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I just used you to make someone jealous.
You’re too nice for a girl like me.
“It would never work out” is what I finally go with.
“But—I was really honored to have a woman like you on my arm! I thought we hit it off tonight! And I’m grateful for the Scarpetta support—“
And there it is.
He’s actually building castles in the air because of my name. My gaze sharpens. Maybe because of it. “Do you even know who my family is?” I ask.
His brow crinkles. “Well, sure. You’re the Scarpettas. Old Italian family, lives in Jersey—“
“Old. Italian. Family.”
I try to put the pieces together as simply for him as I can manage. His gaze remains guileless, though, and I shake my head. “Mother Mary. Fuhgettaboutit. I’m not interested, Henry. Go home.”
Sighing, I unlock the ground-floor security door and step inside, closing it behind me on his half-hearted protests. I can just picture it: me, the wife of a politician.
A husband so mentally and emotionally checked out that he doesn’t even notice when his partner basically fucks someone else during a party.
Father’s men brought Baccio back for me, and he’s waiting when I enter my apartment, sitting obediently on the black-and-white checkerboard tile as I step out of the elevator and unlock the heavy-duty door I had specially installed for my unit. I stoop to scruff his neck and step out of my heels at the same time.
“Hello, my lover,” I croon. “Were you the best baby?” Without changing from my evening gown, I slide my feet into the tennis shoes sitting by the door and pick up Baccio’s harness. He comes forward, dipping his head eagerly for me to slide it on.
I shrug into my puffer coat, and we leave for a quick turn around the block, the red tulle of the gown peeking out from beneath the long jacket and my guard, Ronaldo, pacing us several yards back. He’s always with me, always just out of sight if at all possible. Baccio is a good deterrent for anyone stupid enough to fuck with me, but I’ve already grown accustomed to having an around-the-clock human guard here in New York.
I pull the coat closer against the chilly wind, uncaring that I look ridiculous. This is New York. Anything goes. If a girl wants to walk her big-ass dog in an evening dress and tennis shoes, then she shall do so.
Baccio is curious about his new environment but trained well enough to walk quietly at my hip, attentive to the infrequent passersby, city noise, and traffic. His training allows my mind to wander as we stroll briskly along the sidewalk, and I find it drifting back to the interlude earlier in the Concorde.
Luca.
His hands: rough and bold.
His handling of me: creative and skilled, even if I didn’t appreciate the way he walked away there at the end.
He was just as intense and commanding as he was when we were together years ago. It stirred feelings I’d rather remain dormant.
Pain.
Hurt.
He didn’t fight for me.
I pause as Baccio squats on a promising square of grass and does his business, then motion to Ronaldo to clean up behind him as I turn about and head back to the apartment. A grin plays on my lips. It’s Ronaldo’s least favorite part of his job, but a man’s gotta do what a man’s gotta do, right?
My grin fades. That’s what it really comes down to, doesn’t it? I loved him, and I thought he loved me, but when push came to shove, he didn’t even fight for us. He just let me go.
So…yeah. Now I’m supposed to drop everything and go after Luca, and Father acts like I should be grateful for the fucking opportunity. Like…thanks for this chance to set everything right that you fucked up years ago, old man.
So. Very. Thrilling.
I can’t get past it, though—the hurt Luca levied on me by opening the hands he held me with and letting me fall.
I can’t trust that he won’t do it again.
And I can’t trust my stupid self not to let him do it.
