Page 16 of Bene

As though her heart didn’t race.

He thought she liked it.

She wanted none of it.

Vanna would do what she had to.

“Not today,” he echoed. “Enjoy your nap. Call me later, yeah?”

“I will.”

Or not.

The newspaper was still burning a hole in her purse, and she needed to start working out a plan for exactly how she wanted this vendetta to play out between her and the Guzzi family. That was the best part about it. Until they understood the vendetta, it was on her terms. She just had to make it work.

Vanna had her ways.

Contacts to use, if she could find the business card of a detective who had approached her a year ago when she visited her father’s grave on a Sunday afternoon just like she had done today. He, too, had his own axe to grind with the Guzzis, and knowing where she came from, thought his offer to help her if she would help him would be interesting for her to consider.

Then, she hadn’t cared.

Now, it sounded all too good.

“Call me,” Mario repeated as he headed for the driver’s side.

She didn’t bother to reply.

Vanna had better things to do.

What is that fucking banging?

Is that my phone?

Holy shit, I feel like death.

All those thoughts, and more, drifted through Bene’s head as he peeled open his eyes. The white ceiling stared back at him, saying he at least made it home the night before. A burst of memory flashed in front of his eyes—he’d climbed into the back of a cab, and then stumbled into the elevator when he got home.

So, he didn’t drive.

Great.

That knowledge did nothing to soothe the sudden swell of vomit he felt rising in the back of his throat. Squeezing his eyes shut again, the room stopped spinning. Visually, anyway. His whole body still felt like it was swaying back and forth, even though he couldn’t possibly be moving on the bed. However, the few seconds of darkness and calm was just enough for him to distinguish what those sounds had been which woke him up.

The banging?

The idiots in the penthouse above his renovating—what were they doing this week, the floors? It fucking sounded like it. Which meant it had to be at least eleven, if not closer to twelve, because they only worked at decent hours. It should have been a good thing, except Bene didn’t need to be woken up with that kind of noise while he was also hungover.

Except whose fault is that, asshole?

He ignored his inner voice.

The thing he thought was his phone … well, Bene rolled over, cracking his eyes open just enough to see a slit of his bedside table, the clock spelling out the time—yeah, it was a little after twelve, fuck—and his phone blinking with a missed call. He squinted harder. Several missed calls, if he was to trust the ribbons covering the screen.

Damn.

The faint tune of an indie rapper he enjoyed played in the background of his penthouse. The brief flash of a memory filled his mind of him turning his playlist on through the speakers, and then he fell into bed, passed out, and heard nothing until this morning.

He drank too much.