Page 29 of Tide of Treason
Lucius moved past me without a glance, a manila folder dangling from two fingers. The fabric of his jacket whispered along the back of my chair, an indulgent caress I felt burn straight to the tips of my toes, soft threads laced with disdainful reminders of everything I wanted and couldn’t have. Or shouldn’t, if I had even the barest shred of self-preservation. Unfortunately, I was fresh out.
He was wearing glasses.
“New look?” I drawled lazily, tapping my nail against the porcelain cup, feigning boredom. “Are the glasses necessary, or are we experimenting? Bookish cartel king? Nerdy FBI overlord? Sounds a bit derivative, Lucius.”
His gaze landed on the lipstick drawn X and narrowed. Gotcha.
Lifting the coffee to my lips, I hid my triumphant smilebehind the rim. “So, are those for myopia, hyperopia, astigmatism? Presbyopia, perhaps?”
A faint wrinkle deepened between his brows. “What?”
My nerd was showing. “Are they for near or far?”
I saw the flicker of realisation behind his eyes. He had no idea I’d studied to be an optician, and I knew he wouldn’t like it. Not because Lucius Andrade was chauvinistic, but because he’d know it meant I’d never planned to stay in crime long-term. I was meant to play wife and mother while my husband led the Outfit, not have a mind of my own and independent goals.
His gaze dipped from my eyes to my lips, then back again, as if I’d done something that didn’t match his expectations.
Softly, almost reluctantly, “Myopia.”
The word kissed the air between us, dark and uninvited.
I licked a smear of lipstick from my bottom lip. “Mild?”
“Moderate.”
“Hmm.”
The coffee cup touched down with a dainty clink. My fingers itched as I recalled the lensometers and other tools of the trade I had at home I’d purchased years ago. I’d worked hard for the knowledge and then had to leave it behind, watching it shrink smaller and smaller in the rearview mirror until it was just a guilt-shaped speck.
“There’s a correlation, you know . . . certain visual impairments and particular personalities.” My voice flowed silkily through the air. “Take myopia, for instance. Those whohave it tend toward introspection. Moodiness. They overthink everything to death.” I tilted my head, delivering the rest in a smoky murmur. “Aggressive, sometimes. A little obsessive.”
His glasses caught the light, flashing gold at the temples, before he slid the file towards my papà as if I wasn’t worth even the decency of a full look. Giorgio’s autopsy, no doubt. On the television, the morning news droned on, a woman’s brittle voice narrating the latest scandal about a trafficking ring busted across the river. Black bars over the victims’ faces.
Ignoring his blatant disregard, I went on. “I’d guess you’re the textbook definition.”
Lucius flipped a page with a flick of his fingers that sent a whiff of paper and expensive cologne in my direction. “Let me guess—you dated one.”
A brittle smile barely brushed my lips. “I just know one.”
“Giorgio was a myopic too, wasn’t he?” Papà interjected lazily.
Ugh. Hewas, irritatingly enough, though I hadn’t been thinking of him. Espresso soured in my gut. Frustration simmered at how easily my meaning twisted itself into something sentimental. God forbid anyone guessed the truth: that Giorgio meant nothing compared to the thorny, twisted fixation I’d harbored on my sister’s husband. It seemed safer to let Papà believe my heart lingered pathetically on his dead consigliere than admit I’d fallen down an infinitely darker rabbit hole.
“Yes,” I bit out. “He was. His prescription was so high that all he could see was himself.”
Lucius turned away, and I knew, just knew, he’d rolled his eyes. Dismissive bastard. It was a response that annoyed the hell out of me because, dammit, I was telling the truth.
His response was cool, detached, yet each word dripped acid straight into my veins. “I doubt narcissism is linked to poor eyesight. Sounds like your dead ex was fucked from birth.” Then, casually cruel, he added, “Though, I suppose any man brave enough to fuck you would need an impairment of some kind to survive.”
Oh. My. God.
In an instant, annoyance flamed into offense, and beneath that, a sharp, raw nerve he’d carelessly exposed. I was a frigid bitch, sure, my libido had long been a long running joke, but hearing it from this man’s lips? Brutal. Electric heat transformed swiftly into an icy punch, stiffening my spine until every vertebra felt etched in glass.
“How very insightful of you,” I clipped, each word frosted in quiet fury.
Oblivious, or simply indifferent, Papà pushed back his chair with a heavy scrape. “I’m heading to the site for tomorrow’s taster. Vito,andiamoci. Lucius?”
Lucius gave an absent nod, his eyes never quite lifting to mine as they exited. Their footsteps faded, abandoning us in a silence sharp enough to draw blood. Grasping for equilibrium, I drew blood with my tongue instead.
