Anya #2
Dozer tilted his head dramatically, one ear folding inside out. His dark, round eyes blinked at me with complete seriousness before he answered with another sharp bark, as if he wholeheartedly disagreed with my assessment.
“Oh, is that right?” I teased. “You think you’re terrifying?”
He puffed out his chest, snorted indignantly, and stomped one paw against the floor with all the dignity a puppy could muster.
That only made us laugh harder.
I crouched and scooped him into my arms. He settled against me immediately with a contented grunt, his body wonderfully warm and his coat still carrying the clean scent of shampoo.
His wrinkled face nestled against my neck as he let out one of those funny grumbles that sounded more like they belonged to a tiny pig than a dog. His whiskers tickled my skin, and his warm breath puffed softly against my jaw.
I smiled, rubbing slow circles behind his velvet-soft ears.
“It sounds like he’s wishing you a happy birthday too,” Mama murmured softly.
“It sure seems like it,” Papa agreed. “I have a feeling that dog will be your shadow.”
Dozer responded with an enthusiastic snort before planting an unapologetically slobbery lick on my chin.
“Ew.” I laughed, scrunching my nose but hugging him even tighter. “Aww, Dozer. You’re the best birthday present ever.”
He answered with another satisfied grunt, settling deeper into my arms as though he’d always belonged there—somehow, it felt like he had.
“You haven’t seen our present yet,” Mama scolded teasingly.
Across the table, Papa studied the puppy with the same expression he’d worn since the delivery—amused, curious, faintly suspicious.
“I still don’t like that nobody knows where he came from,” Papa remarked. “He could be used as a weapon.”
I rolled my eyes at the most ridiculous comment. Besides, I knew where he came from. I just kept that to myself, probably out of guilt and fear.
“It doesn’t matter,” Mama argued as she stirred her coffee. “It’s Anya’s dog now.”
“Why are you suspicious of something this adorable, Papa?” I questioned vaguely. “The idea of a puppy being used as a weapon is ludicrous and you know it.”
“He’s just worried, that’s all,” she said, and instantly guilt filled my chest. “Besides, I don’t think it will be possible to separate that dog from you. He definitely chose you.”
I looked down at Dozer, who had rolled onto his back across my lap, paws in the air, dead to the world. “I think we chose each other.”
My papa leaned back in his chair with a slow exhale, the tension in his shoulders easing slightly.
“So,” he said, his tone noticeably lighter. “What are your plans tonight?”
I shrugged casually. “Francesca and Gianna want to take me out.”
Mama didn’t look surprised in the slightest, confirming she’d spoken to their parents. Nothing happened without the mothers knowing first.
Papa glanced between us, catching on.
“You already knew.”
She offered him a small, innocent smile over the rim of her cup. “Of course I did. And not to worry, they’ll have bodyguards when they go out.”
He grunted under his breath, more resigned than annoyed. “When those youngsters get together, trouble follows. Bodyguards aren’t enough.”
“Not true,” I protested, although he was absolutely right.
“When are they arriving?” he asked, turning back to me.
“Their plane lands in about four hours,” Mama answered before I could. “The Vitales and the Morrellis are coming too, so no work today, Raphael.”
Papa lifted a brow. “Both families?”
Mama nodded. “It’s been planned for weeks.”
He let out another sigh, rubbing a hand over his jaw. “I suppose the house won’t be quiet for the rest of the day.”
“Not a chance,” Mama said, laughing. “Francesca and Gianna together? We’ll be lucky if the windows survive.”
Even Papa’s mouth twitched at that, though he quickly hid it behind another sip of his coffee.
A faint smile tugged at my lips. I would have preferred a small dinner with just the three of us and my brother and his wife, but I knew Mama wanted to do this, so I let her take the reins.
I stood up from my spot. “I have to go to the gallery, but I’ll be back before everyone arrives.”
After everything that had happened with my husband, I buried myself into work. It was my only consolation and it’d paid off. Now, I had my own gallery and most of my photographs sold within days.
It turned out what they said was true: when one area of your life went astray, another picked up. It was all about balance, I supposed.
“Are you sold out already?” Papa asked.
“Yeah, pretty much.”
I just wished the photographs I took didn’t remind me of my ex-husband.
Jetmir would take me to a different exotic spot every morning while we were in Albania.
He’d sit and read whatever book I was into at that time, waiting patiently for me to be done.
Those were some of the best mornings of my life.
“Don’t you have some work to do?” I teased while he sat in the shade with my Kindle, his expression serious.
