Page 56 of Confession
“You cannot. It’s cold. I’m suffering to spare your sensitive nose.”
“You think cold food doesn’t smell?”
“If you didn’t want your office to smell like tacos, you should’ve brought Quinn.”
I sigh.
“He’s not okay, Vitali.”
I look up. “You saw him?”
Sasha stares back at me from the sleek leather couch. Taco in hand, her elbows are on her knees, her braid hanging over her shoulder. “I went to check on him this morning.”
“And?”
She sets her taco in the to-go box. I watch her consider whether or not to tell me. I think she’s trying decide which will hurt me more.
She says, “I got him up out of the mess of cum he was lying in. I got him to take a shower while I got those gross sheets off the bed.”
I close my eyes against the sting. I take several careful breaths.
“Where is he now?”
“You should’ve checked on him.”
“Where is he, Sasha?”
“Still in his room, last I knew.”
Fuck.
I stand up from my desk and grab my jacket, but Sasha says, “Wait, hold on.”
She’s halfway to her feet, phone in hand. She’s frowning at the screen.
“What?” I demand, thinking she’s gotten a text from Quinn. Or about him. “Is he—”
“It’s a security alert. For here,” she adds when I scramble for my phone, thinking she means the house. “Cecilia DiMaggio just walked in the door. Camera 3,” she says when I lean down to my computer.
I pull up the feed. I don’t have to look long before I spot DiMaggio’s elegant daughter. She goes to the bar, green silk dress shimmering over her curves, pearled clutch in hand.
Goddamn it. I don’t want to deal with this right now.
“Bring her up here,” I order Sasha impatiently. I’ll get this over with as fast as possible then get back to the house. To Quinn.
Sasha gathers up her food and takes it over the minifridge then heads for the door.
I set a chair in front of my desk before settling behind it. I pick up my phone, wanting to text Quinn, but there’s too much to say, so I set it back down.
When Sasha opens the door, letting in Cecilia DiMaggio, I give Sasha a slight nod, indicating for her to leave. Her nostrils flare, but she obeys me, pulling the door shut as Gavino DiMaggio’s daughter saunters toward my desk.
“Hello, Cecilia.”
Her red lips shape a smile. “Vitali.”
She’s about fifteen years older than I am but doesn’t look it, not with such careful cosmetic work and the expensive, well-chosen clothes skimming her sleek figure. That’s her nature. Careful. Calculating.
Of course, I don’t need to know that to know that she’s here for a reason. A reason that serves her first and foremost.
