puzzle pieces clicked together. It all made sense now. The threatening note. The breathy prank calls. The slashed tires. His girlfriend was after me, and I almost couldn’t blame her. With my temper, I would have done the same. Tony certainly had a type—fiery and jealous.

I felt both terrible and relieved that it was Sienna. How could I have ever thought Robin or Willow were behind it? I got up and headed to the bedroom, returning with a knife in hand. I held it out to Tony. His hands flew up defensively and he stumbled back a few steps.

“I’m not going to stab you, idiota. You know your girlfriend is a psycho? I think this belongs to her. She left it in my tire last night.”

Tony scoffed, then carefully took the knife. “You get what you give, Liliana.” Was he taking the side of his girlfriend of one minute over me, who he’d known for almost twenty years? “God knows how many enemies you’ve made due to your poor choices. You’re a liar and an addict. So before you come at my girlfriend for whatever is going on in your wasted life, how about you get your act together first? And leave me and Sienna alone.”

Wordless. Helpless. Powerless. He left me like that as he stormed out of my apartment and out of my life.

But I couldn’t lose him like this. Not without a fight. Italian women didn’t back down. No, I would win over some skanky-ho puttana. I always did when it came to Tony. Mine. If I couldn’t have him, no one would. Especially not some tire-slashing tramp named Sienna. If the years with Tony had taught me one thing, it was how to get him back into my bed . . . and I knew just what to do to bait him.

Chapter 30

Mackenzie

SATURDAY

Crows are said to be a bad omen, a harbinger of death. If any bird earned that reputation I would think it would be a buzzard. After all, they appear at the first sign of death and feast on it.

Two buzzards picked at a dead squirrel in my front yard. The poor thing had been splattered by a passing car, and some animal lover, hating to see the critter so dishonored, had tossed the bloody carcass into my yard. Thanks, but no thanks.

Today I felt like that squirrel. Smashed beyond recognition.