Page 63 of Possessive Mafia Vows

He pays the driver, climbs out of the taxi, and walks around the car to open my door.

My body is moving from muscle memory.

I get out of the car, stand on the sidewalk, and wait for him to tell me what to do next.

“This way.”

He places an arm around my shoulders, and we enter his apartment building together, our shoulders and hips bumping awkwardly against one another. I follow him up the stairs, trapped in the moment. The crime scene is lurking inside my head, just waiting for me to stop functioning so that it can send all those horrible heart-wrenching images flooding back.

Nick unlocks the front door to his apartment, and gestures for me to step inside first. I do. My feet are still moving. I must stilllook like me, I probably still sound like me too, but I’m not really here.

I’m back there in the gallery, fractured into a million brittle shards that will need to be glued back together again to make me whole.

Nick faces me inside the entrance hallway of his apartment. It’s wide enough for him to keep his distance, and for that I’m grateful. I don’t want him to touch me. I don’t even know why I allowed him to bring me here when I should be clearing up the mess in the gallery, but I feel powerless to take back control of my life and plan my next move.

“I think we could both use a drink.” It’s a statement, not a question, but I nod anyway.

He takes off his coat, hangs it on a hook near the front door, and then gestures for mine. I obediently turn around so that he can tug my coat over my shoulders, before following him through to the kitchen.

Nick pulls a chrome and red leather stool out from under the breakfast bar and waits for me to sit down. From one of the wall cabinets, he removes a bottle of Jack, and two chunky crystal glasses, then pours a generous slug into each. He hands one of the glasses to me.

“You probably don’t want it,” he says, “but it will help with the shock.”

I sip the liquid and grimace as it goes down.

Nick leans against the opposite counter watching me closely. “Sienna, I know that no one can replace the work that you’ve lost tonight, but I want to help. And before you tell me there’snothing I can do—” his eyebrows slide upwards creating faint creases below his immaculate hairline “—just remember that you don’t have to deal with any of this alone.”

I swallow a mouthful of Jack this time, hiding behind the glass because it’s easier than thinking.

“What I’m trying to say,” he continues regardless, “is that I’m here to support you any way I can.”

“Thank you.” My voice is thick with emotion.

“Do you have any idea who might’ve done this?”

The liquor is still burning inside my gullet. I vaguely recall Kyle accusing my father of creating an alibi for himself in the casino tonight, but somehow, I can’t connect him to the person who trashed my work.

Why would he do this?

What would he achieve by destroying everything I’ve worked so hard for when he has only just come back into my life?

But the thought that he had my keys is niggling away inside my head, scratching at the surface to make me search deeper. He didn’t have the gallery keys. I had them. But he also lied about what time he came home that night, so maybe he stole the key and got a replica made while I was trying to sleep.

I don’t understand what possible motive he might have though.

“Do you think someone is jealous of what you’ve achieved?” Nick is still pursuing the subject.

“I-I can’t think of anyone.”

He knocks back his drink and refills his glass. He hasn’t told me where he has been or why he didn’t call—not that he owes me an explanation—but I can’t help thinking that it’s another coincidence that he just happens to come back the night the gallery is broken into.

“Look, Sienna, it pains me to say this, so I’m just going to get it out there and then we can move on, okay?” I don’t speak, and he continues anyway. “Do you think Kyle Murray is involved somehow?” He flinches theatrically as Kyle’s name hangs between us.

A vivid image of Kyle telling me that I’m beautiful pops into my head, and my heart does this weird fluttery thing that sends knee-trembling signals down my spine at the same time.Tell me to walk away, and you’ll never see me again. Kyle went to Ireland to give me space. Why would he come back and then do the one thing that would hurt me the most?

I try to picture Kyle giving the order to destroy my artwork and stage it to look like a break-in. He might be part of a ruthless and successful mafia family, but I know he isn’t a monster, despite the way my thoughts were spiraling earlier.

“No.” Too feeble. I clear my throat. “No, he would never do something like that.”

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