Page 41 of Tide of Treason
And from the look in his eye, it was crystal clear that he did. Not. Care.
He gripped Brando more firmly and kept moving, not bothering to acknowledge the sputtered threats or the sad trail of drool and sweat he left behind. The door slammed shut on them both, replaced only by the sound of cards shuffling.
“Kayla.”
I took my time turning around, one brow lifted. “Yes?”
Lucius’s gaze dragged over me, dark and knowing. His jaw flexed. “Did the doctor find what you were looking for?”
“Not yet. But don’t worry. I’ll be sure to return it when I do.”
A flicker of something hot flared behind his eyes. “Generous.”
I needed air.
Grabbing my wine glass, I abandoned the testosterone-ridden den of gambling and bullet wounds and headed for the garden. I exhaled and peeled my hair off the nape of my neck, pulling it into a loose twist as I passed the glowing lanterns lining the stone path. The garden smelled of citrus and faint traces of tobacco smoke.
Mamma’s friends had taken over the wrought iron patio furniture in the center, their conversations buzzing over half-empty glasses of Aperol spritzes.
I took a sip and lingered near the wall, listening.
“Did you hear about Loretta’s son?” This came from Maria, the thinnest of the group. “Ran off with a model. Canyou imagine? A model.”
Lucia, another fixture of these gatherings, clicked her tongue. “And the worst part? She’s Swiss.”
A horrified pause.
Then: “Jesus.”
A collective sip of cocktail.
“I always said there was something off about that boy,” one of them said, the one in pink.
Another woman nodded vigorously. “The eyes. Dead behind them.”
“No. Loretta told me it’s because he went and got himself baptised Protestant.”
“No!”
“Oh, yes. All those years of Catholic school, for what?”
“My boys would never,” a woman sniffed.
I rolled my eyes and slipped past them, heading down the steps that curved towards the koi pond. In a small alcove with wisteria and moss-covered rocks, Viviana lounged on a chair with a sketchbook. I sank down on the matching seat.
“You’re sulking,” I announced, which was how I said hello to people I loved.
She looked up from a charcoal drawing of the same pond and frowned. “I’m not sulking.”
“Brooding, then.” I plucked a cigarette from a nearby ashtray and twirled it between my fingers. “Just as bad. If you keep this up, someone’s going to start mistaking you for one of those moody artists who chainsmokes by the river and paints exclusively in grayscale.”
“I paint in color.”
“Do you?”
Viviana scowled. My sister had a piece of charcoal in hand, which left smears of black along her cheek and across her fingertips. “You’re in a mood.”
“I’m always in a mood.”
