Page 88 of Auctioned to the Mafia Don
Sleep has eaten pieces of the night in jagged bites, leaving behind fragments that feel softer than they should and therefore more dangerous. Stefano’s arms beneath me. His voice low in the hallway. My face against his jacket. The steady rhythm of his steps as he carried me away from the children’s room because I had fallen asleep beside Heath like an amateur with no discipline and too much heart.
Thank you.
I said that.
Twice, I think.
Possibly more than twice if my exhaustion decided to humiliate me thoroughly.
Then there was the reward.
I stare at the ceiling.
“No,” I whisper to the room.
The room, having been complicit in several crimes already, offers no defense.
I remember that part too. Not in a dream-blurred way. In a painfully clear one. Stefano telling me that if I was grateful, he might expect a reward. Me accusing him of being sneaky. Him agreeing because he has never met a self-incriminating statement he could not make sound like seduction. Me telling him he would get one.
A reward.
I close my eyes.
Idiot.
Exhausted idiot.
Emotionally compromised idiot.
I roll onto my side and immediately regret it because every muscle in my body objects. Sleeping beside a sick child on the edge of a mattress is not something they teach at Quantico, and for good reason. My neck hurts. My back hurts. My wrist still aches. My pride is in worse condition than all of them, which feels fair.
A soft knock sounds at the door.
I sit up too fast, then wince. “What?”
The door opens a few inches, and Omar’s face appears in the gap.
Of course.
“Good morning,” he says.
“That was ominous.”
“Heath’s fever is down.”
I am out of bed before the rest of my body agrees to participate.
Omar steps back when I pull open the door. He looks as annoyingly awake as ever, dressed in black, expression flat, phone in hand. I hate that a part of me is relieved to see him. Hate it more because he knows.
“How much down?”
“Enough that Bellini is pleased.”
“Bellini came back?”
“At six.”
“And no one woke me?”
