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There was no art on the walls, either, save for a crucifix that was placed above the door to the hallway. I got the distinct feeling, though, that Salvatore hadn’t put that there himself.
Maybe one of the women of the family.
Though how they’d come in with that and not some curtains was beyond me.
My gaze moved back toward the living room where a TV was playing reruns of some old sitcom.
The coffee table was littered with snack wrappers and empty bottles of drinks on their sides.
Then there on the couch was Anthony Costa himself. The unluckiest man in the Family, it seemed.
He was a sturdy sort of guy, someone who clearly spent a good chunk of time in the gym when he wasn’t recuperating from some new, horrific, work-related injury.
His leg was up on a wedge, and there was gauze wrapped around his foot.
Objectively, he was a good-looking guy, but at the moment I was so darn smitten with Salvatore that I barely even registered.
“Seriously?” Anthony asked, sighing hard as he shook his head at Salvatore. “Just gonna rub my nose in what I can’t have.”
“It’s just your foot, kid. You want pussy, go get some pussy,” Salvatore said, tapping Anthony on his bandaged foot, making him let out a string of curses. “This is Whitney,” he said, and if my name meant anything to him, he didn’t show it. “She needs to stay here for a few days too.”
“Yeah? You got stabbed or shot too?” he asked.
“Not recently,” I said, getting a surprised smile out of him.
“She’s got an issue. She needs somewhere safe to be. So she’s here,” Salvatore said.
“It’s nice to meet you,” I said, brows drawing low at Salvatore’s tight tone. “I’m sorry about your foot. Can I get you something?”
“Don’t go waiting on him. He’s spoiled enough with the women in his life,” Salvatore claimed. “This woman was waiting tables the day after she was shot in the shoulder and thigh. So don’t you dare ask her to get the clicker you dropped under the coffee table.”
“Hey, I can’t help it if women like to help me, man,” Anthony said as he bent awkwardly to lean off the couch and fetch the remote, making it clear that Salvatore totally knew the guy like the back of his hand.
Salvatore ignored that.
“One perk to having him as a patient again is the moms and sisters and cousins and fucking everyone else all dropped off dishes. So we got some good shit to eat if you’re hungry.”
“Honestly, I’m just tired,” I admitted, sighing.
Sure, I’d gotten a lot of sleep the day before, but for some reason, I felt like every drop of energy had been sucked out of me.
It was probably just the accumulation of all the stuff that had been going on in my life recently truly catching up to me.
“So we’ll go to bed,” Salvatore said, putting his hand to the small of my back again and leading me down the hallway.
He didn’t have a guest room—which was why Anthony was crashing on the very comfortable-looking couch—but his bedroom was actually pretty massive for an apartment in the city.
It was so big that the king-sized bed didn’t even seem like it was swallowing up the space.
But his complete lack of design was evident in that room as well. No art. No curtains. No rug. Not even any personal trinkets on the dresser across from the bed.
He did have a headboard though, thankfully, and some decent-looking bedding.
And, of course, the TV hanging on the wall above the dresser.
“Here, I’ll get you a shirt to wear,” he said, digging in his dresser and handing me a white tee. “You wanna take a shower? Or just wipe that shit off?” he asked, and I knew he meant the makeup.
My face felt like it was screaming for air.
