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She thought about telling Olivia about them — her daughter would be enchanted by the thought of her mother making friends with animals, even mice and rats — then realized she would never be able to tell Olivia what had happened to her.
She would never be able to tell anyone, except maybe Brooke.
Not if she didn’t want to hurt them, and she would do anything, keep anything to herself, to avoid that.
She would have to concoct a story, one that would explain her absence to her daughter in a nontraumatic way, a way that wouldn’t make her feel abandoned.
She walked into the bedroom with the towel still wrapped around her body and opened the top drawer of the bureau. Vera had told her there were clothes, but Ruby was still surprised to see rows of expensive bras and underwear from La Perla, all in her size. There were pretty lacy ones in an array of colors but there were simple white cotton bikinis too — albeit with delicate lace detail — and Ruby remembered going into one of the stores with Brooke, both of them gasping at the $120 price tag on the cotton briefs.
She plucked a cotton bikini from the drawer, wanting to be comfortable, and then opened the other drawers, remembering what Vera had said about it holding clothing.
She got as far as the first drawer when she stopped in her tracks, staring at its contents. She didn’t know what she’d expected. A pair of jeans and a T-shirt maybe?
Not piles of downy tracksuits and lounge pants, complete with tags from high-end stores she could never afford.
She shut the drawer and opened the others: jeans and T-shirts, thick socks, pajamas and cashmere sweaters.
All in her size.
Roman had done this. He’d done all of this for her.
She drew in a breath and steeled her heart. She was in this mess because of him. He didn’t get a medal for getting her out of it and buying her new clothes.
She chose a black long-sleeve T-shirt — she wasn’t sure she’d ever actually be warm again — and one of the silky tracksuits in deep green. She didn’t bother with a bra. She wanted to be comfortable, and it wasn’t like she needed to impress Roman.
They were done.
She thought of a line from an oldSex and the Cityepisode —we’re so done we need a new word for done— and fought another burst of deranged laughter.
She pulled on a pair of thick wool socks and sighed with pleasure. She couldn’t believe it. She was clean. She was warm.
She was free.
It was crazy how everything had changed in a just a few hours.
She considered climbing into the big bed, but her stomach was gnawing with hunger, so she crossed the room and reached for the door. She was definitely losing it, because she half expected it to be locked, half expected to have traded one prison for a (much) nicer one.
But the knob turned in her hand and a second later she was stepping out into the quiet hall.
She listened for a few seconds, trying to gauge how many people were in the apartment, but it was as silent as a mausoleum.
The doors were still closed on either side of the hallway, giving her no additional clues about where they’d brought her. It was clearly some kind of in-between place, somewhere she could regroup before seeing her family again.
A safe house? Did the Mafia use safe houses or was that only law enforcement?
She gave up trying to figure it out. It didn’t matter. She was grateful for the shower and clothes — and she would definitely accept food if it was available — but all that mattered was getting back to Olivia.
She heard the sound of running water and headed for the big main room at the end of the hall. Maybe Vera would be in the kitchen.
But it wasn’t Vera.
It was Roman.
The sight of him stopped her cold. Not just her forward motion, but her breath, the blood in her veins.
Everything.
Then he noticed her standing there. His eyes met hers and she started breathing again, if that was what you could call the shallow in and out of her breath.
