Page 59 of Bishop

He gives a subtle smirk as he forks a mouthful of eggs into his mouth. He chews. Swallows. Licks his bottom lip. “There’s not a lot to tell. I paid Gordon a visit first. Extracted the necessary information, then—”

“What information?”

He scoops another forkful, eyeing me through his lashes. “Why he was with you at the gala. What his plans were in that hotel room.”

I fight not to break our gaze, but shame niggles me. I glance down at my plate, my stomach twisting in knots.

“That shit won’t happen again.” He takes another bite. “You won’t be used or manipulated.”

He says it so simply, flinging the words around with a careless disregard that strips me bare and leaves me exposed.

“I wasn’t the one being manipulated,” I correct. “Gordon is a powerful man. I was—”

“Call it whatever the fuck you like, just know you won’t be put in that position in the future. That shit won’t fly with Lorenzo.”

To hell with Lorenzo.

I don’t even know my uncle, let alone have faith in him changing my life into sunsets and rainbows. I’m too far gone for that.

“So something like sedation is okay in the eyes of the almighty Lorenzo Cappelletti,” I muse. “But what Finch did to me cost him his life?”

Wait a minute.

More memories from last night seep into my consciousness, foggy and dark. Did Bishop touch me? Had his fingers trailed along my jaw?

Heat floods my chest as hazy flashbacks assail my mind. The gentle brush of contact. The lingering hold.

“And the way you came into my room before you left—the way you laid hands on me?” I ask. “What was that all about?” I raise my gaze in time to see his jaw tick.

“I didn’t have much choice when I needed to keep you awake long enough to hear me fulfil my promise.”

Bullshit.

The shadowed memories paint a gentle picture. One with delicate brushes of fingertips and softly spoken words.

He could’ve shouted at me if he’d wanted to. Unless my recollection has been warped by the sedatives and all the tenderness is merely a figment of my imagination…

Did his thumb brush my lips?

There’s no way in hell.

The sedatives have messed with my recall.

“Did Gordon know it was you?” I ask.

He scoffs a half-hearted laugh and stabs a piece of bacon. “I rarely work anonymously, belladonna. I prefer when my targets know who owns them. But rest assured, Gordon won’t talk. The threats I hand out don’t leave much room for disobedience. People tend to listen when they know exactly how you’re going to torture everyone they love if they so much as breathe in the wrong direction.”

Unfortunately, I know exactly what he means.

“And as far as the cops are concerned,” he continues, “Finch was a disgruntled employee who attempted to kill his boss before ending his own life. It’s an open-and-shut case.”

“But wouldn’t there be defense wounds on his body?”

“Don’t insult me. Murder is an art, and as far as the authorities are concerned, they don’t even know this Michelangelo exists.” He points his fork to his chest. “Now, are there any other questions before I can start tending to my wounded pride?”

I shake my head. I don’t want to know anymore.

It’s hard to fathom how he can exude abundant dignity for his underhanded career while I struggle to hide the shame over mine.

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