Page 73 of Casanova LLC

But when I picked up my phone to do just that, I saw I had a voicemail.

From the lawyers.

My stomach hollowed again, for a different reason.

The message was simple, directing me to call back as soon as I could.

So I did.

After the call, my body shut down. And I was slammed back into the part of me that I had finally extricated myself from: my mind. And it was going at supersonic speed.

I was sitting on the bed, not realizing I had sat on the bed. My shaking hands on my shaking knees.

How could I fix this?

There was no fix.

How could I make it go away?

I couldn’t.

Well. I could. The way I’d made everything else go away.

But that meant…

Before I’d thought it through, I was off the bed and flying out of the room, sprinting up the stairs in my bare feet, and knocking on his door.

He opened it, said something I couldn’t register, and I said, “The deal’s off.”

He seemed to tense, closed the door slightly. “What? What are you?—

“Can I come in?”

“How about I meet you in the sala?”

“No, I—we need to talk.”

“We’ll talk downstairs.”

I was shaking my head. “The salon belongs to Casanova. I need to talk to you. Like, when we first talked on my roof, that you.”

“Claire, I’m sorry, but…as I told you, my personal space isn’t part of the deal, just let me get dres?—”

“The deal’s off! Please, can I just…” I gestured at the door and, bewildered, he opened it just enough for me to bolt inside. I tried to keep my voice steady. “This thing we’re doing. Our agreement thing. It’s no longer a thing.” Jesus, Claire, can you talk? “Something’s come up and I don’t—I’m not entirely sure what it means, but I can’t promise, anymore, that I’ll be able to buy your paintings back right away. So there.”

Stupefied, blinking at me, he closed the door. “What, why?”

“Because I was going to open a line of credit on Visage to do it.” My voice sounded tinny. “But now I’m going to have to sell it, or at least go through another audit if there’s a lien, which means a lock-up period, which means I can’t access?—”

“Hang on, go back.”

“I need a ride to the airport. Can you?—”

“Slow down, what exactly happened?” He approached me like I was a bear cub that had wandered off from its mother.

“You can return the placemats I bought for Jacopo and keep the cash. I’m so sorry, it’s so insultingly inadequate, but at least?—”

“Claire, just sit?—”

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