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Swinging my legs off the bed, I stretch and consider Mr. Lubelli’s words. Chaos is an understatement compared to nearly getting abducted and being sprayed with gore. But the chance of realizing my dreams might be exactly what I need to cope.
“It was awful,” I murmur, “But I always work through trauma with my art. I’ll tell Roman you called and email you the pictures in a few hours.”
“My date and I barely escaped with our lives. She’s even more eager to immortalize herself on canvas.” Mr. Lubelli hangs up.
My heart thumps with excitement, both at the prospect of getting a commission from the blonde lawyer and this fabulous opportunity.
If I can get the most prominent art dealer in New Alderney to even look at my work, that would be more than a breakthrough. It will make up for all the bullshit I endured at Gallery Lafayette.
I walk around the room, looking for my gown, only to find it folded on a chair, caked with blood and a pale substance I don’t care to identify.
A shudder runs down my spine, making my insides twist with disgust. I can’t wear the remains of a corpse. Turning on my heel, I head toward the nearest door, which hides a luxurious bathroom that belongs in a spa. The next door is a walk-in closet that resembles a men’s boutique, and I step inside.
It takes a few minutes of rifling through drawers to find a T-shirt, a pair of jogging bottoms, and a pair of thick socks. There’s no way in hell I’ll find shoes that fit, so I don’t bother to look.
When I step into the corridor, I collide with Benito, making him drop his phone.
My reflexes kick in and I reach down to grab it, only to see it open to a video of a sleeping woman. My heart races as I realize it’s a surveillance app.
“Don’t touch that,” he barks.
“Sorry!” I skitter against the wall.
Wasn’t he supposed to be the more subdued Montesano brother, who always wore suits and glasses? I thought Cesare was frightening, but Benito wears his refined exterior like a mask.
He snatches the phone off the floor with a ferocity that makes me flinch. Then he gazes down at the woman he’s watching, as though checking her for injuries. After shooting me a murderous glare, he disappears into one of the bedrooms, leaving my mind reeling.
What the fuck was that, and who was the woman?
More importantly, why am I being so curious? Delving into any of the Montesano brothers’ proclivities could only lead to more trauma. I’ve barely recovered from being throttled by Dominic and my mind is still filled with repeats of that exploding head.
The only thing I need to concern myself with now is Roman’s portrait. Painting is my therapy, the perfect distraction from my mental chaos.
I continue toward the grand staircase, where the downstairs is a flurry of activity. All the waiters are gone, replaced by the domestic staff I usually see milling around the grounds. Roman’s men walk the hallways, making the atmosphere tense.
As I reach the door, a deep voice asks, “Are you okay, Miss?”
I turn to find Tony lumbering toward me with his brows creased.
“Yeah.” I back toward the front entrance. “Just returning to the pool house.”
He nods. “Let me escort you.”
“It’s alright.” I hurry out through the double doors and down the stone steps, where the gardeners are removing trampled plants.
Tony continues after me at a distance, and I hurry around the perimeter of the building, not wanting a conversation about what happened with his colleague. I’m sure Roman must have interrogated him after discovering Dominic was on the police payroll, but too much has happened since then for me to feel safe in his presence.
As I round the corner, I pass the paved courtyard where that cop tried to abduct me in a catering van. It’s empty now, but I can’t help my shiver.
If I had grabbed any man but Roman Montesano in that nightclub, Jim would have gotten his hands on me already, and I would be dead.
My eyes sting with tears of gratitude, and a lump forms in the back of my throat. I wasted so much time second-guessing Roman’s motives. His methods are heavy-handed, but he’s genuine about wanting to keep me safe.
He’s already taken two lives to save mine, and he made it clear he wouldn’t hesitate to kill Jim. What more could I ask for in a protector?
I wait for a pang of guilt, a wave of moral outrage for wanting to see another man dead, but all I feel is relief.
Jim was violent, controlling, and made me doubt my own sanity. He caught me at a time when I was lonely, vulnerable, and short on cash. The only time he was bearable was when he was high. If I’d been thinking clearly, perhaps I would have seen through his mask.
