Page 42 of Bad Bishop

I winced sympathetically. She caught the gesture, her pouty lips quirking to one corner slyly. “My day shift bodyguard is waiting outside the apartment right now. A Camorra soldier. Do you happen to know how to get rid of those?”

I almost shook my head.Almost.I’d never gotten rid of a bodyguard before. Never tried.

“So far, I’ve only managed to make their time with me miserable but not shake them off completely. I drag them for days-long shopping sprees and gossip sessions with the most boring socialites I know.” She plucked a spatula from a cabinet, pointing it at me. “I used to strip in front of them and make them watch. Drove them nuts. The entire exercise was to keep me from having sex with other men. So I blue-balled Achilles’s staff. I’m sure they told him, because they’re no longer permitted to enter my bedroom.” She stopped, beaming conspiratorially. “Or apartment, for that matter.”

She pressed the spatula to the top of the sandwich, locking all the juices and ingredients in. I rounded the island so I could stand next to her and see what she said.

“My brother is more toxic than a king cobra. Unfortunately, you can’t choose your family and metabolism, so this is what I have to work with. But I’m only loyal to myself. If you want to be friends, we can be friends. I’ll keep any secrets you have. And if you help me get rid of Achilles…” She trailed off. “We could help each other, you know? We women have to stick together. Especially in the chauvinistic underground world.”

Her offer was tempting. Almost as much as the mouthwatering sandwich she slid onto a plate and dragged in my direction. She also made me a smoothie from frozen mango, banana, strawberries, and Greek yogurt with a dash of date syrup. Maybe it was because I finally had company, or maybe itwas because I hadn’t eaten properly in weeks, but I ravaged the food and smoothie in four minutes flat. She stared at me like I was a forest animal making up for lost time after months of hibernation.

I sat back on the chair at the dining table, filled with gratitude. I wished I could thank her, but I didn’t trust her enough. She sat opposite me, watching me intently. I liked her a lot, despite her affiliation with my husband. And I was horrified by what my brother was putting her through.

“Hey. Let me program my number into your phone.” She reached for the cell phone Mama gave me, which sat at the table between us. “What’s your passcode?”

Shit. Shit. Shit.

The phone was supposed to be a secret. I wasn’t supposed to know how to have one, let alone know how to operate it. I charged it in my walk-in closet, under layers of clothes, and only brought it outside because I thought Tierney was an attacker who broke inside.

There was no point denying I could operate it at this point. The lie would only be more glaring, since I obviously walked around with it. I pried it from her shiny nails, punching the four digits and handing it back to her. She frowned as she programmed in her number.

“Why are you not connected to the internet? Did Tiernan not give you the Wi-Fi?” She laughed, swinging her gaze to me.

Her smile dropped when she saw my face. The mixture of desperation and hope that shone through it. She licked her lips.

“Want me to give it to you? I steal his Wi-Fi on the daily. Eat the rich, right?”

I knew what she was doing. She was trying to lure me into showing her I understood her. I shouldn’t play along. It was dangerous. And yet…

Digging my fingernails into the skin of my palms, I nodded slowly.

She sucked in a breath and quickly clicked a few things on my phone, giving it back to me.

“Done.”

I smiled a thank-you, hoping I wasn’t going to regret putting my trust in her. I’d never had a friend before. But if I could have one…I wanted it to be her.

“I better head out.” She peered around. “I’m going to an Emilia Spencer art exhibition.”

My face lit up at the mention of the artist. I loved her work. Mama even bought me a cherry-blossom painting of hers for my seventeenth birthday. It fit my old room nicely with all the pink.

“What, you like her?” Tierney drummed her nails on the table. “She’s supposed to be good. Honestly? I know jack shit about art. But her husband’s a bigwig, and I promised Frankie I’d try to get him to endorse Wolfe for a second term.”

Frankie, as in Francesca Keaton. Wife of President Keaton. Papa always went on about how unfair it was that the Irish were good friends with the president, even though his wife was Italian American.

“Hey, you wanna come?” Tierney frowned. “I can introduce you to Emilia. Super sweet lady. Can’t say the same about her husband.”

I hesitated before shaking my head in response. If I came with her, it’d be an admission of what I was—and what Iwasn’t. I wasn’t ready for that.

Tierney sighed, stood up, then leaned to squeeze my shoulder. “I’ll come again soon.Eat.”

She departed, leaving me with working internet and a lot of free time.

_______

Three hours later, I was sitting with my back pressed against the wall of my walk-in closet, my phone plugged into its charger, reeling.

I could barely breathe.