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I don’t know why that statement amuses me, but I find myself shaking my head and chuckling. “No. Why would you? Still, I do appreciate this.”
So much more than you know. A real connection to the outside world. At last.
He nods to Danelli, standing silently by the office doorway, and I know that’s my signal to leave. I clutch the box to my chest and head to the door. His office is beautiful, all dark wood, plush furniture, and expensive artwork. No wonder he enjoys doing business from here when he can.
At the door, I stop and turn back. While he’s feeling generous, I may as well ask. “Would it be all right if I call my old friend Dave? And, maybe, meet him for a quick coffee one day? Just, you know, to make sure he’s recovering okay from being shot.”By your men.
I don’t say that last bit out loud, but Danelli sucks in a breath as if I’ve asked for something completely shocking. Perhaps I have. Perhaps in this world, people don’t “do” coffee. Or platonic friendships.
Or follow up on their shooting victims.
Rio just looks at me with those darkened eyes and that inscrutable expression, and he eventually says, “Yes. That is acceptable.”
Then he lowers his gaze to a set of papers in front of him on the desk, and I know I’ve been dismissed.
As Danelli accompanies me to the elevator where one of his men steps forward to take over chaperone duty, he touches me lightly on the arm. “I’ve never seen him treat anyone with the leniency with which he treats you.”
I’m tempted to tease-not-tease with a response along the lines of:What? You mean the kidnapping, the forced marriage, and the prison-like way of life since then?
In the end, I stay silent and just nod because I know what Danelli means. Rio is proving to be a complex human being, and it’s clear he does not give his trust lightly. Even if, by normal society standards, my husband is a monster, he does seem to have mellowed the tiniest bit when it comes to me. A fact that fascinates me as much as it repels.
There’s a hell of a lot of responsibility on one’s shoulders if a monster places his trust in you.
“Heaven help you if you ever cross the man. Keep that in mind, Bianca, for your own safety. You’re beginning to grow on me, and I don’t want to have to kill you.”
* * *
I waituntil I’m back at the estate and alone in my suite before calling Dave. I feel remarkably anxious about the upcoming contact, as if my old and my new life are about to collide, and I may end up as collateral damage somewhere in the middle of the two.
I don’t want to have to kill you.
I certainly hope you don’t, Danelli.
The conversation between Dave and me is awkward; far more stilted than I hoped or expected it to be. But then, from his point of view, he last saw me being bundled at gunpoint into the trunk of a car, and when he tried to rush forward and save me, he got shot for his efforts. Then suddenly I appear in the media, freshly married to the guy who ordered my kidnapping.
What must he have thought?
It’s a wonder he takes my call at all.
“Are you really okay?” I ask for the third or fourth time, after he finally agrees to meet me at Happy Beans, a coffee shop near my old workplace.
The rescue center staff did coffee runs there all the time, and I can still recall the drink preferences of most of my work colleagues.
I like the idea of going back there to meet Dave, but at the same time, I hope I don’t run into anyone else from Lots of Paws. How can I possibly explain my current situation in a way that makes sense? I can barely understand it myself.
“I’ve told you, Bree. I’m getting there. Much better than I was a few weeks back.”
“Okay, good. That’s really good.” I sound so lame I want to smack myself in the head. “And what about Shelley? She didn’t, um, get…”
I can’t say it out loud. It makes it all too real.
“Shot?” Dave says it for me. “No, she didn’t. I was the unlucky one.”
His tone is wry; slightly bitter.
“I’m so sorry,” I whisper. “So sorry.”
I don’t know what else to say. I never knew I was secretly a Mafia baby, snatched away at birth, and planted into a so-called “normal” life. I didn’t know.
