Chapter 18 #2
Taking one last look at the grounds, I return inside and finish assessing Gio’s immediate needs.
While I washed mine and Delilah’s bedding after our first night because we slept in our bed unclean, I imagine Gio’s bedding could use a wash as well.
It’s then that I head toward his closet.
Like mine and Delilah’s room, there is a large window with a bench seat overlooking the driveway and courtyard-style parking area.
To the left of that is the closet, and to the right is the bathroom.
Inside, I find Gio’s closet is surprisingly well-kept and definitely fits the polished first impression he made upon me in his suit.
There is custom-built wood-stained cabinetry all throughout.
The upper sections are for hanged items, and there are drawers beneath for more intimate items. All his clothes are organized according to color and the only colors he ever seems to wear are gray, navy, and black.
He has various suits all by the same designer, several pairs of expensive-looking dress shoes, and an assortment of button-down shirts all on one side of the closet.
On the other, I find more casual clothes, like what he wore yesterday.
Neutral colored shirts and more casual yet still dressy pants.
No jeans whatsoever. Interesting. There are drawers for his socks, underwear, and pajamas beneath them which could use some organizing.
And then there’s another section with a different style of clothes altogether.
As I approach the section at the far end of his closet, which, like the others, is illuminated by a small, dim overhead light, I find everything is black.
Black t-shirts, black long sleeves, and black cargo pants.
Beneath it are a couple pairs of black boots that look like something someone would wear into war.
I inch closer, taking it all in. The guns, the books on war strategy, and now this?
Maybe he has some sort of military background.
And, while I can’t imagine any government job pays well enough for this house, his suits, and the insane shopping spree he took Delilah and me on yesterday, something in security might.
Maybe like a private security company? Or like a spy?
Okay, calm down, Darcy. You’re thinking like a mystery writer.
But who else has a gate with a code that changes every week?
Mesmerized by the enigma that is Gio Moretti, I reach for his black cargo pants.
Though, as my finger collides with something unexpectedly sharp, I scream and draw back my hand.
My finger throbs as blood quickly covers my skin.
“Ah!” What was that? Putting pressure on my wound, I run to the bathroom before it gets any worse.
I noticed there was a First Aid kit underneath the sink in our bathroom. Maybe there will be one in Gio’s too.
Dropping to my knees on the white-tiled bathroom floor, I quickly open the wood-stained cabinets of Gio’s vanity.
Sure enough, there are supplies which will hopefully be enough to stop the bleeding.
The last thing I need is to call Dr. R for stitches on my very first day or to explain to Gio how I hurt my finger.
Oh God! Hopefully none of my blood got on his clothes or on the floor—but the doorknob.
I glance over my shoulder and see that it will have to be cleaned.
As anxiety threatens my state of my mind, I feel my body shake and my heart race.
“No, no, no. Don’t lose it,” I say aloud.
But I am, in fact, losing it. The longer I sit with this wound, my anxious thoughts regarding Gio’s response to my nosy behavior, and the memories the sight of the blood brings about, I fear what will happen next.
As sweat dampens my upper lip, I begin to feel lightheaded.
I return my attention to the First Aid supplies, hoping to get the bleeding stopped before I pass out.
Forcing myself onto my feet, I rinse the wound under the faucet and then apply Styptic liquid to the cut.
It’s good for cleansing and stopping the bleeding.
Clive used to keep it on hand for various purposes.
I can remember we used it after he chased me around the house with a knife because there was no logical explanation he could offer a doctor why his wife had clean-cut lacerations on her back.
Thankfully, they weren’t deep enough to require stitches. I wonder what he would’ve done then.
My lip quivers as my heart rate continues to increase.
“Come on, Darcy. You can do this,” I say to myself as I place a hydroseal bandage over the cut.
It’s like the one Gio has on his arm. They’re waterproof and have a silicone-like texture.
If the cut isn’t too deep, a few days should be enough time for the skin to reconnect and heal on its own.
Though, it might leave a scar. I suppose it will be the most fondly remembered among the ones I have.
And it’ll serve as a reminder—don’t ask questions you don’t want the answer to and ignore anything that looks unusual.
With the bandage on, I close my eyes and lean forward, resting my palms on the edge of Gio’s vanity. “Deep breaths. Deep breaths.”