Page 12 of The Broker

“I don’t pay you for easy things, Giorgio,” I reply coolly. “How is little Liliana doing? She’s coming up on the fifth anniversary of her transplant, isn’t she?”

The other man heaves a resigned sigh. “I’ll see what I can do,” he says. “But I have a bad feeling about this. Everything’s too quiet. There’s a storm building, Colonna, and it’s going to be a big one.”

Giorgio is spooked.His daughter is six, my conscience prods me with a red-hot poker. Just three years younger than Angelica. “Be careful,” I tell him. “Don’t take any unnecessary chances. I’ll be in touch.”

I hang up and stare into the distance. Then there’s another knock on the door. I look up, and Leo is in the doorway, out of breath as if he’s been running. “Valentina just left the club,” he says, his chest heaving. “But there’s a big problem.”

8

VALENTINA

“What are we doing here?”

Enzo and I are at the bar at Casanova. There’s no one around us. I came here with my friend Lucia, but then Antonio Moretti showed up, and they disappeared into a private room, leaving me and Enzo to stare at each other in awkward silence.

“What do you mean?” I hedge, though I have a very good idea of what he’s talking about.

He looks around to make sure we’re not being overheard. “You and me. This elaborate charade. When are you going to stop pretending, Valentina?”

I take a sip of my wine to give myself time to think. It tastes bitter on my tongue. Two years ago, Rosa set me up on a blind date with Enzo. I thought I was okay with dating again, but I ended up having a panic attack outside the restaurant.

If I told Rosa, she would have just worried. That’s when I’d come up with what I thought was a perfect plan. Enzo and I would meet at Casanova once a month, supposedly to have hot sex in a private room, and I’d tell my friends that I didn’t have energy for anything more involved than that. For reasons of his own, Enzo agreed to my proposal and went along with the subterfuge.

Until now.

Enzo’s expression softens. “I thought this was temporary,” he says quietly. “You needed people to get off your back about dating again, and I agreed to help because I’ve been there. I understood what you were going through. But Valentina, we’ve been pretending fortwo years.I don’t think I’m helping you any longer. You’re using this as a crutch when you should be walking on your own.”

“I—” My voice trails off. I don’t know what to say to Enzo. If I tell him I’m fine, I’ll be lying. The panic that swept through me when Rosa invited me to double-date is proof. “Did you meet someone?”

“This isn’t about me. I’m concerned about you, Valentina. You’re still traumatized by your relationship with Angelica’s father. You should be in therapy.”

“I tried that once. It didn’t work.”

“Try again,” he says bluntly. He sips his whiskey, a troubled look on his face. “What you’re doing isn’t healthy.”

“Why? Is it a rule that everyone has to be in a relationship?” I take another sip of my wine and abandon it on the counter. “Why can’t I just be single?”

“You can absolutely be single if that’s your choice. But that’s not what’s happening here, is it? You’re afraid of dating.”

It’s not dating I’m afraid of. It’s sex. It’s intimacy. It’s being naked and vulnerable. That last time with Roberto. . . I feel a headache coming on and squeeze my eyes shut. “You’re right. I know you are. I’ll work on it.”

“I want to believe you,” he says. He hasn’t raised his voice, but it’s too loud. The music, the crack of the riding crop on the stage, are all too much. “I won’t be here next month.”

“Okay.” There were warning signs of my migraine earlier, but I wasn’t paying attention, and now I’m fighting off waves of pain and nausea. “I’m going to leave now.”

“Are you okay?”

“Fine,” I say, trying not to hurl on the expensive carpet. “I’m perfectly fine.”

I barely make it a block when another wave of nausea hits, and I lose the contents of my stomach against the side of a building. Offering the store owner a mental apology for the mess, I stumble toward home, but my headache is crippling, and my vision is blurry. I sink onto a bench, cradling my head in my hands. I’ll get up, I promise myself. I’ll make it home, make myself a cup of tea, and then curl up on my bed and fall asleep. Soon. As soon as this wave of pain passes.

Some minutes later, someone sits next to me. “How bad is the pain?” Dante asks, handing me a bottle of water. “Can you see?”

“It’s blurry.” I hurt too much to ask him what he’s doing here, so I rinse my mouth with the blissfully cool water, grope in my purse for my medication, and swallow two pills. “If you’re planning on lecturing me about my irresponsible behavior, I will burst into tears and hate you forever.”

“How about we call a truce on the hatred until I get you home?” He holds a travel mug out to me. “Drink the coffee. The caffeine will help.”

Waterandcoffee? I take a sip of the steaming hot beverage and then another. “How did you know coffee helps?”

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