Page 110 of Wicked Duty
As soon as I get off the phone with Marco, I dig through my suitcase for something presentable to wear for my impromptu meeting. Part of me wants to shower a second time, but I’m literally still wearing a towel.
Once I throw together a chic outfit, apply Visine to my eyes to hide the redness, and slap on a little mascara, concealer, and lip gloss, I text Nika to tell her a work thing came up and that I need to step out for about an hour.
Then I hurry out a side door, careful to evade Ryan’s eagle eyes.
Guilt prickles my skin. Both he and Nika will be pissed that I snuck out without telling them, but I can’t bear their pitying looks. Not without breaking down again.
I hustle down the streets to the café, ducking my chin and battling the urge to check for Callum. He should be the one watching me. He would’ve caught on that I’ve escaped.
Of course, he’s nowhere in sight.
Why would he be? Now that he got what he wanted, he no longer needs to protect me. Or pretend.
My phone vibrates. I let the call go to voicemail before glancing at the screen. When I do, I see that I missed two calls from the DA’s office, along with a text.
Please call.
I also missed two texts from Nika, demanding that I wait for her.
I don’t feel like dealing with either of them, so I silence my phone.
Then I hasten through the dusk-dusted Manhattan avenues until I arrive outside Martino’s. A red awning overhangs the front door, and inside, red-and-white checkered tablecloths cover each little table. Flowers and quaint pictures of the Italian countryside decorate the walls. Scones and cannoli and sugar scent the air.
In a secluded corner away from the windows, Marco scrolls through his phone. He perks up as soon as I come through the door, triggering a serious tidal wave of self-consciousness within me.
I’ve never been alone with someone this famous. Or anyone famous.
After I’m seated, a server brings us a small basket of plain Italian bread and olive oil.
Marco nudges the bread toward me. “Eat,bella. You look positively peaky.”
I hide a grimace. My eyes must still be pink from all the crying. “That’s okay. I don’t think I can eat right now.” I manage a little smile. “But thank you for inviting me. I really appreciate it.”
“Think nothing of it. But, dear Lucy,” his eyes crinkle with concern, “you seem to have wilted since I saw you this morning.”
Marco asks a server for some chamomile tea.
I force my shoulders to remain level. “It’s been a rough few hours, I’ll give you that.”
He taps the side of his head. “I’m all ears, as they say.”
Marco’s gentle probing and understanding nods draw out more than I intend to spill. Soon, I’m babbling about my exhaustion, my insecurities, and the pressures of the competition. Even vague references to the threats I’ve been receiving slip out.
When the server delivers the tea, Marco picks up his own cup and blows at the steam while studying me.
“And then, just an hour ago,” I swallow hard, “I had to fire my bodyguard.”
I expect Marco to ask me why, but instead, he only clucks his tongue. “That bodyguard of yours did seem rather controlling. Always hovering, always watching. Must have been suffocating for you.”
I flinch, gazing into my untouched cup. “Yeah…something like that.”
“It seems to me that you need to unwind.” Marco directs another dazzling smile at me. “Why not take a little break and come to my place?”
A few days ago, the suggestion would have sent me spiraling from excitement. An exclusive invitation to a famous fashion icon’s home? Every model’s dream.
Today, I can barely summon the energy to fake a return smile.
“Thank you so much, but I should probably decline.” I tuck my hair behind my ear. “Today’s been…kind of overwhelming. I think I need to get a good night’s sleep more than anything.”
