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Whoever Silvano Costa actually was, there was one thing I knew for absolute certain.
He was a criminal.
CHAPTER SEVEN
Silvano
She was a bit of a slob.
I mean, that probably wasn’t fair. She was hurt. So she couldn’t bend down to collect things she dropped. And she didn’t want to get up to constantly bring things to the trash. So she kept little piles of doom wherever she was planted for any length of time.
Then there was Storm.
Hair everywhere. Trails of water from his bowl all the way across the apartment. Little tufts of fluff from the insides of his toys that he loved on a bit too much.
I hadn’t shared a space with anyone since I was a kid.
It was proving to be an interesting experiment.
It wasn’t that I minded. Cleaning had always been kind of cathartic for me. And with living alone with a penchant for being neat by nature, the place didn’t really need much TLC on the daily.
Six days into Millie crashing on the couch, though, I was vacuuming and mopping daily, taking the trash out more, scrubbing the bathroom. And doing a lot more dishes.
Between the cleaning and walking Storm, it was filling the days that would otherwise be empty.
Actually, it was hard to remember what the fuck I actually did with my life before they came to stay with me.
We didn’t discuss a timeframe for them leaving. Partly because I didn’t want her to feel like she had to try to rush through healing. Though, as the time went on, I had to admit that there was some small part of me that just… didn’t want her to go.
I mean, she would, eventually.
But I wasn’t minding having her around.
It was different to have someone to share a meal with, to bullshit with. We never discussed important topics. I still had no idea who was after her or why. We talked about nothing shit. Food preferences. What to order for lunch or dinner. TV shows and movies.
Little things.
But, after a bit, it felt like those little things were making a much bigger picture.
I knew she loved melons, but thought blueberries tasted better in theory than actuality.
She said action movies made her nostalgic, but in a way that made her want to avoid them. Which was fine by me since my life had enough excitement.
She was cool with watching football or basketball, but thought baseball was as exciting as watching paint dry.
She preferred spring and fall to winter and summer.
And she had a borderline addiction to Twizzlers.
I thought they tasted like fucking plastic, but I found myself throwing a pack in my basket each time I hit a store.
I had a pack in one of the bags on my arm, in fact, as I stuck my key into the lock and opened the apartment door.
“The fuck are you doing?” I barked when I walked in to find her on her hands and knees in the kitchen, wiping something on the floor.
Yeah… this was the only real problem I’d come across with having her around.
Catching a view of her legs or ass in a pair of the yoga pants I’d bought for her. Or when her leg or arm would brush mine.
