Page 42 of Unlock My Heart

Seated at the table, my husband’s back is to me as I enter the kitchen. Silently, I get to work with the espresso machine.

Daring to turn around, I ask, “Would you like an espresso?”

The mini cup slips through my fingers, shattering around my bare feet.

Michele is slumped over, his eyes wide and fixed on the newspaper folded on the breakfast table.

Taking a large step around the broken shards, I place my fingers on Michele’s pulse point.

Nothing.

A part of me worries it’s too good to be true, and like a villain in a horror movie, he’ll pop back up. But as the minutes pass, and he doesn’t so much as twitch a muscle, I do a happy dance, grinning from ear to ear. The first genuine smile in as long as I can remember.

My celebration comes to a screeching halt when I see it.

A small fox figurine is positioned next to the newspaper.

That son of a bitch.

Not that I’m upset my husband was murdered, but that Fabien thought he had the right to waltz back into my dreams, and now my life.

“Long time no see,” I tell Saint as I climb into his vehicle. “Did you know my husband was murdered this morning?” I ask casually, as if we’re exchanging pleasantries.

“My condolences. Or should I say congratulations?” He locks eyes with me before turning his attention to the road, and we pull away from the curb.

“Your wedding ring is gone.” I change the subject. And yes, congratulations are more fitting. “Don’t tell me Fabien murdered your husband too.” A faint hint of a tattoo remains around his right ring finger, likely from laser removal. “My condolences. Or should I say congratulations?”

He doesn’t comment.

“You’d think after nearly a decade, you would have worked on your communication skills,” I muse.

Silence.

I sigh heavily. “Why does your boss want to see me?”

“Mr. Calvani can speak for himself.”

“But he can’t murder for himself, logistically speaking. Don’t tell me that Clark Kent helps little old ladies across the street by day, and goes on killing sprees by night?” I feign shock.

Saint looks amused. “Clark Kent. We still going with that?”

“If the glasses fit,” I muse, rifling through the bottom of my purse for my nail polish. The drive to prison gives me time to touch up my red manicure while I mentally gear up for another round with Fabien.

Zero real estate.

We arrive at the prison, and like last time, my body thrums with an electric feeling as I’m escorted to the attorney/client room.

“I’ll be outside,” Saint says in a very deja vu way, slipping out and closing the door.

Fabien rises with a cocky smile on that handsome face of his. It’s been nearly a decade since I’ve seen the man; you’d think my heart wouldn’t do this ridiculous pitter-patter.

You’d think.

“Happy birthday, piccola volpe. Did you like my gift?” he asks, so fucking proud of himself.

I sit, demurely crossing my legs and wrapping my hands around my knees. “Took you long enough. Prison’s made you soft,” I goad him.

His nostrils flare as he takes his seat, leaning across the table with shackled hands. “The only thing soft was that man’s flaccid cock.”