Page 32 of His Passerotta

Fuck. Fuck. Fuck.

“Yeah, sorry. I really appreciate it, I’m just annoyed,” I gesture to the corpse.

Lorenzo nods his understanding. “Leave the rest for Victor.” He holds out a hand toward the door. “Let’s go have lunch.”

I force a grateful smile and walk with him while my head swims. Bailey’s image is in my mind, still handcuffed to my bedpost.

Lorenzo knows it was her. I’m positive he does. What I’m not sure of is if he knows she isn’t dead. And how much he cares.

What if he looks for her? He could send someone to my apartment.

She could be in danger.

“I need to go home to clean up first,” I announce when the door clangs behind us. We’re left in a dimly lit hall leading to the stairs. There’s a bathroom off to the side that I’ll use to wash the blood off my face before I leave the building.

“This is why we keep extra shirts in the office.” He points to the office door.

I shake my head. “It isn’t just my shirt. The guy’s blood reeks. I think I got some in my nose.”

He just blinks at me, clearly not buying it.

“I’ll feel better after a shower. Just order me a glass of red, will you?”

He stares at me a moment before nodding. “Sure.”

“Thanks.” I turn and head for the bathroom, not breathing until the door is closed behind me.

I need to get Bailey out of my apartment.

Now.

7

BAILEY

Cool water kisses the sore ring of flesh around my wrists from the handcuffs as I hold them under the bathroom faucet.

Anthony didn’t clasp the cuffs tightly, but I had to strain when I used my bobby pin to get them off. It took me a half hour, which would be a hell of a long time if they’d been frilly sex cuffs. These are the real deal.

My head turns when the kitchen timer goes off, and I hurry up washing my hands before striding from the bathroom. The aroma of sweet, sweet masala hits me as soon as I step from the bedroom, and I breathe it in with a sigh.

I stir the sauce for the butter chicken while leaned over the pan, letting every bit of the smell envelop me.

I was just going to make a sandwich. Hunger was the big reason I took the cuffs off to begin with. But seeing Anthony’s spice rack… This dude spares no expense with his food. Even his cookware makes me wet. I’m a cheap date, I know.

I check the rice, then go back to stirring the sauce.

Butter chicken was my mother’s favorite food, and every time I have it, it strikes me with a fresh wave of nostalgia. Not all my memories of my mother are good, but being in the kitchen with her, on a step stool next to the stove watching while she explained each step of whatever dish she was preparing are some of my favorites.

And this recipe? This one I’ve perfected. There’s a part of me that wonders if what I’m making has more to do with trying to impress Anthony than it does with hunger.

No. It’s the spice rack. The guy has a killer spice rack.

Music plays on a channel Anthony has on his smart TV, and I smile when “Pumped Up Kicks” comes on. I grab the remote off the counter to turn it up.

My hips sway as I sing along while twirling the spatula, and for a moment, I forget where I am. Well, not where I am, but why I’m here. I get this sick fantasy that this is my home, my top-of-the-line cookware, my fancy wine lingering on my tongue.

I’m so lost in the fantasy that I barely recognize the front door shutting, but even when I do, I don’t turn around. There’s a very good chance Anthony is going to be pissed, and his angry eyes are a little much for me.

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