Page 174 of Guarding Grace
“Please,” I repeated.
Thankfully, the deadbolt clicked open, and I didn’t have to break the door down. My woman stood in the middle of the room, arms crossed, ready to do battle.
“I just remembered I have some laundry to attend to,” Serena said as she slipped by me and out the door.
“Hi,” I offered. I suddenly realized that it would be manipulative to give her the good news first.
She stood her ground. “Thank you again for working things out with those Russo people.”
“Anything for my woman. Now, tell me why you’re doing this.”
She fidgeted. Her ringing phone saved her from answering. When she picked it up off the counter, her face went both pale and slack.
I charged over, worried that she might have another fainting spell.
The name on the screen read, MRS. MONTEFINO.
“God,” she complained.
“Who is it?”
“My mother. I don’t want to talk to her,” Grace said with a trembling voice.
At first, Pete had told me their mother had died when they were young, but later he’d admitted that the woman had abandoned them at a hotel and run off after a man.
Their mother had left them like spare change on the dresser and just checked out—no goodbye, no hugs, no crying, no note, no nothing. Pete had said it had hurt Grace even more than him. After the initial barrage of questions, they’d decided to deal with it by telling people that their mother had died in a car accident.
They’d lived with an uncle until Pete was old enough to take Grace with him and leave. That uncle had been no peach either.
I grabbed for the phone. “Let me handle this.”
Reluctantly, she let go.
I accepted the call and put it on speaker. “Grace Brennan’s line.”
“Who is this?” the woman demanded.
I put my finger to my lips for Grace to be quiet. “Who may I say is calling?”
With a haughty tone, she answered, “Contessa Alexandria Montefino. The count and I wish to invite her to dinner.”
Grace shook her head violently.
“No,” I said.
“What do you mean?” she asked.
“No means no. Do you have a language other than English you’d like me to use?”
“I demand you let me speak with my daughter. I’m entitled to speak with my daughter, you…you peasant.”
“No.”
“You are extremely rude.” Off to the side, she said. “Stephano, she doesn’t have time to dine with us.”
“Here’s the thing, Alex?—”
“It’s Alexandria.” She huffed. “And who are you?”
