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Too bad he's a murderer, and I've been let down by every single guy I've ever bedded. I sort of wonder what made him hate women so much. My reasoning is obvious, but his backstory is a bit of a mystery to me.
I force myself to look at my phone, the screen's brightness assaulting my still-sleepy eyes. It's a text message from Teddy. Of course it is; who else would bother me on my day off? The only people who really text me these days are my sister and Teddy. I open it up, squinting at the words.
Remember how you told me how to clean his wound and stuff?
I can already sense where this is going. My fingers tap out a reluctant response.
Yes.
Well, I actually wasn't listening at all.
I roll my eyes. At least he's honest. He may be a mafia cleaner, but apparently, basic first aid isn't in his repertoire.
Okay, well I can walk you through it again in an hour or so.
I do not having the energy to deal with this right now.
Okay, except Constantino's here and he looks a little paler than usual. And like the wound doesn't look great.
I let out an audible sigh of frustration. So much for resting.
Fine. I'll be right there.
I force myself out of my extremely comfortable bed, which only feels more comfortable now that I have to leave it. I search through my closet for something to wear. I try and ignore the voice inside my head that's telling me I should try and look nice.
Screw that.
I don't need to impress anyone, especially not Constantino. I grab leggings and a big sweater, throw on a pair of glasses without bothering to put my contacts in, and pull my hair up into a messy bun. Checking myself in the mirror, I look tired and like I don't give two shits about what I look like.
Perfect.
I make my way over to the mansion, stopping for a giant oat milk latte on the way. This drink is basically the only thing that gives me joy these days. And it's definitely more satisfying than any sex I've ever had—and more consistent. I grumble to myself as I pull into the driveway, the snow-covered trees casting eerie shadows on the ground.
The mansion is still pretty deserted these days after Teddy took over. It's obvious that there are issues with the family. The way it was when Primo was in charge is a far cry from howdesolate the place feels now. But I really, really don't want to be getting involved in mafia politics. The less I know, the better.
Deep down I knew Teddy couldn't be trusted to do even this task. He's a good guy at heart, but his follow-through game can be a little weak.
I get out of the car, clutching my latte, and make my way inside. As I walk through the halls, the ornate chandeliers cast their subdued light on the polished marble floors, and the once-vibrant tapestries decorating the walls now seem faded and forlorn. This place is like a ghost of its former self.
It's sad, really. I've always loved fixing up old homes, and if I had more time on my hands, I'd buy and flip houses on the side. But, working night shifts at the ER doesn't really leave you much time or energy for anything else.
The sound of hurried footsteps on the marble staircase pulls me from my thoughts. Teddy comes scrambling down the stairs, all but zooming past me in a blur of blond hair and blue eyes – damn, he's fast when he wants to be.
"Hey!" I call after him, trying to make sense of his sudden rush. "I'm going to show you how to change the bandages!"
"Can't right now," he calls back, his voice bouncing off the walls like it's playing some twisted game of pinball.
"What do you mean you can't?" I demand, feeling my own irritation spike as I clutch my latte tighter.
"I guess I just mean I don't want to," he replies, his tone light but unyielding. This is classic Teddy, always dodging responsibilities like they're bullets.
"He's upstairs and he's pretty pissed!" Teddy yells, his voice fading as he nears the front door. A loud slam echoes through the hallway, signaling his exit.
For a moment, I consider chasing after him, but I glance down at the latte in my hand, and there's no way I'm wasting this liquid gold. Besides, I'm far too tired to be running today. It's notlike Constantino is a new challenge; I've dealt with his temper before, and I can deal with it again. Though why it always has to be me, I'll never understand.
Grumbling under my breath, I make my way up the stairs, each step heavy with dread. The air around me seems to thicken, an ominous warning of what's waiting for me. As I reach the top of the stairs, I take a deep breath, bracing myself for the storm that is Constantino Maldonado.
The second-floor hallway is dimly lit by antique sconces, casting eerie shadows on the dark wood-paneled walls. The scent of polished wood and old money lingers in the air, reminding me of the Maldonado family's long-standing power and influence.
