Page 103 of Devil's Thirst

“Just Pippa and Bishop for now. I think the rest of us will head over shortly.”

“Will it happen that soon?”

“With her water already broken and it being twins, I doubt they’ll let her go long. One way or another, those babies are coming soon enough.”

“Come on, babe.” Oran puts his arm around her shoulders. “Let’s get Violet home, and we can decide what we’re doing from there.”

She nods and heads off to corral little Vi.

“Tommy texted earlier asking if we could stop by his new place,” Sante says, sipping from his beer. “He wants our opinion on something. Sounds like we have a little time on our hands. How about we head over there, then drop Freya at home before heading to the hospital?”

“Works for me. I still haven’t seen the place since he hired that interior designer.” I call Freya over. She’s done amazing adapting to the new family. We still keep the muzzle on her around kids, but I’m hoping to move past that soon. She makes sure to lie where she can see me. Otherwise, she’s very chill, even in a party setting. I snap on her leash, and we say our goodbyes.

Tommy’s new apartment is in a surprisingly trendy area—lots of nightlife and active young people. His place is one ofonly two apartments on the forty-second floor. The building is relatively new. From what I understand, the changes he’s been making are primarily cosmetic. I’m intrigued to see how he’s chosen to decorate his new place.

“Hey, man. How’s it going?” Sante says when Tommy opens the door for us. The two hug, then I give Tommy a half hug. I’m still not entirely sure if he’s comfortable with that sort of thing. He’s not an easy man to read.

“All good. Thanks for coming by.” He shows us inside to a much more inviting space than I’d imagined.

“You bet. We’ve been looking forward to seeing the place.”

“Tommy, it’s gorgeous,” I say, genuinely impressed. It reminds me of a Scandinavian feel because of the simplicity and white walls, but plenty of rich wood furniture and muted landscapes on the walls bring a touch of warmth and life. The biggest surprise, however, is the number of live plants all around—some in large pots on the ground, some in planters on shelves, and others hanging in woven baskets. While there’s more than I would have expected, it’s not too much.

“I love how much space you have,” Sante says, then looks at me. “We’ve really got to upgrade to something bigger.”

“Yeah, my place worked for me, but adding you and Freya makes things a bit cramped.”

Sante nods. “I’ll get with an agent.”

I grin, excited about the prospect.

I love that he’s so proactive—or maybe the word is competent. He doesn’t sit around and wait for someone else to make things happen. He sees when Freya needs more water and fills the dish. He starts the laundry if I haven’t gotten to it. And if we need a repairman—or in this case, a real estate agent—he does the legwork and gets the ball rolling.

My cozy thoughts swooning over my husband scatter when a sound catches my ear. I still when I hear it again, realizing itsounds like— “Is that … a womanyelling?” I’m genuinely not sure, but it’s definitely coming from nearby.

Sante narrows his eyes at Tommy. “Is that what you needed our opinion on? Christ, Tommy. I thought you wanted help with a fabric color or some shit.”

“I do,” Tommy says earnestly, turning to the dining room. “My designer suggested an accent wall to break up the white. I told her nothing too bold, and I can’t decide if I like it or not.”

One wall is a soft beige rather than the white coating the other walls and ceiling. All three of us stare at it. The slight variation in color is hardly an accent, but to Tommy it probably looks like a smudge on a pristine wedding cake.

“I like it,” I say. “Once there’s a painting up, the color difference won’t be as noticeable. It gives the place a bit more warmth.”

“Yeah, looks good,” Sante says distractedly. “Now let’s talk about what the fuck is behind door number two.”

Tommy frowns. “I caught her breaking in this morning.”

Oh shit!

He actually does have a woman stashed in a back bedroom. I told myself it was a television left on a little too loud, but it seems Sante knew better.

We follow the cries to the back of the apartment and a series of closed doors. I walk to the last one on the left and open it to the sight of a woman duct-taped to a rolling chair. She’s young, probably close to my age, and very pretty despite her disrepair. Natural strawberry-blond hair that no dye could ever duplicate, wide, teary eyes that plead with me for help, and a perfect smattering of freckles that make her look as innocent as a peach.

“Tommaso Donati, what on earth have you done?” I fire at him angrily.

“Me? She’s the one who broke into my apartment.”

“So you tied her up and left her back here?” I gape at him.

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