Page 14 of My Dark Ever After

“So once again I’ll be in Italy without any of my things,” I muttered, thinking of the dishes I’d left in the sink that morning, the half-read copy of Virgil’sThe Aeneidon my bedside table, my medications.

At last, this seemed to give him pause. “Will that be a problem? We were able to get your medication just fine in Firenze last time.”

“I’m on a new protocol,” I admitted, my lids scraping over my dry eyes as I blinked. “It’s an injection to lower the oxalate in my blood.”

Out of the corner of my eye, I saw Raffa pull out his phone. His fingers flew as he researched, asking me for the name of the drug.

A sigh hissed though his clenched teeth before he leaned forward to press a button and say, “Tony, change of plans. Take us to 1211 Burns Avenue.”

“How do you know my address?” I asked and then realized, around the same time that Raffa slanted me a look, that the answer was obvious.

Raffa was rich and powerful enough to know anything he wanted about me.

“We can grab some of your things,” he allowed, “but we must be quick.”

I sucked my bottom lip between my teeth to keep from thanking him and nodded tersely.

Happily, it only took us ten minutes to get to my apartment building, but I had to wait as Raffa and his two goons secured the perimeter of the building before he let me out of the car. He tried to help me through the snow because I’d lost my shoes in the chase at theBeaumont, but I’d literally rather have walked through ice than accept his hand right now.

Still, he walked close behind me, and I caught the way he had his hand raised just in case I slipped.

The apartment building was dark and quiet at this time of night, so no one interrupted us as we took the stairs to the sixth floor. There was an elevator, but I decided after one quick glance at it that I was not ready to get inside one of those again.

Raffa let me unlock the door to my apartment before pressing me gently by the belly to the wall so he could enter alone, gun raised as he checked out the space. When he came back into sight, there was a crooked grin on his face and a photo pinched in one hand.

I knew without having to study it closer that it was a selfie of us at Piazzale Michelangelo after we had jogged to the top to catch the sunset over Florence. The sky was a brilliant smear of tangerine and fuchsia, the light turning the red roofs of the city into shimmering fire. But that wasn’t why I’d kept the photograph, printing it at a local shop so I could tuck it into the vanity in my bedroom.

It was the look on the face of the man I’d thought I’d known.

His dark, overlong hair was pushed back from his sweaty forehead, the ends curling like swirls of ink at his neck. One deeply tanned arm was wrapped around my side, hauling me up into his torso so that I was his height, my mouth pressed to the five-o’clock shadow along his strong jaw. My eyes were squeezed shut as I kissed him, but there was something like a smile in the expression anyway, an exuberance in the way my arms were thrown around his neck.

But it was his smile that took my breath away.

Relaxed and wide, a full-lipped, eye-crinkling expression of pure joy.

He looked young in it, much younger than his thirty-four years, and more carefree than I’d ever seen him. Just a man without a care in the world, embracing his woman like he’d never tire of it for as long as they both lived.

“Do not forget to pack this,” Raffa said, delight and happiness ruffling the edges of his serious tone.

I blinked at him, unamused, as I brushed past him on the way to the bedroom at the back of the apartment. “I just liked the way Florence looks caught on fire behind us.”

“Mmm,” he hummed, following me into the bedroom to lean against the doorjamb. He crossed his arms, one hand holding his gun, the other the photograph.

What a fitting contrast.

“I think it is the way we look on fire with happiness, but you can lie to yourself if it will make you feel better,” he allowed with faux magnanimity.

I ignored him in favor of dragging my suitcase out of the closet.

“It is still warm in Toscana,” he told me as he unnervingly watched me pack. “But it will grow colder by the end of the month.”

I nodded, pulling out the bin of summer clothes tucked away at the back. It was hard to think about how long I might be stuck in another country. Even harder to admit an elemental part of me was absolutely euphoric about the idea of going back.

“You don’t need to supervise me,” I said after another disquieting moment of his scrutiny. “I’m capable of packing.”

He made a noise in his throat that was halfway between laughter and a grunt of acknowledgment before he pushed off the wall to explore the rest of my space. I pretended I didn’t hate that even more than him watching me.

In his absence, I quickly shucked my bloody, torn clothes and stuffed them in the garbage bin because there was no way I would wear them again. I took an oversized, faded U of M tee and a soft pair of leggings from my drawer. My feet were cold, cut up and bruised from running for my life, so I swaddled them in thick socks and then stuffed them into my Uggs. The outfit was decidedly different from the silks and designer garments Raffa had bought for me, but I felt safe and comfortable in the familiar garb.