Page 43 of Bronson

“And I was a jerk.” He chuckles.

This is fun. “And you worship the ground that I walk on.”

“I do.” The laughter leaves his voice. His eyes lock on mine. “I absolutely adore you, Paige.”

“Why’d you send me away?” I ask. My voice sounds small, bare.

Hurt flashes in his eyes. “I couldn’t bear the thought you not being mine. Dining with another man. But I didn’t think I—” He stops, rubs the back of his neck, then continues on another line of thought. “I didn’t know what to do. And I always, always know what to do. So I sent you away.”

My voice catches in my throat. I break his gaze. I pick at the tablecloth. “Say you’ll never do anything like that again.”

He reaches out. His fingertip is just beneath my chin, putting the tiniest bit of pressure on it, tilting it and forcing me to meet his gaze. “I will never, ever send you away from me, ever again.”

My voice is tiny. “I like the sound of that.”

“I like the sound of you,” he says.

There’s this nagging feeling pulling at the back of my mind. A question that has to be answered before I can move forward. “So, you don’t think… I’m not good enough for you?”

“Paige, you are everything that is good for me. I only pray I can be good enough for you.” His eyes flash. His hand grabs mine, engulfing it. “But when I show you my life, my real life, I want you to promise me, you will leave me if you are not… comfortable with who I am.”

I’m confused. “What are you talking about? You’re a jeweler.”

“I am. I am also a criminal. The head of one of the largest rings of organized crime in the county. I am Bronson Bachman, head of the Bachman family.”

“What are you talking about? You’re Bronson Bachman—owner of Bachman’s fine jewelry.” I would laugh but the look on his face tells me he dead serious.

“I’m the head of the ring. I’m a criminal. I break the law, every day. Sometimes, I have to hurt people. And if it comes down to protecting my family, sometimes I have to kill.”

Icicles form in my mind. My breath is in my throat and my hands are trembling. I hide them beneath the table.

“But I promise you, all we do, we do for the greater good. Our crimes are not self-serving. We, like you, are caring for those society has ignored. Swept under the rug.” He gives me a long look, as if making a decision. “It might be best if I were to show you. Where we live.”

“We, who? I always assumed you lived alone. Or just pulled out a cot in your office—you’re always in there⁠—”

“I’m never in my office.”

“Yes, you are, you go in there and close the door for hours at a time.” I study his face. “What are you saying? You have some kind of escape hatch back there?”

“Something like that,” he says.

Suddenly, I know what he says is true. Everything.

The man demands respect just by entering a room. The way he talks, his posture—there’s a dangerous air about everything he does. He certainly isn’t bogged down by employee relation laws. He does what he wants. Whatever he feels needs to be done. As far as his office goes, there isn’t a single piece of paper in there. In fact, the only thing I remember seeing, besides the desk, is the clock I had stolen weeks ago. I ask, “What kind of crimes are we talking?”

“It’s kind of a Robin Hood situation, if you will,” he says.

“Rob the rich to feed the poor,” I murmur, remembering the old Disney cartoon. It was my favorite movie as a child.

“Exactly. Only when we rob the rich, we are only taking back what they have stolen first,” he says.

“For example?”

His brows rise. “One that is near and dear to your heart? Overcharging for prescriptions. Pharmaceutical companies charge thousands of dollars for life-saving meds that only cost them few pennies to produce. Who pockets all that profit? Execs. Do you know how many single mothers are forced to make decisions that you don’t want to imagine, just to get medicine for their kids?”

He has no idea how close his story is to my heart. I’d stolen a few prescriptions myself. Daisy Fuchs has glaucoma, and the drops are a hundred dollars a month. I ask, “So where do you come in?”

He shrugs. “We have connections. Maybe a sympathetic truck driver, one who knows one of these mothers personally. We ‘hold up’ the truck, take the meds, and disperse them accordingly.”