“Ah, only what I’m wearing, unfortunately,” I admit with a blush.
“I’ll take care of that as well.” She gives me a reassuring pat on the shoulder and then packs up her supplies. “I should beable to have some off the rack garments delivered by this evening. Have a good day, Ms. Monroe,” she adds as she makes her way back to the door.
After she leaves, I finish eating the last few crumbs on my plate and then set the tray outside my room. I don’t like to sleep right after I eat, but I’m still exhausted after the long night. I lock the bedroom door and then snuggle down into the massive bed. I black out, though I don’t rest well.
I dream of wild, burning flames again. Of my father screaming my name, begging me to help him. To save him. I dream of a faceless man smiling while watching him die. Now, in the newest version of the same dream, Maximo is standing behind the faceless man, watching, doing nothing to stop him.
I wake up gasping into my pillow and drenched in sweat.
It’s pitch black inside my room, and I realize I slept through the afternoon and into the night. When I check my cell phone, I see it’s just after five a.m. This early in the morning the house is completely silent. The only sound I hear is my pulse racing and beating in my ears. I guess Maximo decided not to command me to have dinner with him last night and left me alone.
That should please me. Freedom from him should feel like a relief.
Instead, a spark of irritation flares in my chest because he didn’t call for me, didn’t want me, didn’t think of me at all.
It’s humiliating that I even care.
Brushing off those thoughts, I see that Melissa texted me again late last night.
Please tell me you’re not still at that guy’s house. I’m worried about you.
I send her back a quick message even though she’s probably asleep:I’m still here. Don’t worry about me. I know what I’m doing.
Do I really, though? I think as I curl up in the corner of the massive bed. I consider all my options. I could take Melissa up on her offer. Maybe I should stay with her while the fire marshal completes their investigation and the police search for the culprits.
I could work with the insurance company on rebuilding the restaurant and let the police do their jobs.
Even as I consider it, though, a wave of grief and rage rise within me so suddenly and fiercely that it’s all I can do to not start sobbing or screaming into the pillow.
Rebuilding won’t make this emptiness inside me go away. And the police can’t help me. They’ll never find the culprits. How could they? I sure as hell can’t tell them the motive; that my father was using his food deliveries to cover a drug smuggling operation.
The only person that knows the truth and has the resources to help me get revenge is Maximo Luciani. Which means, I’m exactly where I need to be.
And that terrifies me more than the fire ever did.
Certain of my decision, I get up wearing the same sinfully soft white robe and step out into the hallway. A different man is out in the hall this time, this one older than Enzo. He nods once to me and then falls in behind me as I walk downstairs, following the scent of coffee into the kitchen.
Maximo is already there. Shirtless. His glistening back is to me, and a pair of sweatpants ride low on his hips. He turns as he hears my footsteps on the tile floor, a mug of what I assume is coffee in his hand.
He looks at me like he’s been waiting. A look that makes my stomach twist. Not with fear, but with something far more inconvenient.
“You passed out early yesterday. I told my men not tobother you,” he remarks. “What’s wrong? Couldn’t sleep any longer?” he asks.
“I had a nightmare,” I admit.
He nods, then fills another mug and pushes it toward me. I take it without a word and follow him to an alcove just off the kitchen, a breakfast nook with a small table and four chairs at a bay window. We sit down and sip at our coffee in silence. The sky is only beginning to lighten with the first hints of dawn.
And for once, the quiet isn’t heavy. It’s just…the peacefulness of a new day beginning.
Maximo leans back in his chair. “Rest today. Tomorrow morning, we’ll start on knives.”
I raise a brow. “You’re going to teach me how to kill a man five different ways before lunch every day?”
A small smile. “Only three. I’m not a total monster.”
I raise my mug and stare at him over the rim. “That’s still up for debate.”
He doesn’t deny it.
