Page 55 of The Woman on the Jury

I would have felt like it was an invasion, if I didn’t see that he’d brought me a black t-shirt, a bottle of water, and some acetaminophen.

Which, damnit, was thoughtful of him.

I uncapped the water, tossing a few pills back, then drinking greedily before locking the bedroom door, so I could slip out of my tank top, and into the t-shirt.

Finished with that, I turned down the bed, and climbed in, finding myself almost annoyed at how comfortable the mattress was, and how warm the bedding was, lulling me half to sleep within minutes.

I figured I would stay awake, overthinking things until dawn. The attack. The escape with Venezio. Driving. Battlefield medicine in the kitchen. The fingering.

Especially the fingering.

But, somehow, I was asleep in minutes.

And, safe as I could possibly be since I was staying in the penthouse of a mafia capo, I slept like the dead.

I woke up alone.

In the bedroom, sure, but also the entire apartment.

After stopping in the bathroom, where I noticed that not only were there angry red gashes across my forehead, but big purple and blue bruises all around those as well. And a slight one under one eye.

That didn’t include the ones on my throat. There was a shadow cast by my chin that made them less noticeable. I’d never been much of a turtleneck fan, but it was looking like I might need to invest in a few until the bruises faded.

I crept out of the bedroom, peeking my head into the living area.

But there was no one.

Though there was the scent of coffee still lingering in the air, drawing me into the kitchen, where I found a pot still on the heater.

After rummaging for a mug, I made myself a cup, grabbing some sugar, then finding unopened cream in the fridge.

A fridge that was otherwise empty.

I wondered as I sipped the coffee if he’d bought the cream for me. But, no. That was too thoughtful for a man like Cosimo.

A man who had stripped me naked one day.

Then fingered me in the kitchen.

After each, acting like nothing had happened.

Seemingly alone, I moved across the living space noting the utter lack of details in the apartment. No throw pillows. Art. Knick-knacks.

Still, it somehow felt really put together.

Masculine, sure, but in that way that a man could sometimes be comforting too.

I found a remote, thinking it was for a hidden TV somewhere, and ended up making the fireplace burst to light, bringing with it the kind of inviting warmth that begged me to sit down and enjoy it while I finished my coffee.

Done with that, though, curiosity had me moving across the apartment, and toward the door.

I pulled it open, and a little gasp escaped me as I saw two men flanking the door. In their mafia dude suits.

Neither of them were familiar to me.

“You need to stay inside,” one of them told me, barely sparing me a glance.

I jumped back inside, heartbeat kicking up.

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