Chapter 7 #2
I take the time to ground myself by mentally reciting the US capitals in reverse alphabetical order. It’s a practice I started when I was young. To this day, I find it’s still one of the best ways to clear my head. I’m midway through my second recitation when the door buzzer rings.
“That has to be Grace.”
We both keep inhumanly still, straining to hear the door open. The second the lock clicks, I shout for her attention.
“Grace! I need you to come back here and help me.”
“Alright,” she calls back. “Let me set this thing down first—any bigger, and it wouldn’t have fit in the elevator. At least it’s light without a frame.” Her voice grows louder as she moves toward us down the hall. “Where are you?”
“Back bedroom.”
“Okay, I’m coming.”
When she appears in the doorway, she takes in the scene with a surprising degree of calm. “Oh! I see. I remember those days.” Grace is in her early seventies. The last thing I want to do is picture her doing whatever it is she thinks we were doing.
“It’s a long story,” I say in lieu of an explanation. “I need you to get the keys—they’re on my dresser in the master bedroom.”
“Primary, Tommaso. I keep telling you, we call it a primary bedroom now.” She raises her carefully manicured brows at me.
“Please, just get the fucking keys, Grace.”
As a designer, she came highly recommended, but what I appreciate about Grace is her pragmatism. Despite her generational tendencies and her perfectly coifed appearance, she doesn’t stand on ceremony. Grace calls it like she sees it and isn’t afraid to get shit done.
“Here we go.” The platinum blonde in a black leather pencil skirt waves the key with a grin. I take it from her and unlock the cuffs.
“Let me throw on some clothes, and I’ll meet you out there,” I tell her before heading to my bedroom.
I don’t want to make Grace any more uncomfortable than she may already be by meeting with her in my underwear.
Once I’ve got on joggers and a T-shirt, I join her in the dining room, where she’s eyeing the painting that now rests against the wall.
“What do you think?” she asks brightly.
I look at the muted colors blended to varying degrees with all manner of brushstrokes and see … paint on a canvas. I sigh. “It’s a painting.”
Unfazed, Grace pats my arm. “We’ll let it simmer there for a few days. I think it looks amazing here.”
“Oh, wow .” Danika’s reverent admiration of the canvas announces her presence. “That is absolutely stunning .”
“Better be, considering the price,” I note.
Grace tsks. “I told you, think of it as an investment.”
Danika moves up close to study the painting. “I thought so—it’s a Todorovic. His work is exceptional. This one reminds me of Central Park in the fall.” She peers back at me before continuing. “These gray strokes here are like the surface of the reservoir on a foggy morning. Absolutely stunning.”
So she knows art. I’m still not letting my guard down because she could be an artist and a thief.
I look back at the canvas and can see what she means, but I never would have seen it without her explanation. I’m suddenly curious to see her artwork. She must be decently talented if she makes a living off it.
“The painting works as well as any other. You can bill me for it,” I tell Grace.
She beams. “Excellent, and I’ll get it framed, too.”
“Leave it for now,” I say, eyeing Danika as she continues to study the canvas. “There’s no rush.”
Grace gives me a funny look, knowing as well as I do that for someone like me, there’s always a rush when it comes to getting work done at my house.
I hate disorder. Even a painting set haphazardly against a wall is an annoyance.
My comment doesn’t make any sense, so I choose not to analyze it.
I’d be better off beating my head against a wall.
“Alright,” Grace concedes. “You know how to reach me. And Dani, it was lovely to meet you.”
I stand frozen as the two say their goodbyes. Her familiarity with my little thief startles me before I remember I left them in the bedroom together while I put on clothes. Did Danika introduce herself as Dani, or did Grace take the liberty of a nickname?
It doesn’t matter what her name is or what I call her. The ID I took from her could have been fake. Danika Dobrev may not even be her real name. I have to remember that. This woman walking freely in my home is not to be trusted.
I’m suddenly in a foul mood as I head to the kitchen to start breakfast. Never in my life have I suffered such internal conflict, and I hate it.
“You eat eggs?” I ask briskly when I notice her leaning against the wall beside the fridge.
“Yes, thank you. I really appreciate all you’re doing for me.”
I start cracking eggs into the skillet with my back to her. “Just keeping you alive so I don’t have to deal with the body.”
