Page 21 of The Woman at the Funeral (Costa Family #11)

Blair

I was in the backseat of a cab on my way to a safe house with my new dog.

Had you told me even a couple of hours earlier either of those things, I would have told you you were crazy.

But now both were a reality.

And I was… a little numb about it all.

Who could blame me? I’d just been in a room full of organized crime members who were furious about what had been found in my home thanks to my dead husband.

The only way I got through that was to just disconnect.

I knew it was all going to settle in eventually. But I was hoping it might happen behind a closed and locked door at the safe house.

“We will feed you as soon as we get there, buddy,” I told Goya, who was trying to chew on the bag of dog food I’d ordered.

“You can drop us here,” Nico said when the driver pulled down a street somewhere in the East Village.

Nico paid and tipped. And it must have been good because the driver eagerly helped us figure out how to stack and carry all our things before driving off.

“We have to walk a couple of blocks. Sorry,” he said, wincing. “But I didn’t want anyone to know exactly where to find us. The only people who do are my brothers. And you couldn’t torture that information out of them.”

He said that so casually.

But I was suddenly struck with how that could be a reality. Any one of those men I met today (or their wives or kids) could end up hurt because of what Matthew had done.

“Nico?” I asked as we walked.

“Yeah?”

“Are all the others okay? The women and kids?”

“Trust me, those women and kids are the most protected people in the city right now.”

“Good.”

“It’s going to be alright, sweetheart,” Nico told me. “Trust me, we’ve been through a lot of shit over the years. We always come out on top. I’m not gonna let Matt be what brings us down. This is us,” he said, nodding toward a convenience store. “We have to hoof it. There’s no elevator.”

It was only two floors up, but by the time we made it, dragging all our things and Goya’s new belongings, we were both huffing and sweaty.

There was only one apartment per level, and the hallway the safe house was located in was looking pretty shabby and abandoned. I made a mental note to give it a sweep if we had a broom as Nico unlocked the door.

“No cameras?” I asked.

“There is one over in the corner there,” he said, gesturing toward the staircase that went both up and down. “But I can always add some new ones in if we decide we need it.”

“Okay,” I agreed as he reached inward, flicking on the light to… a somewhat tragic apartment.

“Shit. This is worse than I remember,” Nico said, shooting me an apologetic look.

“It’s warm,” I said, waving the front of my shirt to try to cool myself down.

“That I can fix,” he said, dropping what he was holding to go over and fiddle with the ancient thermostat.

I walked over to the vent, letting out a groan as the cool air started to pour out.

The whole place had that stale, closed-up scent about it, and everything inside it was dark. Dark wood floors. Dark wood paneling. Dark kitchen cabinets.

Even as Nico walked around, flicking on every single light, all it did was brighten the foot or so around said light, like the apartment itself was swallowing up any brightness.

At least there were some decent windows to let in light in the morning.

Goya took off, sniffing around every inch of the room. And I genuinely hoped he was just getting a feel of the place and not smelling rats or mice or anything.

Nico moved to the kitchen sink, turning it on to run some water into the catch, then went to the fridge to check the temperature.

I couldn’t unstick myself from my spot.

Part of it was, admittedly, the air conditioning.

But the other part was witnessing Nico’s competence.

If I was here with Matthew, I would have needed to be the one to think of all these things. Then do them.

While I was clearly perfectly capable of it, I had to admit that it was nice to have someone else take charge and get things done.

He turned off the tap, then went down the hall, running the water in the sink and shower, flushing the toilet, making sure everything was working like it should.

Alone, I filled Goya’s new water bowl and set it down for him before checking through the cabinets.

And there wasn’t much in them.

Four plates, four bowls, four cups, four mugs, and four sets of silverware. There was one pot, one pan, and one saucepan. And exactly one spatula and one slotted spoon.

At least there was a coffee pot.

It was set on the counter, still in its box, so I went ahead and started working on that.

Finished, I glanced back at the apartment.

The couch was dark brown and overstuffed, but seemed new. The coffee table and end tables were straight out of a big box store. The TV was mounted to the wall. And there was a small four-seater round dining table with a coat of dust over it.

I went to see if there were any cleaning supplies in the bathroom when I almost ran into Nico in the hall.

