Page 13 of Precious Hazard (Perfectly Imperfect #11)

“Oh. Okay,” he chokes out. “Um… So, where are we headed from here?”

“Del Vecchio’s Grill.” It’s a gem of an Italian chophouse, hidden away in Brooklyn. The only place my medium-rare steak hasn’t been screwed up at some point.

With all the shit I’ve had to deal with in the past couple of days, I don’t even remember the last time I ate a decent meal.

Having to wrangle Drago’s infuriating sister after wading knee-deep through the crap Wang keeps flinging, is the last thing I want to do.

But, to sell this charade for the benefit of trigger-happy people, sacrifices must be made.

I push up the sleeve of my jacket and peek at my watch. Twenty seconds. If she doesn’t—

The car door opens, and the bane of my existence gets in. I look her over, from the tattered gray sweatpants to a cropped T-shirt that leaves her stomach bare and shows off a sparkly belly button piercing. Finally, my gaze halts at the top of her head.

“Are you fucking kidding me?”

“You said I had three minutes,” she says nonchalantly while adjusting one of the orange velcro rollers in her hair. “I had just enough time to pee, grab my purse, and put on my shoes. So—”

“We’re headed to dinner.”

“Oh, I know. Don’t worry, I’ll have the curlers out by the time we get there.”

Closing my eyes, I start counting to ten, hoping that will quell the urge to kill her. “Riggo. Change of plans. Back to the house.”

“What? I’m not going with you to whatever hell pit you call home.”

Madonna Santa, give me the strength and patience not to end this day in bloodshed . Taking a calming breath, I pin her with my stare.

“You’re going wherever the fuck I tell you to go. I’m fed up with your childish behavior, so you better get a grip and start playing along. Or, I’ll make this situation way, way worse for you. Do. You. Understand?”

“I don’t think it can get any worse than it already is. Fucking Satan.”

“Stop calling me that!”

Tara crosses her arms over her chest and looks away. With her attention directed at the scenery beyond the window, she starts mumbling some nonsense to herself. I don’t catch all of what she’s on about, hearing only words like “fluffy” and “bear,” followed by a choice expletive or two.

Whatever. Taking out my laptop, I open my emails and dive into work. Completely ignoring the furious woman beside me.

***

“You hungry?” I ask as I throw my jacket over the back of the couch.

“I won’t be breaking bread with an enemy, especially under his roof.”

Pausing on my way to the kitchen, I throw a glance over my shoulder. Tara remains standing in the middle of the living room. With her hands on her hips, she’s slashing me with an irritated look.

Shrugging, I head to the fridge. “Then starve.”

The last couple of days, it’s been one meal out after another, so my choices for a decent home-cooked supper are limited.

I grab a package of chicken breasts and some cremini mushrooms, setting them by the cutting board while I busy myself with getting everything else to make a classic Italian-American dish ready.

While I work—cutting the poultry into strips, then season, dredge in flour, and get them into a hot skillet filled with melted butter and oil—I throw a quick glance at Tara.

She strides around the living room, checking out Sienna’s various knickknacks scattered on the bookshelves.

Each time she picks one up to examine it, she sets it back, but never in the original place.

“I wouldn’t have guessed that you like mermaids.”

I look up from flipping the chicken in the pan to find Tara hovering near the TV stand with a snow globe in her hand.

“It’s Sienna’s. She loves leaving her glittery shit all over the house,” I say. As soon as the words leave my mouth, I feel the need to make a correction. “Used to, I mean.” At times, I forget that neither of my sisters live here anymore.

“And you’ve kept it in place?”

“Yeah.”

Tara returns the decoration to the stand, but on the opposite side of where it was before, and continues her perusal.

She’s sporting a slightly bewildered expression while unabashedly snooping through all my things.

My guess is that she assumed I’d be a quintessential bachelor, with a preference for minimalistic decor.

If truth be told, that ultra-modern style showcased in the magazines Sienna used to leave lying around doesn’t appeal to me in the least. Those featured rooms always looked sterile, staged to be seen and nothing else.

A home should look and feel lived in, not like some damn interior design ad.

Crossing the room to the breakfast bar that separates the kitchen from the living area, Tara pauses by the pictures hanging on the nearby wall.

“This one is broken.” She points to a framed photo of a twelve-year-old Asya.

“I know. Your brother slammed my head into it. I haven’t had a chance to replace it, yet.”

“Mm-hmm. I hope it hurt.”

