Page 37 of Possessive Mafia Vows

I should still be buzzing from the gallery opening. This should be the most exciting time of my life—I finally have everything I ever dreamed of. Well, almost. But it feels as if the men in my life are conspiring to keep me from reaching my happy place.

I only wish I knew why.

Are they in this together? Do they have a group chat on WhatsApp where they confirm their plans for me over the next twenty-four hours?

Kyle must’ve sent Bash to the gallery to keep an eye on me.I think. I’m not sure, but I can’t ignore the timing. Then my father showed up. And Nick… It feels as though Nick isn’t giving me a moment to think, whisking me away on a lunch date before I’d even had a chance to process my father’s visit.

Did Nick speak to my father on the street corner, or did I imagine it? He knew that Kyle had been doing some background research on him, but how? I’m no tech whizzkid, but it doesn’t all add up to the Nick I thought I knew.

Then, I hit a mental brick wall when I think about my father.

He displayed zero emotion when he was introduced to Kyle, and I can’t even begin to consider the kind of people he associates with. I’d rather burn my painting than allow it to hang on his friend’s wall.

I switch on every light in my apartment as I walk through to the narrow galley kitchen and drop my purse and unopened mail onto the counter. I open the refrigerator, pull out the bottle of prosecco that I was saving for the opening night, and pop the cork. I didn’t open it before because Victoria was in labor, but tonight, I feel like I need it.

I take a huge glug before easing out of my coat and draping it over the end of the counter.

The letter is staring at me. I could leave it till morning, but it’ll be a bug crawling through my dreams all night. Best to open it now, even though I sense it isn’t good news.

Here goes. I try to empty my mind as I slide my finger underneath the flap and rip the envelope open. It’s from my landlord. He’s giving me two months’ notice to vacate my apartment.

Deep breath. I fold the letter in half with shaky fingers and stuff it back inside the torn envelope.

Two months. Plenty of time to find somewhere else to live…

Who am I kidding?

Aside from the fact thataffordableapartments are scarce in the city, I don’t have the money for a down-payment. Sure, Caleb’s money funded the gallery, but I still put every cent I’d ever managed to save into it myself, and who knows when I’ll see any profit from my work. My father kept his word and cancelled his friend’s appointment, but my other meeting didn’t result in a confirmed sale either.

The only good thing to come out of today was Bash’s commission, but even that was manipulated by Kyle.

The intercom next to my front door buzzes, and I take my glass of prosecco with me to answer it.

“Sienna, it’s Nick. Can I come in?”

My stomach drops. Why can’t he leave me alone?

Then I remind myself of all that he has done for me since I was first referred to him, how vulnerable I was, his endless patience trying to minimize my scars and restore my confidence. Guilt blossoms inside my chest. Nick is a good guy. It isn’t his fault that I’m not attracted to him in the same way he’s attracted to me, but the least I can do is give him a chance I suppose.

“Sure.” I hit the button to open the external door downstairs.

Moments later, Nick appears in my doorway with a bunch of flowers, vibrant orange gerbera, red and purple anemones, and white stephanotis.

“You brought flowers?” I take them and instinctively bury my face in the bouquet and inhale the scent. “They’re beautiful.”

“Like you.”

I flinch. It’s so smarmy, so cheesy, that I have to compose my features before I stand aside and let him in.

“How did you know where I live?” The question bursts out of me.

“Your medical records?” He fills the space in the airless hallway. Too close. Squashing the flowers between us. “It’s confidential information, but I figured that we’re friends. Aren’t we?”

“Sure.” The uneasiness is back, swirling around inside my gut.

I walk back to the kitchen, put down my glass of prosecco, and busy myself arranging the flowers in the only vase I possess.

“Prosecco?” His voice and his eyes follow me from the other side of the kitchen, which isn’t far. “What’s the occasion?”

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