“Everything alright?” I asked at the tense look on his face.

“Uh, yeah. You have the bedroom. Obviously,” he said, waving back at it.

Leaning past him, I saw a simple, small room with what looked like a queen bed, matching nightstands, and a dresser. The mattress itself was in one of those bug and waterproof covers my grandma always had on our beds growing up.

The linens were missing.

“There’s only one bed?” I asked.

“It’s fine. I’ve slept on many couches in my day.”

Sure, but not like the one in the safe house living room. While comfortable-looking, it was way too short for a man as tall as him.

“I’ll take the couch. I’m shorter. It makes more sense.”

“Absolutely not.”

“Why?”

“Because if anyone is going to be close to the door, it’s going to be me.”

That protectiveness ran deep in him.

And I liked it more than was appropriate.

“Besides, Goya is going to need somewhere to sleep too.”

“I bought him a bed,” I reminded him. With his arms full of luggage and dog food, I’d been the one to haul the giant soft inner tube up the stairs.

“Famous last words before you are waking up spooning your dog. Well, that’s all settled. I think I should head out real quick to grab some essentials. Can’t be here without some coffee at the very least. Any requests?”

“Just some ingredients to cook when we get hungry. Oh, and if you see anything for Goya that I missed. Or you think he might like.”

“Got it. Nothing for you personally? Chocolate? Ice cream? It’s been a day.”

“Strawberry ice cream,” I said. He was right. It had been a rough day. I could use to binge it away.

“Sounds like a plan. Don’t leave the apartment while I’m gone, okay?” he asked, walking back into the living room to rifle through his bag, coming out with a gun. Well, another gun. Because as he moved, I saw the one in the holster under his arm.

“I don’t plan on going anywhere. I don’t even know where we are.”

“Good. I’m going to leave this with you.

I wish I had a chance to show you how to use it,” he said, holding it out to me.

“But this one has no safety. It’s just point and pull the trigger.

So if you’re not familiar with guns, maybe don’t walk around with it.

But keep it within arm’s reach until I get back. ”

I reached for it, surprised by the weight.

“Goya and I will wait in the bedroom until you get back. I’ll keep it on the nightstand.”

“Perfect. I will be as quick as possible. Don’t use your phone or computer until I get a chance to ask Zeno about it.

Actually… here,” he said, doing more digging in his bag and coming out with a small smartphone still in its store packaging.

A burner phone. “Set this up. I can give you my burner number when I get back.”

“I can do that,” I said, tucking it under my arm, happy to have a task to do. Otherwise, the fears would run rampant.

“Lock the door behind me.”

“Okay,” I agreed, following him.

“I won’t be long,” he assured me again.

“I’ll be here.”

He gave me one last long look, like he genuinely was struggling with the idea of leaving me.

“Look after her, alright?” he said, looking at Goya.

Then he was gone.

I didn’t waste a second locking the door, then carefully took the gun and the phone into the bedroom, where I locked that door as well.

And proceeded to jump at every sound in the apartments above and below as well as the noises on the street.

After being spoiled by the soundproofing at my new apartment, it was going to take some getting used to hearing all the noises all around.

“What do you think, buddy?” I asked Goya as I sat on the edge of the bed. “It’s gotta be better than the shelter, right? All those other dogs barking and crying because they want a home.”

Just the thought of it made my eyes water.

“How long were you there, huh?” I asked, reaching out to rub his soft neck. “Months? Years? What was your life like before? Were you loved once? Or were people always bad? I’ve known a lot of not-great people too. I was married to one, it seems.

“I wonder what that says about me, you know? That I could share my life with someone like that but not see it. And what does that mean for who I can or can’t trust from now on?

Like, Nico seems like a good guy. But is my Good Guy Radar just broken?

” Goya turned his head to lick my arm. “You seem to like him. And they say dogs are good gauges.”

Come to think of it, dogs did seem to bark at Matthew a lot. I could be saying hello to one with no issue, then he’d walk up and there’d be snarling.

“What do you think? Can a man in the mafia be good?”

To that, I got another lick.

“Yeah, maybe not all of them. But I’m pretty sure Nico is one of the good ones. I mean… he didn’t have to defend me or bring me here.”

God, I was talking to a dog.

