Page 54 of The Wages of Sin

An unbelievably beautiful dream. One I was incredibly grateful for.

And while I knew there was no way I could ever begin to repay Dorian for his generosity, I could show my appreciation. As I walked away from the mirror, an idea came into my head about how to do just that.

I poked my head out of the closet and heard the shower running. I didn’t know how long Dorian would stay in there, so I didn’t waste any time getting to work.

I rushed to the linen closet and found a thick, durable blanket. Next, I headed for the kitchen.

I couldn’t imagine Dorian owning a basket, but I did remember seeing a cooler bag among his pots and pans once when I was cleaning. I pulled it out and started filling it with snacks from the fridge.

Prosciutto, mortadella, crusty bread, fresh mozzarella, pecorino, cherry tomatoes, and olives—it all went into the bag, along with a bottle of wine. I was just laying a couple of stemless glasses on top when Dorian came out of the bedroom, his hair still damp.

“What’s this?” he asked as I zipped up the cooler.

“It’s my way of saying thank you for giving me a safe place to hide out, for the clothes, for…everything.”

His eyes slid over to the blanket on the counter. “You want to have a picnic?”

Was that a hopeful note I heard in his voice? I liked the sound of it.

“I thought it might be nice,” I said. “It’s a beautiful day, and since you promised I don’t have to worry about Carlo, I figured a couple of hours in the park wouldn’t be too risky. The chances of the FBI having that grassy spot between the trees you pointed out under constant surveillance is pretty low.”

Even though my tone had been light-hearted, the look he gave me was dead serious.

“I’ve already told you that as long as you’re with me, no one will ever touch you again.”

After everything I’d been through, I doubted I’d ever get tired of hearing that certainty in his voice. It didn’t matter that no one could keep a promise like that. Not even Dorian. It still warmed me down to my bones.

“So, do you want to go?” I asked with a smile.

He nodded. “More than anything.”

Less than twenty minutes later, I was spreading the blanket out on the grass. I arranged the simple lunch between us before opening the bottle of wine. Then I leisurely stretched out, propping myself up on bent elbows, and let my head fall back to feel the sun on my face.

Damn, it felt good.

Better than good—it felt normal.

So many months had passed since I’d done anything other than work. Every moment that I didn’t spend cleaning some criminal’s house was wasted either keeping my head down and my face hidden on the subway or locked behind the door of my shitty single room.

Before Dorian came into my life, I had simply survived, but this finally felt like living again.

The sounds of New York didn’t magically disappear in the park. There was still the shriek of distant car horns and the constant hum of life that was impossible to completely escape from in this city. But surrounded by greenery, birdsong, and the gentle rustle of leaves overhead, it was far more peaceful than anything for miles.

“I can see why your parents liked this spot so much,” I said, grabbing a chunk of bread and cheese. “How often do you come here?”

He hesitated, and for the first time since we’d arrived, I noticed he was sitting stiffly instead of spreading out and relaxing. “This is the first time I’ve been back since my father died.”

Since he was nine?

“I’m sorry,” I rushed to say. “I just assumed you came here all the time.”

“I look at it every day, sure. Sometimes for so long that I lose track of time,” he said, sounding far away. “But I never crossed the street and came here.”

“Why not?”

He hesitated before answering. “Too many memories. Too many of them painful.”

“Oh God. I’m so sorry.” Suddenly, I realized how thoughtless I’d been bringing him here. I’d wanted to show my gratitude, to bring him just a sliver of the joy he’d brought me the last few days, but instead, I’d done the opposite. “We don’t have to stay. I’ll pack up, and we can go back to your?—“

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