Chapter 38
Thirty-Eight
Blair
I didn’t know how much time had passed since I’d crawled into Enzo’s bed last night. The sun’s rays streaming through a gap in the curtains told me it was at least the next day.
I jerked up, stopping myself from admiring the mural on the ceiling. I hadn’t noticed it until I dragged the blankets up my body last night and stared ahead with the lamp shining on the nightstand beside me.
It almost reminded me of the painting in Professor Nelson’s lecture hall with angels and demons. The mural was divided into two sections—one that looked like the clouds of heaven and the other the darkness of hell.
The angels in the clouds had fluffy white wings and golden skin. The ones in the darkness were surrounded by storm clouds with black wings and broken halos.
My hand dropped to my tattoo.
A knock on the door interrupted my staring.
“Yoo-hoo!” a woman shouted from the other end. “Are you hungry, Miss Blair?”
I rolled out of bed, wearing a black tee and sweats that I’d thieved from Enzo’s closet, and opened the door. A short, older woman with pink-streaked hair stood on the other side in the sitting room.
Her smile was as bright as the sun radiating through the blinds. “Good morning,” she said, all chipper. “What would you like for breakfast this morning?”
“Uh,” I muttered, still waking up as I raked a hand through the knots in my hair. “Good morning. What are my choices?”
I’d never had anyone come to my door for a breakfast order.
“Whatever you’d like, dear. Eggs, spinach omelet, cereal, croissant. Any of those sound appetizing to you?”
I smiled at her gratefully. “An omelet sounds amazing.”
“Very well. And to drink? Juice? Coffee? Latte?”
“A latte?” I replied, though it sounded almost like a question.
She awarded me a quick nod. “I’ll be back with an omelet and a latte.”
I inched out of the bedroom, halfway out the doorway, when she started to leave. “Do I have to eat in here?” I called out to her.
She halted, staring at me over her shoulder. “That’s what Mr. Marchetti directed.” She lowered her head in a nod before departing from Enzo’s wing.
Which Mr. Marchetti directed that?
Cristian, Benny, or Enzo?
I wished she’d been more specific.
Knowing I couldn’t argue with her, I shuffled back to bed and collapsed onto it face-first.
I’d waited for hours for Enzo to return last night before saying screw it and going to bed. I didn’t have a phone or the password to his MacBook. Therefore, any information I had was from the news.
They only reported on the president’s condition. Not Cristian Marchetti’s.
I returned to the sitting room and was watching my next round of news—the most I had in all my years of life—when the woman returned with my breakfast.
As she set the tray in front of me and spread out my food, I felt bad that I didn’t have any money to tip her with.
Am I supposed to tip her?
I had no idea how this worked.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She was old, a grandmother’s age, and I wondered how long she’d worked for the Marchettis.
“Miriam,” she replied with a sweet, wrinkled smile.
I returned it. “Hi, Miriam. It’s nice to meet you.”
So many questions sat on the tip of my tongue.
Is it normal for her to bring Enzo’s guests breakfast?
Does he have guests frequently?
I didn’t want to interrogate her and make it awkward, so I kept those questions to myself. Then she left.
I devoured the best omelet of my life and drank the latte.
The news hadn’t changed from last night.
The president was alive and recovering from surgery. The person who’d shot him was on the loose.
My posture straightened when the vice president stepped in front of a podium, surrounded by reporters. Brooks stood to his side. I set down my latte and rubbed my chin as the VP spoke, telling the American people to remain calm and that no terrorism was welcome in this country.
Brooks nodded with every word the VP said, but I could see it.
The crack in his armor this time.
That perfect, polished manner was dead. He didn’t stare into the cameras with sadness. He stared into them with suspicion, like he knew whoever had done it was watching. His eyes screamed every warning that he’d get his revenge.
When I had enough of hearing the same stories repeated, I turned off the TV and looked around, unsure what to do next. I had no clothing here. No toothpaste, deodorant, or makeup. Literally nothing.
That meant it was time to return to Enzo’s closet for today’s outfit. The smell of him drifted through the air, and I couldn’t stop myself from grabbing a bottle of his cologne and spraying my hair with it.
The walk-in closet was organized impeccably. Shirts and hoodies hung, organized by color and length. Same with trousers and jeans.
I pulled a shirt free from a hanger and brought it to my face, taking a deep sniff. I opened the drawers, finding boxer briefs and socks in one. Another with sweatpants and shorts. One with swim trunks, another with tees, and the last with trays of watches and jewelry.
I stripped out of his sweats and grabbed a fresh set and a shirt. Just as I was leaving, I stopped, backtracked, and stole a pair of fresh socks that I knew wouldn’t fit.
My next stop was his bathroom for a shower.
Like everything else, the bathroom was yet another sign of their wealth. I opened the glass shower door to turn on the water, letting it warm up as I splashed water over my face. I searched through the bathroom drawers for a spare toothbrush.
“Jackpot,” I muttered when finding a new one still in the packaging.
I used his charcoal toothpaste and checked the water temperature before snatching a fresh towel and setting it on the hook. The warm streams from the massive showerhead felt like heaven against my skin.
I’d grown up taking not only cold but timed showers, five minutes max. That never gave me enough time to even wash my hair. I often didn’t have shampoo anyway. My mother had refused to share hers.
I shook my head, telling myself not to go back to that place. I was here, in this shower.
Tilting my head back, I shut my eyes as water splashed over my face.
When I lowered it, my eyes met bottomless brown ones.