“Do you want to come up?” I asked, patting the foot of the bed.

Goya wasted no time hopping up, turning in three circles, then curling up.

He was asleep in seconds.

His first sleep in a comfy bed out of the shelter.

I wasn’t mentally prepared for a dog. There was so much to think about. Vets, walking schedules, who could take care of him when I was traveling, how many times a week (or day) I might need to vacuum and mop to keep my place clean.

But one look at him and I knew there was no way I could send him back, be another human who got his hopes up and failed him.

Apparently, I had a dog now.

Suddenly, I was wondering if there were any galleries in the city that would let me bring Goya in for a visit. I could see using him for content for my blog.

I had the sudden urge to check it, but knowing I couldn’t, I found my text thread from Nico instead, looking through all of the images he’d snapped.

Of me.

Because while the art was certainly there, but the focus was clearly on me.

I’d never really seen myself like that before.

I wasn’t sure anyone had ever seen me that way before.

Just Nico.

There was a swelling sensation in my chest at that thought, at the nettling little realization that maybe, just maybe, Nico saw past the guards; he saw what was beneath.

Uncomfortable with that, I put my phone inside the nightstand and reached for the burner instead, figuring out how to set it up, then placing it on the nightstand in case I needed it.

I spent the next half hour jumping at shadows and slams all around, while Goya snored noisily, his little legs twitching in his sleep.

I nearly jumped out of my skin when I heard a rustling sound coming from the apartment door.

Goya went from dead asleep to on the ground, hackles raised and snarling, in seconds.

“I think it might be Nico,” I told him, grabbing the gun as I crept to the bedroom door, unlocking it, then peeking out into the hall.

“Just me,” Nico said, seeing me as he came through the door.

“It’s okay, buddy,” I told Goya, patting his head until his hair flattened and his posture loosened.

“No, sit,” Nico said, brushing me away when I tried to grab bags to help him put things away.

“I can help.”

“Sure you can. But I got this.”

I hated that my knee-jerk instinct was to compare him to Matthew. But I couldn’t seem to help it.

It didn’t matter how many bags I came in weighed down by—if Matthew had even helped me buy those things—he’d never once helped me put anything away, let alone told me to relax while he did it himself.

I sat on the couch, watching as Nico shrugged out of his jacket, setting it over the back of a chair, then going through the grocery bags, putting everything away in such a natural way that it was clear he did it all the time.

Did my gaze maybe watch the way his back and arms pulled against the material of his shirt? And the way his ass looked in his slacks? Maybe. But who could blame me?

“You’re right, bud,” he said as Goya sniffed at a bag. “I got some stuff in there for you.”

Finished with the grocery bags, he went to the one Goya was sniffing at. “I didn’t know if you were a toy dog, a rope dog, or a ball dog,” he said, taking one of each out and tossing them around the room.

Goya freaked out, jumping in three directions, not sure which way to go. Eventually, he went for the toy. Then sat down while gnawing at it, little puffs of filling being flung out of his mouth on his quest for the squeaker.

“Maybe toys without filling next time,” Nico said, shooting a wince in my direction.

“Who are we to deny him the fun of eviscerating his toy?” I asked, smiling as his tail thumped on the floor.

Nico went back to the rest of the bags on the dining table, pulling something out of one and coming over toward me with a light pink blanket that somehow looked even softer than the one from my apartment.

“Figured you had to have a cozy blanket to snuggle under while you eat your ice cream.” He pulled off the tag then draped it over me. “Oh, shit. What’d I do?” he asked when I felt the water prick my eyes.

“Nothing. Sorry. This was just really nice. Thank you.”

I mean, random, thoughtful gifts?

Who did that?

“I’m almost afraid to show you this,” he said, walking back to the table to pull a bouquet of flowers out of one of the remaining bags.

Not just any flowers.

Hydrangeas.

And not just any hydrangeas.

Annabelles.

“How…”

“The wedding plans,” he said, shrugging.

“But they couldn’t get Annabelles.” I’d had white peonies instead.

“No, but I heard about it.”

“And remembered?”

To that, I got a shrug.

Like it was a no big deal.

It was everything .

How the hell was I going to manage living with him, night and day, for who knew how long… without falling in love with him?