Page 149 of Unlock My Heart

Number forty-two has my stomach twisted like a kite tail on a windy day. Because that’s what I have to decide: Am I loyal to a Calvani, or to thine own self be true?

Chapter Forty-Five

Sienna

The present

Two million in cash is now in my possession, but my next move seems as evasive as Saint answering any personal questions. “Where’s Fabien?” I try instead, taking a bite of spaghetti. Not that I care whether he’s here or not. Or that I made this huge batch of spaghetti and meatballs, which just so happens to be his favorite meal.

In my defense, I needed to practice. It was an experiment to see if the current version of Sienna still likes to cook. She does, and it’s been added to the list.

“He’s catching himself up to speed with all his business endeavors,” Saint reports, returning his nose to a stack of documents whilst trying to eat spaghetti.

“This isn’t what I’d call a multitasking meal,” I comment when his meatball rolls to the other side of his plate after three missed stabbing attempts.

He sighs, placing his document down. “Mrs. Calvani, I appreciate the offer to feed me, and your food is delicious⁠—”

I beam.

“But your husband is a jealous man. If he finds us having a meal together, it won’t be good for me.”

“That’s ridiculous,” I scoff, but then I remember who I’m married to. “He does know you swing for the other team, right?”

“He does,” he confirms.

I consider the enigma that is Saint. “How does one become a lawyer/evil henchman?” The homemade pasta is twirled around my fork, and I take a bite. Fine, so I made the damn meal for Fabien.

“Law school and passing the bar on the lawyer part; as for the evil henchman, I wouldn’t know,” he says in an amused tone, patting his mouth with his napkin.

“What happened to your husband?” I wonder. “When we first met, you had a ring. Now you don’t.”

His face reveals nothing. “I had a husband. Now I don’t.”

“You’d be a nightmare to interrogate,” I muse.

“One of the best compliments I could receive,” he says, sounding sincere.

“In that case, you’re welcome.” I rise and place my plate in the dishwasher, and get to work putting up the leftovers.

“Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Calvani,” Saint tells me, doing the same with his plate.

“Of course.” He lingers, and I’ve noticed he has a habit of doing so when there’s something on his mind. “Yes, Saint?”

“Whatever you’re planning, please don’t do it,” he begs. “Mr. Calvani deserves peace.”

“There’s a problem with your perception, Clark,” I inform him, all the while I’m reeling. Have I really been this transparent, or does Clark Kent have X-ray vision? “Thinking that I’m any man’s peace.”

He mutters something, walking out.

Clearing the kitchen, I flip off the light and paddle to my bedroom, wishing I had Lacey to snuggle with, but she’s on patrol with her handler. Feeling alone and weirdly vulnerable, I fall on my bed face-first, mulling over Saint’s words.

The problem is, I don’t know what I’m planning. But if Saint knows I’m planning something, does that mean Fabien knows too?

Here’s what I do know: I’m tired of evil plotting, and I’m bloated because I ate way too much pasta.

My face care routine does nothing to quell the unease, and then an everything shower only reminds me of that shower with Fabien. I give my razor a frustrated toss.

Stepping out, I wipe down the foggy mirror before I lather myself up with lotion and slip into my nightie.