Page 37 of Blind Devotion
“You ever get close to her again, you’ll be lucky if rats get to eat your entrails. Get out. I’d better never see you both again.”
They scrambled away like the worthless vermin they were while Tessa clung to my back. Her head rested against my spine. One hand stroked up my back while the other clung to the arm that had held her abuser.
“Thank you.” Her warm breath skittered through my dress shirt, scalding the skin beneath.
Suddenly, I had to get away. It was too much. Too real.
“Wait. H-he didn’t finish showing me the remote.”
“I’ll send Marie to explain it to you.”
“But I—”
I shot out of the room and locked the door. Marie, my house manager, not a maid, was more than capable of explaining the remote, and I had far too much to do to get sidetracked again. I had already delayed a meeting with the French Ministry of Sea and Coastline that I refused to push back further. It had nothing to do with the prickles still swarming my arm and back. It had nothing to do with how good that connection felt. It couldn’t last. It wouldn’t.
I was obviously a glutton for punishment.
In the odd hours of the following morning, when my insomnia hit its peak, I was back in her room. A still screen image of musical performers on the television brightened the placewhile a recorded symphony played Ravel’s “Pavane for a Dead Princess”. My heart ached just listening to it.
I stood mesmerized, blasted back to the past.
One of my only friends in the world used to put on spontaneous concerts for me whenever I visited her in the States. Persetta was gifted on the piano and the cello, but her main talent lay with the violin. I listened to her for hours as she swept through pieces by Vivaldi, Bach, Boccherini, Chopin, and many others. I loved listening to her play, but this song…
This exact song was the piece she played for me over the phone the very last time I ever answered her call. I still remember staring into space, losing track of time as the slow, melancholic notes gripped my soul and told me exactly what I was doing to her. The music drowned her sobs, but I could still hear them. We didn’t speak throughout that entire call, and when the song ended, I hung up and blocked her number. Persetta was haunting me through this woman.
My thumb smoothed over the cast-iron shot weighing down my hand—my ruthless weapon of choice for the day. I had carried it over after practicing some throws on my training field out back. My days training for the Olympics in shot put and javelin throws were long in the past, ever since Yannick died, but I kept up the exercise. It was particularly useful in excising the demons of my past, at least for a couple of hours.
I leaned over her prone body, the iron ball dipping the mattress just next to her head, and inhaled her scent. Wildflowers covered in sea breeze and honeydew left to ripen to perfection in the sun. She smelled of better days and wishful thinking…every good thing I didn’t deserve.
My nose grazed her neck. She stirred, and I lurched back.
“You’re back,” she said softly as a sleepy smile crept up her face. “I missed you.”
Her hand reached for my face. I didn’t pull back further. I couldn’t say why not. Anyone else, I would’ve, but I let her soft fingers trail down my cheek and brush my hair back, all while bracing myself for the disgust. No nausea. No tightening of my skin or muscles. Just a quickening of my heartbeat.
“Ouch.” She hissed and pulled away, her arm twisting around until her fingers reached the shot ball. “What is that? Jesus, that’s hard.”
“That’s what she said.” The words were out before I could stop them.
She barked a laugh, gripping her side.
“Oh my god, was that a joke?” She tapped my shoulder. “No, you didn’t. Tell me Mr. Serious Mafia Boss-slash-Hitman didn’t just make a lame joke. What even is that?”
“FromThe Office. An old American TV favorite of mine.”
The ongoing string symphonies in the background were messing with my head. Now I was spitting out jokes, reminiscent of the days Persetta watched old reruns with me instead of playing with her young teenage friends.
“Careful. Your age is showing.”
“I’m not old.”
“How old exactly are you?”
“Only twenty-five.”
“Seriously? Isn’t that a bit young for the whole mafia boss-slash-hitman thing?”
“Young heart, old soul.”