“I took care of it all while you were sleeping,” he said. “There’s nothing more important than my woman and her art.”
“Don’t forget the books,” I singsonged.
“Ah, we can’t forget the books.” His eyes darkened, the way they did when we made love. “I think later today we’ll try out this scene in the hot tub.”
A shudder rolled down my spine, and I blew out a breath, already anticipating the moment I would feel him inside me again. “Yes, please.”
“Don’t forget to save me one of South Beach,” Papa said around a mouthful of eggs, startling me out of my memory. I quickly schooled my face while my heart raced in my chest. “I’ll pay you handsomely.”
He wanted that photo because it reminded him of Mama. During a period of their marriage, before I was born, they lived separately and she walked that beach every day. He’d given her space, but he swore up and down that it was that specific beach that’d led her back to him.
“Papa, I told you already. That photo is yours free of charge. I even framed it for you.”
His phone rang, and he threw a glance at it. “Absolutely not. Name the price, my precious daughter.”
He answered his call and I knew the conversation was over.
I found myself reflecting on my memory as I gazed out of the tinted window of my chauffeured Porsche SUV, staring out at the city that my papa owned and protected me within its bubble.
It was too easy to hide my pain amongst the nameless faces here.
The towering skyscrapers had replaced the jagged spikes around my heart, their mirrored windows reflecting a version of Miami that looked polished, expensive, and untouched by grief.
Pursing my lips, I swept my Chanel sunglasses onto my face as the car pulled up to the curb outside my gallery on the most exclusive street in Miami. It was the kind of morning when the bright sunshine exposed every crack and blemish in the sidewalk. It exposed mine, too.
So far, I had a hangover from hell from a five-million-dollar commission from the sale of one of my pieces.
It was a good kind of feeling. I only wished I knew who the purchaser was, but anonymity was a privilege we guaranteed all our customers.
Money had a way of making people want to disappear, and I had learned not to ask questions when people were willing to pay enough.
I checked my phone again, staring at the three missed calls from the withheld number. Two more were from Thalia, my manager at the gallery, and one from my brother, Gabriel.
I had ignored all of them, but my brother’s. I dialed him back.
“Hey, Gabriel,” I greeted him. “You called?”
“I wanted to wish you a happy birthday,” he said, and then to my horror proceeded to sing. I listened patiently, cringing at his non-musical voice until the final verse finally hit. “... happy birthday to you. I love you, baby sister.”
I chuckled. “I love you too, but please, for the love of God, don’t sing again.”
“What? I have a beautiful voice.”
“No, you don’t.” Amara echoed my exact thoughts in the background. “Happy birthday, Anya.”
“Tell her I sing beautifully,” Gabriel insisted, ignoring his wife.
“I’m sorry, I can’t lie. But we love you regardless of your singing voice.”
He let out an exasperated sigh. “You two don’t know what real music is.”
“I’m afraid we do,” I said amused. “That’s why we know you can’t sing for shit.”
“Keep this up and you won’t get a birthday present,” he threatened, but there was no merit to it. Gabriel already sent a gift to the house.
“I thought I already got it. That baby-blue Corvette sitting in the driveway.”
“What makes you think that’s yours?”
I scoffed. “Oh, I don’t know. Maybe that big-ass bow on top of it and the canvas that’s laid in front of it that says ‘Happy Birthday’?”
“Damn it, they delivered it already?”
“Yes, and thank you so much. To both of you.”
“You’ll have to take me for a ride,” he replied. “I want to feel it purr in case I want to get one for myse—” He cut himself off, but before I could say anything, he continued, “Are you on your way to the gallery?”
“Yes.” Fuck, this guilt about my brother’s condition was killing me slowly. If there was a reason not to love my ex-husband, that should have been a perfect one. Why couldn’t my stupid heart get on board with it?
“And you didn’t take the Corvette?”
“No, but next time,” I assured.
“We’re here, Miss Santos,” my driver announced, catching my reflection in the rearview mirror.
“Ah, Gabriel, I have to go. We’ll see you tonight though. Right?”
“Absolutely.”
“I’ll see you then. I love you.” I hung up and caught my reflection in the rearview mirror, locking eyes with my driver. “Thank you, Andy,” I said briskly, gathering my purse and waiting for him to open my door.
The moment my heels touched the sidewalk, I looked up.
The cream-colored stone building stood exactly as it always had, elegant and imposing beneath the Miami sun. The wide glass doors reflected the traffic, the palm trees, and the people moving along the sidewalk, but for a moment, none of the city seemed to exist around me.