Page 100

"My choices of…" I sputter, still indignant as hell. "I am a curator."

"You were," he corrects me gently.

His words send my stomach plummeting, taking all irritation with it. I realize one thing has nothing to do with the other. Somehow, his snooping through my stuff isn't that important anymore, not compared to how my life is changing. He's right. I am Mrs. DeLuna. I probably won't be able to keep working at the museum.

Again, my emotions roller coaster all over the place, from outrage, to slight amusement for his unapologetic audacity, to…to… I'm looking for sadness that this part of my life is over, but strangely, I don't feel half as sad about it as I thought I would. I love my job, I really do, but I don't like the deadlines, I don't like the limited choices of what Iwantto work on, and, most of all, I don’t like the sometimes mediocre work my boss is satisfied with.

Yet, I love working on a barely recognizable artifact, taking debris off it, and returning it to its former glory. There’s something about seeing it for the first time, like another person had thousands of years ago. I'm not sure how to describe it, but it's like a bridge to the past.

Antonio notices my crestfallen expression. "You can always work on your own."

I close my eyes. That's been my dream. Picking and choosing what kind of artifacts I work on? Having my own curatorial studio is something I've wanted for a long time. If it weren’t for the pesky bills I had to pay, I would have… I stare at Antonio. I don't have pesky bills anymore. Still, opening my own curatorial studio costs a lot of money, more money than…

He watches the expressions on my face; his smile is broadening. "There is a large attic a few stories above us. That would make a perfect lab, studio, whate?—"

"Curatorial studio," I fill in.

"Curatorial studio," he grins. "Just tell me what you need, and it's yours."

My heart hammers wildly. "Really?"

He nods seriously. "Really. You don't ever need to work, but I want you to be happy."

Could I love this man anymore? It looks like it. I throw myself against his chest. "It would be really expensive."

He touches my nose, giving it a small tap. "Do I look like I care?"

"You know this is not why I love you, right? You don't have to?—"

"I'll have Igio and Umberto bring all your books here later today," he doesn't let me finish. "Is there anything else you need from your apartment?"

"Everything I would ever want is right here," I answer truthfully.

The next morning…

Early the next morning, I wake up to the sound of Scarlet vomiting. Instantly, I rush to the bathroom to find her again leaning over the toilet. I wet a washcloth and hurry to her side. Holding her hair out of her way with one hand, I dab the cloth over her face with the other. She tries to wave me away. "I don't want you to see me like this."

"Too bad, because I'm here for it. For you," I warn.

When she’s sure she's done, I hand her a glass of cool water and sternly tell her, "That's it. I'm calling the Doc, and he'll have a look at you."

She looks alarmed. "That's not necessary, I'm fine?—"

I don't let her finish. "This is not up for discussion." Pulling out my phone, I dial Doctor Brown. I watch the wheels in her head turning, arousing my suspicions.

While we wait, Scarlet keeps trying to assure me that she only has a stomach bug and is fine. She doesn’t need a doctor.

"Is there something you aren't telling me?" I finally challenge her.

She averts her eyes, looking guilty as sin. My alarm bells ring. I'm an excellent judge of character, it comes with the job, and I also know Scarlet. I'm positive she's not trying to deceive me. It's more like… she's trying to keep a secret. We have just discussed no more secrets, so that pisses me off, but before I can say anything, Doc Brown arrives, giving her the reprieve she needs.

"Good morning, how's the killing business?" The daredevil asks mischievously.

"I think my kill rate is lower than yours, quack." I counter.

He laughs. Scarlet looks like a deer in the headlights.

"I'm fine," she tries again.