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“I brought over some Italian spices for Miss Zanetti, courtesy of Don Zanetti.”
My Italian has improved over the years, but Don Vittorio Zanetti speaks his own kind of language. “Italian spices” is code. Translation: I’ve been sent to check on the Italian princess to make sure this living arrangement sticks.
I drop my coat into the vanishing cupboard and stride past Dante, who has the gall to follow me into the main living room without invitation. This is the second time this week he’s stopped by. I’ have enough spices to last me a fucking lifetime.
“Beatrice!” I call out.
Bee twirls into the living room from the arched doorway on the right. She’s wearing a slinky silver bathrobe cinched at the waist. “Baby! I thought that was you.”
She gallivants into my arms, ignoring Dante, who stands off to the side, blending in with the furniture. She drops a peck on my cheek and slides her hands over my chest. “Hm, I love when you come back home smelling of sweat and money.”
Usually, I’m better at playing along with her little charade. But today, my head is throbbing and my patience is wearing thin.
I twist her around and point with my chin. “Your father’s lapdog is here.”
She laughs. “Yes, I know. I’ve already thanked him for the spices, and yet he hasn’t left. The only reason I can think of for why he’s still here is to see you, my love. I think he likes you more than me.”
“That would be a first.” Dragging my eyes up to face the pale, scrawny man in front of me, I ask, “Well? Do you have anything to say to me, Dante?”
Those dispassionate, watery blue eyes of his betray nothing, but his Adam’s apple bobs up and down. “As I said, I only wanted to bring you Don Zanetti’s regards, Mr. Egorov.”
Bee tilts her head to the side and coos at Dante like he’s a baby. “Aw, how sweet. See, Dmitri? Daddy likes you, too.”
I grit my teeth and keep my distaste hidden behind an emotionless straight face. “Consider his regards received and returned in kind. Now, if you’ll excuse me, it’s been a long day and I’d like to relax with my fiancée.”
“Of course, sir. Good evening to you both.” Dante clears his throat and bows out of the room.
Bee and I wait in our carefully coordinated pose, arms looped around each other’s waists. From the foyer, the elevator’s automated voice chimes out, “Doors opening… Doors closing.”
As soon as I hear the telltale metallic whoosh, I let my arm fall from Bee’s hip and we both exhale in unison.
“Thank fucking God,” she mumbles, springing away from me. “I’ve got a hot date tonight, and the last thing I want is to scare her away by smelling like some big, scary man.”
I laugh as she dances away and disappears through a doorway in a flash of silver. The vodka I drank earlier is still singeing its way down my throat, but I move to the bar anyway and pour myself another dose in one of the crystal tumblers that Bee gifted me for our “second anniversary.”
When she shimmies back into the living room, I’m almost done with my drink and she’s dressed in a slinky pink dress that demands attention. Beatrice Zanetti has never been one for subtlety, that’s for damn sure.
“Zip me up, will you?” she requests, cavorting around as she pulls her hair in front over one bare shoulder.
“Who’s the lucky woman?” I ask uninterestedly as I tug the zipper up to the nape of her neck.
“The hot waitress from last week. The blonde who does that lip bite thing I was telling you about.” She spins in place and starts finger combing her hair back to proper order, eyes going all foggy and dreamy as she thinks about her newest conquest.
She’s bubbly tonight, which means she’s excited about this date. I’m not sure why that irritates me so much. Probably because I’m stuck with a shit ton of complications while she gets to go out on the town and frolic.
“A second date with the same woman? Did hell freeze over?”
Cackling, Bee punches me in the shoulder. “Hey, I dated that ballerina for a full three weeks last summer. I might’ve even gone for four if she hadn’t decided she liked men better.”
“Pity.” I return my attention to my vodka. It’s the best money can buy—clear as glacier melt and just as bracing. I twist it this way and that in my tumbler, watching how it refracts the light into a million little shards.
Normally, it puts me at ease. It’s not doing the trick tonight, though. Instead of numbing out the thoughts, it’s making them louder and more chaotic.
Bee’s smile dwindles as she regards me. “I fucking hate it when you stare at me,” I mutter.
“What crawled up your ass and died tonight?” Instead of leaving me to stew like I deserve, she pulls out the bronze barstool next to me and parks her Prada-clad ass down on it.
“Nothing. Leave it alone.”