Now that the chicken marsala is done simmering in the pan and the creamy sauce thickened, I start chopping a bit of parsley to finish off the dish. “Probably less than the cut I gave him. How many stitches did he need?”

“Several. Luckily, he was on the mend within days rather than weeks. How’s your wrist, by the way?

Did it heal alright?” The concern on her face is as fake as the compassionate tone she’s speaking with.

She walks up to the fridge and takes out a bottle of water, then returns to the breakfast bar and sits down facing me.

“I hear recovery from a wrist fracture can be very difficult and takes a long while. And, even after, the healed bone is simply not as strong as it once was. Pity.”

My hand, attached to the recently mended wrist, stills mid-chop on the cutting board.

I know she’s riling me up on purpose, but I don’t understand why it’s getting on my nerves so much.

Ignore her , I tell myself. I won’t stoop to her level or give her the satisfaction of getting the reaction out of me she obviously wants.

“For someone in your line of business, it’s crucial to have a full range of mobility and top-notch reflexes,” she continues to chirp in a honeyed voice between sips of her drink. “I’d hate to hear that the damage my brother caused to your wrist has left you with a handicap.”

I grit my teeth and focus on the parsley, which at this point is a bruised mess after my aggressive chopping.

“Your fine motor skills do seem to be suffering a bit in terms of your finesse, to be honest. That poor parsley looks all but ground down.”

Son of a—

My self-control snaps. I fling the knife up, catch the tip of it as it flips in the air, and send it flying. The blade sails mere inches from Tara’s ear, all the way across the living room until it strikes the solid wood of the front door.

“Huh.” I cant my head. “You might be right. I’m half an inch to the left of my target.”

When my gaze shifts back to Tara, she is staring at me open-mouthed, shock etched on her remarkable features.

A pang of guilt hits me. I didn’t want to scare her, damn it!

I just… the hell if I know what. Never have I been so bothered by anyone before.

Is it because I haven’t come to grips with Ajello’s sly meddling in my private life?

Has she simply become a convenient mark for me to take out my frustrations? Or am I just that fucked up?

Momentarily shutting my eyes and squeezing my temples with the pads of my fingers, I sigh. “Listen, Tara, I’m sorry. I—”

Cold liquid hits my face.

“Don’t you dare come within a mile of me, you sick fuck,” she sneers. Then, she throws the empty bottle at my chest and dashes toward the front door.

Shit.

“Tara!”

I take off after her, catching up just as she’s reaching for the handle.

“Stay away from me!” she screams, pushing my hand off her forearm when I attempt to stop her. Grabbing the handle again, she tries to yank open the door.

I thrust my arm out over her shoulder, and my palm connects with the wooden surface, slamming the door shut. My chest collides with her back, effectively trapping the hissing spitfire. She has nowhere to go.

“Tara. I’m trying to apologize.”

“I don’t need your apologies.” She’s pulling on the handle so hard that a grating creak joins the sounds of her heavy breathing. “I need to leave!”

With the way she’s wriggling, she is grinding her perky ass right over my crotch, which makes my dick hard as fucking steel.

“Tara. I need you to listen to me.”

“No! I might be a screwup who can’t do anything right, but I won’t be terrorized by an overgrown nutjob with anger issues!”

Right.

Change of tactics.

Wrapping my arms around her knees and back, I scoop her up and head toward the living room.

My heart thunders against my rib cage as I futilely struggle to escape Satan’s hold.

Even with all my kicking and screaming, he just casually strides to the couch.

His viselike grip doesn’t waver, even as he sits down and leans back.

The way he’s positioned me, quickly securing my limbs with his body, doesn’t allow me any wiggle room to even attempt to punch him in the face.

“Alexa,” he says. “Put on the ambience playlist.”

A moment later, the room is filled with a combination of a classical piano melody and the soothing sound of rain.

“Are you for real?” I gape at him. Our faces are so close that I can see droplets of water clinging to his eyebrows and beard.

“I’ve said it. But I’ll say it again.” He leans in even closer. “I’m sorry. For earlier. I didn’t mean to scare you like that. I just… snapped… a little.”

“Because I wounded your male pride?”

“Maybe?”

“That’s fucking pathetic.”

Something akin to a smirk plays on his lips. They look kind of nice. His lips. Not overly full, but with a well-defined cupid’s bow, adding to his striking appearance.

“I know. Can we please have a civil conversation now?”

“Let me go, and I’ll think about it.”

His hold on me loosens. I immediately scramble off his lap and take several steps back.