“I hate getting stuck with a dead body.”
I’m not great at reading between the lines, but I sense she means something more than her words are saying.
It pisses me off. Sometimes I feel like people are speaking in another language, and I’m stuck without an interpreter.
It puts me at a disadvantage, and I hate that, especially around someone as potentially dangerous as Danika.
On impulse, I take the paring knife I set out for my avocado and throw it in one swift motion as I spin toward her so that it punctures the wall inches from her head. Partially out of frustration. Partially to make a point.
Her eyes open wide, but the rest of her is frozen. I slowly stalk toward her until I’m close enough to pull the knife from the sheetrock, then touch the tip of the blade to my finger for emphasis.
“It’s not a good idea to make fun of the only man between you and the Russian mob,” I tell her in a low, even tone.
She swallows, and I’m mesmerized by the movement of her throat—so delicate. So vulnerable.
“I … I wasn’t making fun of anyone but myself and the mess I’m in. I figured my death would be the best-case scenario for you. No more inconvenient disruption to deal with.”
My gaze is locked on the feminine slope of her neck, pulse point flickering like an erratic flame. We’re close. Too close. It makes me want to be even closer.
“The disposal of a body is more of a pain than people realize,” I say distractedly as I give in to the temptation and allow the backs of my knuckles to trail down the soft skin of her neck.
“I suppose you’d know about that sort of thing.” She swallows again, her eyes finding mine. “What would you do with my body?” Her words hang in the air, and even I can hear the double meaning. I can’t imagine what would bring her to make such an innuendo, but it’s dangerous for both of us.
“Don’t ask questions unless you’re willing to learn the answer.” My gravelly warning lingers between us for a handful of heartbeats before I drag myself away and back to cooking.
Neither of us chances conversation again during breakfast. She helps with the dishes, though I take over to make sure everything is cleaned properly.
She goes back to her room while I wait for Sante to arrive.
I’m not about to shower or leave my place unsupervised with her here.
My cousin and his wife can babysit since they’re the ones who put me in this mess.
As soon as they arrive, Amelie goes in search of Danika. I half expect Sante to object to his wife being alone in a room with an unknown threat, but I seem to be the only one who sees the potential danger. I still sense that something about Danika doesn’t add up.
“How was your night?” Sante asks, fighting back a smirk.
“You don’t want to know.” I glower at him, refusing to admit I spent the night handcuffed to Danika in her bed. I’d never hear the end of it.
His brows climb on his forehead. “Didn’t figure she’d be too much of a handful, but I get it.
I know I told Amelie we’d look into things before we sent the girl packing, but I was thinking.
This could be a really great opportunity for us to gain some leverage with the Russians—or even just some goodwill. ”
“What are you saying?” I think he’s talking about handing her over to Biba, but I hope I’m wrong because just the suggestion has rage coiling deep in my muscles.
He shrugs. “I figure if she got herself into this mess, it’s her own fault. We might as well use our good fortune to our advantage. Who knows what it could be worth for Biba to owe us a favor.”
“It’s not happening, so forget about it,” I ground out harshly.
Sante stills, his eyes narrowing. “What? Last night, you couldn’t wait to get rid of her.”
“Yeah, that doesn’t mean I want to hand her over to Biba.”
“Something goin’ on I should know about?”
“Nothing going on so long as you don’t do anything stupid.”
“And turning her over would be stupid,” he says slowly as if mulling over the words as he says them.
I nod, satisfied.
My cousin grins, confusing me.
“What?” I demand.
“Just never thought I’d see it happen.”
“See what happen?”
“You fall for a girl.”
I step closer, my patience worn down to a ragged thread. “I’m going to go shower before I decide to break your face instead.”
“As if you could.” His eyes dance with challenge.
It’s a temptation I can’t refuse. I start to turn away as though retreating, then spin back and sucker punch him in the gut.
“That’s for yesterday, you dickhead.”
He bends at the waist and wheezes through a chuckle. “Now that I shoulda seen comin’.”
“I wouldn’t be too hard on yourself. You always were a little slow.”
“Fuck you, Tommy,” he calls at my back as I head to my bedroom.
“Fuck you, too, Sante,” I echo, a satisfied grin spreading wide on my face.