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She glares at me like I’m trespassing.
Or crazy.
“I’ve called the police,” she says as a greeting. “You’re trespassing on my client’s property.”
“And like I told Zippy, this is my house, and I didn’t sell it.”
She holds up a document. Again, the deed of sale.
“Wrong, you didn’t own it. You gifted it to one Harrison Tork. He then sold it to my client.”
“Listen, lady, I didn’t gift my house to no one, so get your cheap manicured nails out of my face and off my property because…” I stop when I see the police roll into the driveway.
“Oh good, the cavalry has arrived. Now we might get to the bottom of this.” The agent gives me a smug smile.
The two policemen walk up to where we are standing in the doorway. One is an older guy with gray hair, the other is much younger with large muscles and a serious face.
“So who’s going to explain what is going on?” the older officer asks.
“I own this house and this lady is trespassing,” Zippy says.
The frosty-faced realtor hands him some documents which he starts to flick through.
“No, I own it. From what I can tell, my accountant illegally sold it to him. But I am the rightful owner.”
“The documents look legit,” the older officer says.
“I don’t care how legit they look. This isn’t right.” I glare at Zippy. “How did you even know this place was for sale?”
The realtor answers for him. “Mr. Tork sent me the listing photos. But I didn’t need to advertise, this is a very sought-after area, especially this street. I had multiple offers within the day, all prepared to purchase the property sight unseen.” She turns to the officers. “The gentleman selling it had all the relevant paperwork. If there is some kind of discrepancy, it is between this young lady and Mr. Tork. But it doesn’t change the fact that my client is the rightful owner of this property.”
“She’s right,” the younger officer says. “The law says this property no longer belongs to you.”
I hear his words but my heart is too busy breaking for me to reply.
I feel gutted.
The world slows down.
I grip the doorframe to stop from collapsing in a heap because this is the final straw and I don’t know what to do.
“I’ll need time to move out,” I whisper.
“We can grant you twenty-four hours,” the older officer says. “If this gentleman agrees.”
I look at Zippy.
Great, everything hinges on him.
I think about how I’d pointed a gun at him earlier.
Maybe I should’ve pulled the goddamn trigger.
He looks smug.
But my eyes can say a million things without me having to open my mouth. And right now, my eyes are reminding him I have a gun in my bag. They should probably be asking for forgiveness for pointing said gun at his face earlier, but I won’t ever apologize for trying to protect what is mine.
He narrows his eyes. “Make it twenty-three and we’ve got a deal.”
Twenty-three. The spiteful jerk.
When they all leave, and I’m finally alone to collect my thoughts, I slide down the door and let my ass hit the cold marble floor.
I have twenty-three hours to get my things and leave. Not that I need it. After the IRS raids on the property and the fact that I’ve been pawning everything from Gucci to Birkin in the last three weeks just to pay the bills, I don’t have a lot left to pack.
No money.
No house.
No things left to pawn.
I have to face facts.
I need help.
But who is left to help me?
Thanks to the De Kysas, I have no friends left.
Out of left field, Massimo De Kysa hits my thoughts like a cannonball.
Maybe he can help.
After all, we weren’t always enemies.
5
BIANCA
Twelve months ago, way before all the shit went down
I don’t know why I do it.
One minute I’m in a club with Jules and Lilah—much to the torture of my long-suffering bodyguard, Vinnie, if his pained expression is anything to go by—and the next, I’m sneaking out the back entrance of the club and hailing a cab to take me to the Plaza on Fifth Ave.
There’s no chance I’ll get inside the hotel considering what is happening there tonight, but something in me just needs to see it for myself.
My father says it’s a humiliation. An unforgivable disrespect. But the truth is, I don’t feel the humiliation or the disrespect, and if it wasn’t for his continual rant about it, I wouldn’t even know how much Nico De Kysa has dishonored me.
But tonight, when I ran into my father on my way out to meet Jules and Lilah, and he saw the strapless, short blue dress I’d paired with my glittery Louboutins, let’s just say my interest was piqued by his hurtful comments.
“Of course Nico would choose her over you. Look at what you are wearing. Bella Isle Ciccula has class and beauty and grace. And what do you have? A slutty blue dress that shows more skin than a whore.”
