Total pages in book: 114
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 109562 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 548(@200wpm)___ 438(@250wpm)___ 365(@300wpm)
“An artist?” I laugh. “Is that what you call those atrocities he finger paints?”
Her reply is defensive. “He’s exhibiting soon.”
“Where? In the upmarket loft his daddy had to buy for him because he doesn’t make a dollar by selling those things he tries to pass as paintings?”
“It’s a private exhibition,” she snaps. “So what?”
“Meaning you’re going to invite your friends, and they’ll be obliged to buy an ugly piece of shit portraying some entitled weakling’s inner turmoil when the pampered pussy never suffered a day in his life.”
Untangling her arms, she steps up to me. “Fuck you, Sav.”
“No thanks. As clichéd as it sounds, I don’t do sloppy seconds.”
She looks ready to slap me. I dare her with my gaze. God knows, I’ll welcome the sting. I can use a little pain to take off the edge.
And just like that, my mind goes to Anya and the sight of her half-exposed naked ass and the silky softness of her skin under my palms. Vividly, I recall how those perfect globes fitted against my groin. I go hard in a second, the memory powerful enough to elicit the untimely response.
“That’s enough,” Giorgio says, flicking the ash of his cigarette into the cold fireplace when there’s an ashtray on the table right next to him. “Everyone is going to behave.”
Rachele backtracks, putting distance between us, but her fiery gaze is glued to mine.
“Right, Rach?” Giorgio prompts.
“Right,” she says, narrowing her eyes in challenge.
“Right,” I say, because honestly? I couldn’t give a fuck. That ship has sailed.
Just how little the mention of that cocksucker’s name affects me compared to a few weeks ago shocks me. I’m a far cry from the man who downed a bottle of brandy and bashed every chair and table in the bar to pieces. I’m not the rabid animal Giorgio had to drag away and handcuff in the cellar until I sobered up lest I killed an innocent bystander or injured myself. The wild man around whom everyone ran circles is hardly recognizable to me.
I either got over it damn quickly, or I never cared as deeply as I thought. Maybe it’s because I had to push my feelings down when Detective Jordan questioned me, and I’m still operating on an apathetic level. Or maybe I’m simply too focused on the task ahead.
Whatever the case, when I turn for the door and tell Giorgio, “Put out that cigarette and let’s go,” Rachele doesn’t even enter my thoughts.
All I can think about on the way to the river is my new toy and how soon I can get back to playing cat and mouse with her.
CHAPTER
NINE
Anya
As so many of Saverio’s strange, considerate actions, the food delivery confuses me. Why does he care if I eat or starve? He must be truly serious about keeping me alive until he no longer needs me to testify about his whereabouts on the night of the murder.
My pride won’t let me take his food, but in the end, practicality wins. I do need to eat, and I don’t have more than a few pennies left in my purse. It will be stupid to let so much high-quality food go to waste when my cupboards are empty.
I carry the groceries item by item into the apartment and discard the box when I’m done.
Despite the worry that batters my mind, I’m exhausted. I sleep like the dead and wake up before sunrise.
When I get to the office, I’m relieved that everything is more or less back to normal. Zack left after his nightshift, and the staff trickle in with paper cups of coffee in their hands.
The rich, fragrant aroma makes my mouth water, but I stopped drinking caffeine the minute I suspected that I was pregnant. Instead, I sip a ginger infusion at my desk while going over my task list for the day.
The subdued talk continues, people speculating about Mr. Lewis’s murder, but I try to block out the conversations and to focus on my work.
An hour goes by during which I constantly glance at the door, expecting Ms. Price to appear on the threshold and to call me to her office, but nothing happens.
Perhaps she took mercy on me and decided to keep my secret. She obviously didn’t tell my coworkers, or they would’ve mentioned something.
As the morning drags on and no one comes for me, the tension slowly flows from my muscles.
Toward the end of the morning, I’ve lost myself so much in the numbers that I only realize it’s lunchtime when the open plan office runs empty. The other junior accountants like to go to the Chelsea Market for lunch. I brought leftover pasta from last night.
I must’ve stood up too quickly, because the world tilts on its axis. At the same time, the egg and toast I had for breakfast push up in my throat. I grip the edges of the desk to steady myself and inhale a couple of times, hoping that the saliva pooling in my mouth will pass.