Page 29 of Deception & Desire

I throw my hands up in the air in comical disbelief. “Since when did you get the idea you could set your own hours?”

“Since I’ve come home every night this week stinking of fish, asshole.”

Dante throws us both an amused look before standing as well. “I’ll get going, too. If there’s an update before tomorrow, I’ll call you, Leon, before you hit the shipment site.”

Exhaustion hits me quite cruelly between the eyes. The last thing I want to do is scramble over to Brooklyn at some ungodly hour tomorrow morning, but I need to be at least seen doing my part by the Guild.

“Thanks.” I get up as well. “Tell Teo to let me know if he has any more ideas about…united efforts.”

Dante thinks about this for a moment. “Matching T-shirts?”

“Couples costumes!” Max clicks his fingers.

Dante smiles at him conspiringly. “Leonardo and Michaelangelo?”

“I was going to say Mario and Luigi. But you’re right. Leon is more of a renaissance guy.”

“I was thinking turtles.”

“All right, get the fuck out of here,” I half-yell at them, and they obediently skitter out of the room.

I’m still shaking my head as I lock up for the night. Simon is at the front desk as I leave. He offers me his usual nod of acknowledgment as I pass. His eyes are ever-assessing. I have no idea what he is thinking most of the time. Somehow, I find that comforting.

I know how I look. I know how much coffee he’s brought me today to compensate for the lack of sleep that’s so clearly etched itself on my face. I blame it on the new house, the new environment. The emptiness of it. The lack of…

The thought of going back suddenly stops seeming so appealing. For a long moment, I debate turning around and spending the rest of my evening lost on the casino floor.

It feels a lot more welcoming than returning to the brownstone alone.

But all this business with Amos Rubio…united efforts… Brooklyn bright and early in the morning, another sleepless night…I may well ruin whatever tentative progress we’ve already made if I can’t even think clearly.

Begrudgingly, I step out into the night and head home.

It’s with an odd sense of deja-vu that I ascend the front steps of the brownstone and walk inside. It’s just another night, another empty house with nothing but Caravaggio for company.

I shouldn’t feel alert. Shouldn’t expect anything out of the ordinary. There’s nothingdifferentper se; it's just a feeling ofsomething.

The house doesn’t feel lonely. It feels like a home.

When I find Mia pacing the lounge, it’s not unexpected.

Her hair is curled up into a bun. A few tendrils have fallen down to frame her face, perfectly out of place. She’s so devastatingly pretty.

She freezes as I lean against the doorframe and cross my arms. I am absolutely not drinking her in like a man parched due to her lack of attention. “I never asked the other day, but how do you keep getting in here?”

This is apparently not what she expected me to say, as her mouth opens in a perfect little “O” shape.

“Would you believe me if I told you I stole the key from under the mat?”

“No, not really.”

She doesn’t elaborate any further. Not that I really expected her to.

“Can I get you a drink? Whiskey?” I ask instead, keeping my tone as neutral as possible.

“No.”

Unyielding, frustrating woman.

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