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“He regrets what he said to you, Wren. That’s why he wanted to make this gesture?—”
Cutting her off again, I shake my head vehemently. “Please. He gave me this penthouse under the guise of generosity, but it’s really just a front for his own motives. He tells me that he’s giving me space, but it’s just smoke and mirrors. This isn’t my space; it’s his. It’s all his.” Bee opens her mouth but I shut her up by raising my palm. “I’m not interested in hearing from his spokeswoman right now, Bee. If you’re gonna speak, I’d like to hear from my friend.”
Her lips come together and she nods silently. Then she gets to her feet, dusts off her dress and offers me her hand. “Come on. We’re getting out of here.”
I’m not a huge fan of this empty penthouse. But the one upstairs isn’t a whole lot better. “I’m not ready to go up yet.”
“We’re not going up. We’re going out.”
My eyes widen disbelievingly. “Where?”
“Somewhere that’s not here.” She gives me a reassuring smile. “You want some real space? Well, then let’s go get you some.”
56
DIMITRI
DMITRI: Where the hell are you?
BEE: I stayed as long as I could. You know funerals aren’t my thing.
I grimace, but I can hardly blame her. I still remember the way she cried when her mother died. Big, loud, ugly sobs that aged her by years. She was only thirteen and completely unprepared to live her life without her mother. She nearly threw herself on that coffin as it was lowered into the ground.
Of course, Vittorio wasn’t there. No one was. The Zanetti mafia weren’t in the habit of mourning their don’s former mistresses, so there was no one there for her but me. I’d clutched her around the waist as she screamed for her mother, wondering how it was possible to hold together a person who was on the verge of breaking.
A minute later, Bee sends me a picture of a sprawling hotel bed, trussed up in a pillowy duvet with the Ritz Carlton logo stamped on the linen. It’s a bit of a departure for Bee. She usually tends to bury any negative feelings under retail therapy. Then again, it might be a little too late in the evening for any serious shopping.
Not that that’s ever stopped her before.
Another picture pops up on my screen. She’s lying on the bed with one arm thrown up to the side.
And she’s not alone.
It takes a second before I realize that the woman lying next to her isn’t some random cocktail waitress she picked up at a bar.
It’s Wren.
My Wren.
DMITRI: What the fuck are you doing? Wren’s not supposed to leave the penthouse.
BEE: Chill. I’m with her.
That doesn’t make me feel any better. I home in on the picture, zooming in on Wren’s face. Her eyes are closed and I’m not even sure she’s aware she’s being photographed. She looks so sad. Or maybe I’m reading too much into it. Maybe she’s just tired?
Either way—I want to know.
I get to my feet, leaving the circle of men sitting around Akim’s living room, exchanging stories about the man and drinking in his honor. Aleksandr turns to me. “Everything alright?”
“When’s the last time anything was alright?” I demand. “Much less everything?” Aleks looks too inebriated to decipher my snarling. “I’ve got something I need to do. You’ll hold down the fort here?”
“Of course.”
“Make sure Irina is doing okay.”
“Yeah, I—” He hiccups mid-sentence. “I will.”
I head across town to the Ritz, unsure how to approach this situation. I mean, for fuck’s sake, I made a peace offering and she throws it in my face by breaking the rules? I shoot off a quick text to Bee.
