Page 33 of The Bonventi War
"Your total is forty-seven fifty."
I hand over my credit card, barely registering the mundane transaction. Four days. Four damn days since I found out my father tried to sell me to the Russian mob like some medieval dowry. The thought makes my stomach queasy as I shove my new purchases into my oversized bag.
Chicago's streets are busy today, which suits me fine. The chaos matches my mental state. I've been hiding in the gallery's basement, drowning myself in restoration work, only emerging when absolutely necessary. Even Morgan's concerned texts have gone mostly unanswered, and our gym dates haven't really happened this week.
I've decided to take the day off for myself. Get away from the gallery, from everything, and run some good old-fashioned errands. Like normal people do—people who aren't promised to mobsters.
A black SUV follows at a distance—Gio's men, I assume, so I try not to pay much attention to it.
The pharmacy is next on my list. I need sleeping pills. The nightmares are getting worse. Last night, I dreamed of my father's beaten face morphing into Johnny's, both of them laughing as they pushed me toward shadowy figures with thick Russian accents.
Inside, I grab a basket and start throwing in items: some sleep aids, aspirin for my headaches, under-eye concealer to hide the dark circles that have become permanent fixtures on my face.
I glance out the window and see a tall man, early thirties, wearing a dark coat. I can't tell for sure since his dark glasses conceal his eyes, but I feel like he's watching me through the window. I brush it off—Chicago's full of creeps.
Once I get what I need, I'm back outside, and my phone vibrates. A text from Steven about a potential buyer and a missed call from the gallery. Below that is a single missed call from Gio. It's from yesterday, and I didn't return it.
Since bringing me to my father, he's been different. Less demanding. More… I don't know, human? The thought unsettles me more than his usual aggressive behavior. I guess it was a pretty pathetic thing to witness. Even with half a heart, watching a father pimp out his daughter would make someone feel for the girl in that situation.
I sigh and put the phone away. I don't need pity, though.
Late afternoon break, and I duck into a nearby café for a little pick-me-up. The rich aroma of espresso momentarily distracts me from my spiraling thoughts. As I wait in line, I can't help but notice the guy behind the counter. Tall, dark-haired, muscular.
For a moment, my traitorous mind flashes to Gio.
I have still yet to unpack that dream I had of us. It felt so real that I feel my face getting a little hot.
"What can I get you?" the barista asks, snapping me out of my thoughts.
"Double shot Americano with a splash of milk, please. Extra hot."
I grab my coffee and take a sip. The bitter taste reminds me of Florence. That little café off the main square. If only memories could physically transport you.
Outside, as I wait to cross the street, I spot the black SUV I'd seen earlier. As I cross, I see the same man I saw at the pharmacy. He's sitting in the passenger seat, eyes following me as I walk past. My stomach tightens.
Once is nothing. Twice is on purpose.
I really hope that's Gio's men.
I walk into my favorite bookstore and head straight to the romance section. Maybe I can find a good read with a sexy man on the cover.
After spending some time there, I'm getting ready to pay and leave when I see him again. That same man is standing outside the bookstore.
My hands start to shake. Three times is a red flag, and normally, Gio's men are a bit more discreet.
Clutching my phone, I pull up Gio's number. Maybe I should call and just make sure it's his people following me. Of course,if I did, he'd tell me it was and then probably come here. I don't need that. I can handle this myself. I'm just overreacting.
I force myself to breathe normally, to remain casual, and just call for an Uber—then just get home. That's all I need to do. Get home, lock the doors, and dive into this spicy romance book I'm getting.
I get an alert that my car has arrived, and I go out a different door than the one I saw the man at. Double-checking the license plate, I hop in.
It's an older man who doesn't say much, and I'm thankful for it. You'll get your damn five stars if you just get me there safely. I don't need your life story.
As we drive back to the gallery, I watch the sun setting on the horizon. The day I took for myself seems to have flown by. I don't know if it did much to mentally help me, but it was something.
I look over my shoulder and don't see any SUVs following us, so that puts me at ease.
The driver pulls up around the back of the gallery, and I hop out, grabbing my bags. He drives off as I hear the screeching sound of tires behind me.
