Total pages in book: 56
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 54103 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 271(@200wpm)___ 216(@250wpm)___ 180(@300wpm)
"I don't know, Vignette."
"Hey – none of that, remember? That chapter is closed."
"I have no way of knowing what he said."
"One second, he looked ready to rob us, then suddenly, he looked terrified. Did you see his fear?" When he remains silent, I keep going, "Or maybe you're accustomed to people looking at you with such terror. Maybe it doesn't even register."
"What do you want me to say?" he growls. "I thought you wanted to go back to our old dynamic. You're merely a painter. I'm simply a hedge fund manager. Remember?"
I fold my arms. He glances at me: my face, then my chest. My folded arms accentuate my chest, and he appears thoroughly captivated by that.
A spark of electricity dances across my skin. I maintain my position. I savor his attention, even while knowing I should pretend not to.
"They likely recognized me," Nico says after a pause. "They intended to start trouble, then wisely reconsidered."
"Because you would hurt them."
"That's their assumption."
"Is it wrong?"
At a red light, he doesn't merely glance at me. His gaze sears into my soul.
"What would you have me say, Vignette? That I would have beaten those men bloody had they tried to hurt you? That the thought of you living in such an environment sickens me? That I yearn to protect you? Or perhaps you need me to embody a monster so you can maintain your resolve; so, you can ensure nothing happens between us again."
A car behind us honks impatiently. The light has changed.
"I just want to focus on my work."
"Then quit with the interrogation."
His tone irritates me, primarily because I want to comfort him. The contradiction only compounds my... well, my confusion. I'm doubly perplexed.
"Have you heard anything about my mom? Have you investigated?"
He looks at me incredulously. "I've done some light digging."
"But?"
"Are you sure you want to know? I thought we were pretending I'm merely a hedge fund guy."
"But?"
He exhales deeply. "I'm certain that the intended target was Italian, which suggests the gunmen were most likely Russian."
My mind revisits the restaurant, those Bratva men. Any of them could have pulled the trigger.
"Thank you," I murmur. "Will you let me know if you uncover anything else?"
"Certainly, but—"
"Just because I want to know what happened to Mom, that doesn't mean anything can happen between us."
He rolls his eyes. His frustration is mounting. Can I fault him? He's probably contemplating how I'm selectively acknowledging aspects of his mob connections that serve my purposes.
"I mean it, Nico. Thank you."
"Sure," he says.
I watch the scenery transform through the window as we leave the neighborhood behind. Boarded-up windows yield to freshly painted storefronts. The fractured sidewalks become smooth, and the liquor stores and pawn shops give way to cafés adorned with string lights and expansive windows.
Guilt surfaces as the silence stretches. Perhaps it's unfair, but I can't help it. "And thanks for sacrificing your morning. I've been itching to work on something."
"It's no inconvenience."
"Truly? You must be busy."
He laughs gruffly. "I was being polite. It took some maneuvering, had to reschedule several meetings. But I'll catch up this evening. You're worth the effort."
That excites me more than it should. I attempt nonchalance but fail miserably.
I'm worth it.
Chapter Thirteen
Nico
Soon, we're situated in Mother’s lavish garden. I sit on the fountain's edge as Sienna arranges her painting supplies. I love the concentration etched into her forehead, her narrowed eyes. The way she sticks her tongue slightly from the corner of her mouth.
"This is going to require multiple sessions," she tells me, extracting a canvas roll of brushes, untying it, and arranging them by size. "It's more intricate than sketching. There are a lot more elements to play with."
"You sound excited."
She smiles. "Do I?"
"Yes. I appreciate that. I can sense your passion."
"You can sense it?" She removes the paint tubes, arranges them by color, and checks the caps.
"You say that as though you're surprised I have feelings."
"No, that wasn't my intention. I just meant... I'm not sure."
"Continue."
"It's nothing."
"Now you have to elaborate."
"I simply never thought I’d meet someone who could sense my emotional states." She sets a glass jar of solvent beside a folded rag and unwraps a wooden palette, placing it flat. "It sounds kind of woo woo."
I smirk. "Didn't I tell you I’m a secret hippy? Chakras, horoscopes, healing crystals. They're all essential to my practice."
She laughs while adjusting the easel legs, ensuring stability, and securing the canvas. She evaluates the lighting, slightly repositions the setup.
"Why do I find that hard to believe?" She steps back momentarily, confirming everything's optimally positioned. "And why are you looking at me like that?"
"In what way, Vignette?"
She flinches, though not from discomfort. It's more as if the nickname sends a tremor of desire coursing through her. She attempts to hide it, to suppress it, but I can tell how desperately she craves another kiss, more intimate contact, more passion.