Page 67 of The Woman on the Jury

There was that knock again, one minute shy of eleven, prompting me to walk right over.

Kind of like a trained dog.

I mean, literally.

Each time there was a knock, there was a treat for me on the other side of the door, so I always answered.

“What’s that look for, sugar?” Miko asked, head tipped to the side, watching me with a bemused smile.

“What? Oh, nothing. Just a weird thought. You’re here,” I said.

“I am,” he said.

“I should probably thank you for all this,” I said, waving at myself. “And the fact that I’ve been fed each meal.”

“What?” he asked, brows pinching. Then, seeming to catch up, he shook his head. “No. Nah, that’s all the boss,” he said.

“You expect me to believe that asshole is remembering each morning and noon to order me food? And that I needed a rounded brush to do my bangs?” I asked, brows raised.

“Okay. Fair point on the bang thing,” he said. “But it wasn’t me. I’ve been playing nursemaid to Venezio.”

“How is he?” I asked, following Miko to the elevator.

“Moody as fuck,” he said, smirking. “But he’s keeping his ass put, so he can heal. That’s all we can hope for. You look nice,” he said, looking me over. But in an almost asexual way, if that made any sense. Just an observation of what he thought were facts, nothing more.

Normally, I would feel at least a twinge of insecurity at that. The fact that I didn’t was all the proof that I needed that I had no interest in Miko that way. Which was absurd since, of all of these mafia guys, he was the most personable and kind.

But no.

I had to have the warm and tinglies for his prick of a boss instead.

I mean, we’d ordered dinner, then shared a meal together. And he hadn’t said anything to me. Who does that?

“Thanks,” I said, giving him a smile. “But I think anyone would look good in these clothes,” I admitted.

“Nah, take the compliment,” he said as the doors slid open.

Charming as ever, Miko stepped in the doorway sideways, like he would stop the doors from closing if I took too long to exit, then walking half a step behind me through the lobby.

“Where are we going?” I asked as the doorman held the door open for me.

“I’m taking you to see your grandfather,” he said. “Then…” he trailed off.

“Then what?” I asked.

“Well, we’ll see later,” he said, uncharacteristically close-lipped.

But he was taking me to the hospital, so I wasn’t going to complain.

“I can sit up front with you,” I said when he went to open the back door.

“No, you can’t,” he said, shaking his head, and waving inside the car.

Not having a choice, I climbed in, feeling awkward, like some rich person who refused to be caught alongside the “staff.”

I noticed as we drove that another car was behind us the entire time. With two more suit-clad men.

Cosimo wasn’t taking any chances.

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