Page 96 of Rosetti Family New York
“Sure she doesn’t.” He flips on the radio and lets the music crackle between us.
We drive through the gates and pull up in the garage. The sky is gray. There’s a storm coming, I can feel it in the air. I let Rafe go in first and hang back. Every move tugs at my bruised eye, makes it throb. I keep my head down, hoping nobody sees, especially not her.
Inside, the place is its usual chaos. Emilio in a corner with a laptop, Leonardo and Eleanor in a heated discussion. Carmela is there too, but her voice is muffled behind everyone else’s. I pass through it like a ghost. None of them notice me slip up to my office.
The door clicks shut. I sag into the chair, staring at a pile of papers I should have signed yesterday. I shuffle through it, myeye aching every time I shift focus. I keep seeing Besiana’s damn face.
Hours go by. My head’s a drumbeat, pounding with every tick of the clock. The work stays unfinished, but at least nobody’s found me. Yet.
The handle turns. I jerk upright.
Besiana steps inside, closing the door with a soft click. Her dark hair is tied back, her dress fitted but not tight. She looks at me, at my swollen eye, without a hint of surprise.
Her shoes barely make a sound on the carpet as she crosses to me. I stiffen, waiting for her to speak, to say something sharp or cold. She doesn’t.
Instead, she reaches for my face, fingertips soft and deliberate. She pulls out a bottle of alcohol and some gauze and sets them on the desk.
She sits on the edge of the desk and bends close. The smell of antiseptic is strong between us. Her hair is still sleek, not a strand out of place. I think of touching it, the way she touches my face, but I don’t move.
Carefully, she starts cleaning the cut. Her breath is slow, even. I wait for her to break the quiet. To ask me how I got the black eye. Scold me for it. Ask for instructions. Anything.
But she stays quiet, competently tending my wound. Another one of those skills her father gave her, no doubt.
When she finishes, I feel raw and unstitched. Her hand rests on my cheek for a moment longer than it needs to. Then she stands and smooths out her skirt.
“You’re allowed to bleed, Domenico,” she says.
The words cut through the stillness, leaving me with the sound of her footsteps disappearing down the hall.
12
Besiana
Domenico looks like he wants to shoot something. Or someone. I tap my heels against the car floor, trying not to let the awkward silence kill me.
"So, where exactly are we going?" I ask.
He doesn't take his eyes off the screen of his phone. "You'll see."
I arch an eyebrow. Cryptic. How very Domenico. Not that I'm surprised. He's always been one to keep me guessing. Like now—our first "date," and I can't tell if we're headed to some candlelit restaurant or to a crime scene. I take a deep breath, ignoring the knots in my stomach.
He finally looks up, green eyes sharp and cutting, just like him. My heart does this stupid little flip, and I almost laugh at myself. Ice queen, melting in the back of a car.
It's early November, but the cold has already set in. The city rushes past in a blur of neon and steel. I can't stop tapping my foot, this excitement and anxiety twisting inside me. Maybe this time, he’ll pay me some attention.
The phone in Domenico's hand starts to buzz. He frowns, just a twitch of annoyance before he answers. "Yes."
"Dom? It’s Clara."
He lets out a breath. "What do you need, Clara?"
She’s talking loud enough that I can hear her tinny voice down the line. "The same thing I needed two hours ago. You have to give me access to more ixaphorine. Your damn security won't let me in the warehouse."
"You were supposed to wait until tomorrow."
"And you were supposed to be more competent than this."
He shoots me a glance, lips pulling into a smirk. He’s not mad. He’s amused. Do I need to be jealous of this woman? He lets her call him by his first name and call him incompetent, and he responds with a smile. If I did that, he’d respond with a firm hand on my backside and have me down on my knees.
