Page 15 of Ache for You (Slow Burn 3)
A boozy cackle comes over the line. “Who, me? I’m the Baron von fuckin’ Trapp, bro.”
“Are you related to Miss Bobbitt?”
“Who?”
I grit my teeth. “Lorena Bobbitt. Does she live there?”
The man on the other end of the phone becomes belligerent. “Is this some kinda fuckin’ joke, bro? You makin’ a prank call? ’Cause I’ll put my fist right through this phone and rip off ya fuckin’—”
“Sir!” I snap, livid. “Do you know the lady or not?”
He barks out a laugh. “Yeah, I know her. Everybody knows the broad who cut off her husband’s dick while he was sleepin’, bro. Hey—is this bein’ recorded? Am I on the radio?” He shouts into the background, “Angie, I’m on the radio!”
I hang up, so angry my ears are hot. I type the name Lorena Bobbitt into the web browser on my phone, then read the Wikipedia article in astonishment.
Apparently my Siamese cat has a very dark sense of humor to go along with her smart mouth.
After a moment of shock, I throw back my head and laugh out loud.
Then I book the next flight to Florence, excitement building, and try to put the alluring stranger I’ll never see again out of my mind. I’ve got the House of Moretti’s spring collection to start working on.
Stroking the cover of the sketch pad, I smile. And what a collection it will be.
FIVE
KIMBER
As soon as the flight lands in Florence and I’ve collected my luggage, I take a taxi straight to the hospital, urging the driver to go faster so many times he curses at me. I check my voice mail on the way, hoping there won’t be a message from Dominic. It was my father’s oldest and closest friend who sent me the letter via courier to tell me the terrible news, and I know if he called again while I was on the plane, it wo
uld be more bad news.
Luckily, he didn’t. I pick up messages from Danielle and Jenner, both telling me to call them when I get settled, then freeze when I hear Brad’s voice on the next.
“Hey, Kimber. Uh, it’s me. Can you, uh, call me when you get a chance? We need to talk.”
Mother. Plucker.
Hearing his voice makes me so furious I almost throw my cell phone out the taxi window. I stick my head out and suck in a few deep breaths of warm Italian air instead.
It’s the first time he’s tried to reach me since our Hindenburg wedding. He’s probably calling to find out when I’ll have my things cleared out of the apartment. He can damn well wait. If I’m not back in San Fran by the first, I’ll charge another month’s rent on his blasted platinum card.
At the information desk inside the hospital, I ask a sleepy-looking staffer to direct me toward my father’s room. He points down a hallway and yawns, and that’s the end of our conversation. Weighed down by my luggage and a dark sense of doom, I hurry down the hall toward the room.
When I burst through the door, the first thing I see is Dominic slumped in a chair beside my father’s bed. His head is bent. His lips move silently in prayer as he fingers the rosary in his hands. He looks up, catches sight of me, and leaps to his feet with open arms.
“Tesoro!”
I haven’t seen him in five years, but his craggy face is as familiar to me as my own. His hair is completely white now, and his shoulders are rounded, but even in his mideighties, he retains his joyous energy.
I drop all my luggage inside the door, then run to Dominic and hug him as he kisses my hair. “God, it’s good to see you,” I whisper, squeezing him tight. “You haven’t changed a bit.”
In heavily accented English, Dominic says, “Eh, you’re lying to an old man. But I forgive you. It’s so good to see you, too. If only it were under happier circumstances.”
When we break apart, we smile at each other for a moment. Then I turn my gaze to my father, lying motionless in the bed. He’s thin, almost as white as the bedsheets that cover him, and hooked up to too many machines to count.
Tears springing to my eyes, I cover my mouth with my hand and grip Dominic’s arm for support. “My God, he looks dead already!”
Dominic says quietly, “I think he’s only been holding on for you to arrive.”
