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“Sure,” he said. “You’re not a spoiled princess, but you’re not a queen yet either. You’re someone in the middle. A contessa.”
I sucked in a breath. Coming from him, the nickname didn’t sound exactly like teasing anymore. It sounded like something more mischievous. Something naughty.
I wasn’t sure I liked it.
I also wasn’t sure I didn’t.
SEVEN
I DIDN’T ASK FOR IT, BUT I GOT IT ANYWAY
Michael
“I’m out of here,” Tony called from the other side of the garage. “Scarrone, you’re off the clock, you know that?”
I slid out from under the belly of the Town Car I was working on. The morning after I’d survived the Spanish Inquisition (aka Matthew Zola), Mattias had surprised me by offering weekend overtime to service a fleet he partially owned. Since then, I’d been up to my ears in oil changes, fluid replacement, and brake checks.
It was becoming clear to me that, despite his rant about money to Matthew, Mattias Zola had his fingers in a whole lot of car-related pies, and the shop in Belmont was just one of them. On their own, they didn’t amount to much, but taken together, I was guessing they paid for that cozy house a few blocks from Arthur Avenue, the three younger kids’ tuition at the parish school elementary school, and good meals for all of them every night of the week. He’d built a solid life for his family, and now he was letting me in on it.
I recognized it as the honor it was. But even so, I was dog fuckin’ tired. Once Tony and I were clocked out, I trudged upstairs, ready for a shower, a beer, and bed, in that exact order.
Unfortunately, I wasn’t getting any of them. Not when I opened the door to a room that was no more recognizable to me now than it was the first time I’d seen it.
To start, the place was clean. Gone were the grime on the walls, the dust bunnies in the corners, and the grease marks on the linoleum. Everything was sparkling and bright and smelled like lemons on a summer day.
The couch had also been made into a bed—pulled out, supplied with a mattress, and dressed with actual sheets, quilts, and pillows. The rest of the room had been equally transformed, with curtains, lamps, and even a lacy-looking tablecloth over the table in the corner.
“What the fuck?” I turned back around to make sure I hadn’t wandered into another spare apartment.
Was there another set of stairs leading to another breakroom where another recent parolee was remaking his life?
“You’re in the right place.”
I whirled around to find Lea Zola standing at my stove, wearing a pair of jeans, purple high tops, and a tight white T-shirt that hugged every curve she had beneath a simple black apron. She was stirring something that smelled too fucking good in a big metal pot while another gurgled with boiling water.
“What are you doing here?” I demanded. “This is my apartment.”
She snorted. “We’ve been over this, Michael. It’s just a breakroom. But I’m working on it.”
I gazed around, taking in the changes that had magically happened while I was at work. The walls weren’t bare anymore, now holding a few pieces of framed art. Prints of things I vaguely remember seeing in school textbooks years ago. Sunflowers and waterlilies and a bowl of pears. A cross hung above the table, along with medieval-looking portraits of Saint Christopher and Saint Nicholas.
Oh, she thought she was witty. The original Santa Claus also happened to be the patron saint of thieves. Either Lea was informed about what I’d done, or she was making some assumptions I wasn’t really a fan of.
Some of the cupboards were open, revealing a few shelves stacked with food. When she opened the fridge, that was stocked too. With enough to last me weeks.
Lea grabbed a package of spaghetti, ripped it open, and dumped it into the boiling water. I watched as if in a trance. What the fuck was going on?
“You made me dinner,” I said, unable to keep the irritation out of my voice.
Lea stirred the pot. “Correct. You had, like, five helpings of manicotti last week. Obviously, you need real food in your stomach, not whatever crap you’re picking up at the bodega. You know half the food they sell is expired, right? The owner replaces the stickers when he can.”
I huffed. “I didn’t ask you to do this for me. I can take care of myself.”
“Good thing I didn’t do it for you, then.”
“Oh, you didn’t?” I asked as I kicked off my boots and left them by the front door. “Is that why you’re in this room stirring sauce instead of your own house?”
Lea snorted. It would have been kind of adorable if she wasn’t such a damn know-it-all. “If I didn’t do it, my grandmother would, whether you deserve it or not. But she has six kids and a husband to feed—she doesn’t need to be worrying over you too. So this is for her, jackass, not you.”
