Page 61 of Devil's Tulip

I sigh, slumping against the window as the car follows the winding driveway, which seems to go on forever, before finally revealing the house. It’s not exactly a huge mansion like my uncle’s, but it’s big. Too big for one person. A three-story brick house, strikingly similar to the one in Seattle—white stone, slanted dark roof, floor-to-ceiling glass windows that glisten under the sun. And behind it, the shimmer of water.

I sit up slightly, and from the corner of my eye, I catch Michael glancing at me, but I ignore him.

There’s plenty I want to unload on him, but something tells me to hold off until we have some privacy. Somehow, I know his response will be different if I call him out in front of his men.

These mafia guys have a thing about their reputations.

The driver gets out and opens my door. Michael exits on the other side, so I give the driver a stiff nod as I climb out. Behind us, the other car doors open one by one, the men spilling out in a synchronized wave.

Dario is yanked out last, and his hateful gaze finds mine. I flinch back at the sheer vitriol in his bloodied eyes. Then suddenly, a broad shoulder blocks my view as Michael steps in front of me, his stance solid, protective.

Frowning, I peek around him just in time to see Dario’s glare waver before he quickly looks away—coward that he is. The men drag him towards the side of the house, but I don’t bother watching where they take him.

“Come on.”

Michael’s palm presses against the small of my back, guiding me towards the front doors, which open as we approach. I half-expect them to be motion sensors, like the sliding ones back in Seattle. But instead, an older woman with a warm smile steps out.

“Is this her?” she asks Michael, her voice brimming with excitement as she reaches for my hand. Instinctively, I let her take it.

“Yes.” Michael’s hand slips from my back, and he glances down at me strangely. “This is her.” Then, to me, in that damn smooth voice, “I’m going to leave you in Mrs. Monti’s capable hands, love, while I go take care of some business.”

Love.

I narrow my eyes on him, hating that my heart skips at how easily the endearment seems to slip out of his mouth. “We need to talk.”

“Later.” He steps back before I can argue, heading towards the side of the house with Lorenzo.

I don’t have to ask what business he has to take care of. It’s Dario. And quite frankly, I couldn’t give a flying fuck.

What he did to me last night doesn’t even scratch the surface of the hell he’s put me through over the years. Michael can do whatever he wants with him.

A gentle squeeze pulls my attention from Michael’s retreating form. I look down at my hand, still clasped in the woman’s, then up at her warm but assessing gaze. “Hello, ma’am,” I murmur, suddenly feeling shy under her scrutiny. Michael introduced her as Mrs. Monti. Who is she to him?

And why the hell do I even care how Michael is related to the people around him? I’m leaving soon anyway, so it shouldn’t matter.

She shakes her head. “None of this ‘ma’am’ business, miss. I’m Gracie to you.”

Her smile is so genuine, so effortlessly kind, that I just… stare. It’s a warmth that surpasses anything I’ve known in years, leaving me speechless, unsure how to respond appropriately.

Sensing my hesitation, she gives my hand a gentle pat. “Come on in. Let me show you your new home.”

I nearly trip over my own feet. “My new home?”

Surprised, I follow her through the doors into a breathtaking anteroom, and I barely register the vaulted ceilings because my attention is stolen by the walls. Or rather, what’s on them. Large, gold-framed paintings—nearly human-sized—stretch across both sides of the room, taking up most of the space. My eyes immediately catch on the tulips, and before I realize it, I’m drawn towards it, hand lifting hesitantly.

“Beautiful, isn’t it? You can touch it. This is a home, not a museum,” Mrs. Monti says encouragingly.

Home.

I close my hand into a fist, dropping it. Her expression dims slightly, and the disappointment there reminds me of my earlier question. “This is Michael’s house, isn’t it? Why would you call it my new home?”

She frowns a little. “Well, you’re to get married, aren’t you? So I assumed you’d be living here since this is Michael’s primary residence, and?—”

“We’re to be what?”

Her frown deepens. “Did I mishear? It did come as a surprise, I admit. You see, I never thought that boy would let his guard down enough to enter into a serious relationship, but he did say he’s bringing his fiancée home.”

A host of curse words jam up in my throat, and I swallow them down viciously.

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