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I want to dig a hole for myself to disappear into when he says those words.
“So, you haven’t done anything else?” he asks, his voice low.
I wet my lips and pull my legs up, resting my head against the sofa. “No.”
“Good,” he says matter of fact, sitting up and leaning his muscular arms on his knees. “Who was it?” he asks, curiosity shining through his deep voice.
“Why do you want to know everything?”
“Why are you so evasive?” he counters, getting up and handing me a full soju shot glass.
I want to swear at the bastard, but what the hell, it’s only a month, right? After that, I won’t ever see him again, so I throw it back and look at him. “I moved here about a year ago after my grandpa left me his apartment, and I got a job at the museum to teach kids art, that’s how I met him.”
“You’re an artist?” he asks, sounding truly interested, getting comfortable sitting next to me.
“You probably already did your whole background check.” I laugh.
He nods and runs his thumb over his bottom lip, waiting for me to fill the silence. This time he can start to talk, I’m done filling up the silences like I always do.
He sighs and holds his head a little to the side, like he’s challenging me. He chuckles and says, “I did,” but the way he laughs tells me he’s won this round. “I want to hear your story, from you.”
I nod too, and bite on my bottom lip. “I try to be, an artist, I mean. My grandpop taught me all he knew. I’m not anywhere near as good as he was, but I’ve been selling my modern art pieces online through my store, and a gallery reached out to exhibit my stuff. But that was before…” I tell him, not finishing my sentence.
“Before you got into debt.” He clears his throat. “What did you do, buy too many expensive clothes?” He laughs and runs a hand through his long hair, looking at the view outside.
I flash him an angry stare and cross my arms.
He grins, or tries to. “Easy, kitten.”
I growl at the nickname—secretly, I like it, even if it’s the crazy scary mafia guy doing all the talking. “No, I trusted someone I shouldn’t have, and he left me with this mess.”
He frowns and sits up. “He stole your money?”
“He did. He must have gotten my bank codes or something and took out loans in my name for his business.”
“What does he do?” he asks, his voice low and hoarse.
“He owns a couple of nightclubs in the city. I tried to get my money back, but the bank said all the signatures were legit. If I don’t pay, I could lose my home, and they are going to kick me out of the country.”
The expression on his face turns deadly. “What’s his name?” he asks.
“I’m not telling you, this is my mess,” I tell him, my voice leaving no room for discussion. But the way he balls his fists tells me he holds all the cards.
“Is that why you tried to win the money back?” he asks, shifting and scratching the back of his head.
“Yes,” I groan, leaning my head against the couch again. “I thought I could win but this isn’t Tazza.”
“You know that movie?” he asks, focusing on me, a couple stray locks of black hair falling in front of his eyes.
“I do, it was my grandpop’s favorite,” I say, staring out of the floor-to-ceiling windows.
“The son of a bitch should be dead,” he mumbles, staring out of the windows too. “Who did this to you?” he demands, his voice leaving no room for debate.
“I’m not telling you who it is. I got myself into this mess, now I’m sort of getting myself out of it.”
“Is he the one who’s been calling you?” he asks, turning to me.
I cringe. My ex has been calling me nonstop the last two weeks. First, it began with a couple of texts here and there, then the drunk late night phone calls started. No matter how many times I blocked his number, he kept stalking me. “Let it go,” I murmur, throwing back another shot. “And how did you know he’s been calling me? Did you go through my phone?”
