Page 61 of When Sinners Fall
“Yes.”
“Your things.”
“Oh, right. Thank you.”
I show them through to the bedroom and watch the boxes pile up.
It’s really happening, then.
When the boxes stop, I start to arrange my things, but the men don’t leave. Banging, shuffling, and electric power tools blare on and off. I keep out of the way, hoping they are fixing all the damage Dante caused in his own apartment.
Several hours later, I’ve emptied the boxes I can and have a few items to find homes for around the rest of the place.
All is quiet on the other side of the door, and sure enough, the apartment looks like new.
I pace about in the quiet, taking my time to look over each room, and open doors I've never opened before. A large office is around the back of the kitchen area, which seems empty of use, and there's a gym past the terrace on the far side of the penthouse. I suppose I'm thinking as I wander and place the last of my things. Wondering how we fit together in the same home. It smells like Dante still – that woodsy, smoky smell – tobacco and something else, and feels odd with my things scattered about.
God, how did I get here?
I spy his sunglasses on the hall table - one of the pieces that survived his temper - and remember how he grabbed me from the street. I lift them, my consolation prize for losing my own.
He’s doing this to protect me.
I keep saying it to myself.
Later on in the day, I set about making comfort food as I seem to have skipped lunch. After all, I have no intention of pushing the boundaries I’ve been set by going out. Not after everything he's told me. Still, there’s an element of frustration festering inside me as I work around the surprisingly well-stocked kitchen.
Captivity is clearly not my forte.
I send a text to Kerry before grabbing a pack of chicken and a few spices and ingredients from the pantry and set the pan on the stove. I can’t remember the last time I cooked real food. Or at least something that wasn’t just convenient. At least my phone ringing keeps me connected to the real world out there, and the never-ending emails that keep pinging into my inbox ensure I’m not totally alone.
When the pan is hot, I start to fry off the chicken, making sure the coating gets nice and crispy. I’m meant to be at a wedding venue tonight, going over the final arrangements and plans for the small ceremony the day after tomorrow. It’s not a big deal – nothing on the scale of Bridezilla – but it’s another element of my life colliding with Dante. Although, I’m sure I won’t get shot at one of my weddings. After everything he told me, I’m not sure I can say the same for visiting one of his establishments.
Once the chicken is cooked, I take it into the main lounge and place the dish on the coffee table while I grab a whisky from the bar. My fingers trace over the range of drinks and spot a Macallan vintage. If I’m stuck here, I’m going to enjoy it.
I kick off my shoes and get comfy on the leather couch, picking up my fried chicken and drink.
Channel hopping through the reality shows, I smirk at the number of bride and wedding programmes. White, fairy tales, Cinderella castles or sunset beaches. It’s always the same. Although, my train of thought stutters a bit, considering the path my love life has taken these last few days.
My teeth tear off a mouthful of the chicken, and I lick my lips and fingers clean of the spicy coating and grease.
I hear the door close; at least, I think I do. “Hello?” I call around another mouthful of chicken.
A tall man wearing a suit and built like a bodyguard walks into the room. My heartbeat kicks up.
Who the hell is this!
I jump up in alarm. “Um, excuse me. Who are you, and what are you doing here?” I don’t know why getting up will help me, but maybe I could run if I need to.
“I’m Abel. Dante’s brother.” He looks me over, checking out my ripped jeans and cropped t-shirt, before noting the piece of fried chicken in my hand. Indifference stays heavy on his face, and then he turns and walks towards the bar. “The good whisky, I see.”
I spin around and watch as he pours himself a drink from the same bottle I've used. “Um, what do you think you’re doing?”
“Getting a drink.” Finished pouring, he then heads across the wooden floor to the chair in the corner, sitting himself down.
He watches me. So, I stare back.
“Are you gonna sit? Or stand there for the rest of the night?” Maybe he thinks his comment is funny because he smiles to himself as he takes the first sip of his drink.
