Page 18 of Bellini Bound
My eyes flitted first to the fireplace, but I quickly dismissed it as a potential method of destruction. The last thing I needed was to risk burning the whole place down. Life as I knew it might be over, but I was nowhere near suicidal.
Then I honed in on the double doors leading to a balcony I hadn’t noticed before. But when I went to grab the dress off the floor, a scream startled me, and I dropped the fabric. It took a full minute to realize that I was the one who had let out that ear-splitting screech.
It was already happening. I was starting to lose my goddamn mind, and I’d barely been held in captivity for more than an hour so far.
My skin crawled just thinking about coming in accidental contact with that dead man’s blood, so I frantically searched for something I could use to toss the dress outside that wouldn’t require touching it.
After a thorough sweep of the suite, I settled on the plunger I found beside the toilet in the adjoining bathroom. Spinning the handle, I was able to get the material to tangle around the rubber dome at the end. Hefting the heavy bundle off the ground, I was careful to keep it as far away from my body as humanly possible.
Throwing open the glass doors, I stepped onto the balcony. As luck would have it, there was an enormous in-ground pool set below the overhang.
Without a moment’s hesitation, I heaved the dress—plunger and all—over the railing, and it landed in the water with a splash. There was a brief moment of satisfaction, knowing my husband would have to drain the pool because my makeshift javelin throw had introduced several contaminants. Until I remembered that in a house this large, it was more than likely he had a sizeable staff and, instead, I’d made work for an innocent person in Enzo’s employ.
Though, were they really innocent if they were willing to take a job at the residence of a known mafia man? And not just any regular mafia man, but one who was in charge of the whole operation, or perhaps, adjacent to the guy in charge?
It didn’t matter because, right now, I lacked the capacity to worry about anyone other than myself.
I didn’t bother to close the balcony doors behind me—not giving a shit that it was nearly ninety degrees outside and the air conditioning unit would be working overtime to compensate—as I ran to the shower, turning the faucet all the way to the left. Steam filled the room almostinstantly—go figure, a rich criminal had a top-of-the-line water heater—and I jumped under the scalding spray.
I scrubbed with all my might, removing the top layer of my skin with the vigorous effort, but it wasn’t enough to cleanse my soul, which would forever be tainted. I’d knowingly taken a life when my entire career had been devoted to saving them.
That reality hit me so hard that I collapsed on the floor and hugged my knees, as heaving sobs wracked my chest and my tears flowed down the drain.
If these were the horrors that faced me on day one, how was I supposed to survive a lifetime of this?
Sleep finally claimed me just as dawn’s first light filtered in through the windows. Night shift wreaked havoc on my internal clock, so I was practically nocturnal, even on my days off. Still, even as exhaustion pulled at me from all sides, it had taken the help of a pharmaceutical sleeping aid to be able to close my eyes without reliving that moment in the basement where I’d shot a man in cold blood on repeat.
Yeah, I was gonna be fucked up from that for a good long while. Most likely forever.
My slumber was blessedly devoid of dreams, but when I woke, I didn’t feel the least bit rested. Probably because, even while unconscious, my muscles had been coiled tight, my fight-or-flight response on high alert. Apparently, living under the roof of a man who was capable of unspeakable violence wasn’t conducive to good rest. Who knew?
Thankfully, there was a wall-mounted clock inside the suite; otherwise, I wouldn’t have known the time and would have been late leaving for work. As it stood, I had no freaking clue how I was going to get there.
Usually, I took the train, but without access to technology, I couldn’t even determine which Chicago suburb this house was located in, let alone whether it was in the service area for the city’s mass transit system. Though I highly doubted it. People who owned mega mansions didn’t slum it taking public transportation.
Sometimes, I snagged a rideshare, but again, no phone, so that option was immediately ruled out.
And it wasn’t like I could call someone to cover my shift or give my lead nurse a heads-up that I was going to be late while I figured all this out.
This tech ban was a real pain in my ass. How did he expect me to carry on like this long-term? It simply wasn’t feasible when we lived in a digital world. My virtual wallet contained everything I needed to survive—my transit pass, my tap-to-pay credit cards, and hell, it even managed my prescription refills.
You know what? Fuck this shit.
Since my ever-so-loving—insert eyeroll—husband had deprived me of a mode of transportation, the least he could do was supply me with one.
That’s how I found myself sneaking into the garage, which held no less than two dozen vehicles. There was even a ramp to a second floor where five or six different motorcycles sat.
It was beyond typical that the dark and dangerous Enzo would gravitate toward those death traps. Bet he believed himself to be so invincible that he didn’t even bother to wear a helmet.
Don’t let that man’s reckless behavior distract you. You’re going to be late for work if you don’t get out of here soon.
Fortunately, there was a key box mounted to the wall, but the various brand insignias on the key fobs made my head spin. I didn’t recognize half of them!
Since I was in way over my head, I just started pressing buttons, watching as the headlights flashed on their respective vehicles.
Foreign sports car? Probably a stick shift, so pass.
Giant SUV? Nope, I’d hit way too many curbs.
