I shudder.
“But if these motherfuckers push it,” he growls. “I’ll testify that you were chained up in that room. Not a chance you could’ve done it.”
I smile weakly. “You’ll testify that, or that’s really how it happened?”
Translation: how crazy am Iactually?
I don’t know.
I really,reallyhaven't got a clue anymore if me being the one who cut Lorenzo’s throat is an utterly insane idea or a frighteningly possible one.
Antonio’s brow furrows deeply. “Dove,” he growls, shaking his head. “Don’t listen to thosefottuti figli di puttana, okay? Don’t let them get in your head.” He takes my hands in his. “You were chained in a locked room. You didn’t kill that man. I don’t knowwhodid. Maybe he killed himself.” He shrugs. “I don’t know, and frankly I don’t care. My goal that night was to save you. I did. That piece of shit—” He turns and spits on the floor. “He can burn in hell, no matter how he died.”
My face winces. “And Lark?”
Antonio’s face softens. “She was my other goal that night,tesoro. You know that,” he says quietly. “But I failed. I will never forgive myself for that.”
“Youcamefor us, though,” I choke as I hug him. “There’s nothing to forgive.”
As comforting as it is to hear that Antonio really did find me chained up and not standing cackling over Lorenzo’s body with a knife in my hand, it’s also…not.
The fact that I had to ask it in the first place is enough to shake me to my core.
28
DOVE
“Dove?”
A slim woman with slightly silvering dark hair, maybe in her forties, pokes her head out of the office door. Her blue eyes meet mine through her dark, thick-rimmed glasses, and she smiles when I look up from my magazine.
“Good guess,” I grin.
She chuckles in the waiting area of her small midtown office, empty but for me, and opens the door a little wider. “Please, come in. Can I get you tea or coffee or anything?”
“I’m fine, thanks.”
She nods, ushering me in before she closes the door. The inner office is brightly lit, with big windows that have partial views of Central Park two blocks away. The walls are gorgeous blonde wood and white paint, giving a very Scandinavian aesthetic. Green plants and a few potted flowers dot the space.
I choose a soft, sage-green couch and Dr. Turov settles into a leather armchair across from me, one ankle resting on the other knee, notepad and pen in her lap.
She smiles. “First, congratulations on your wedding. Nikolai was telling me it was lovely.” She pauses. “Well, aside from the obvious.”
My mouth twists as I nod. “Thanks.”
“I know you’ve been to therapy before, Dove,” Dr. Turov says gently. “So don't worry, I’m not going to patronize you and ask how being arrested at your own weddingmade you feel,” she chuckles.
Then she clears her throat. “I’ve read your medical history…” She looks up from her notes. “We’re not going to talk about your substance abuse today, either…unless you want to, of course.”
I shake my head. “No, I'm good.”
She glances at her notes again before she looks up at me. “Two years sobriety isveryimpressive, Dove.” She smiles at me. “I hope you realize that. You beat nearly impossible odds, and you should feel very proud.”
My face heats as I smile awkwardly at her. “I…guess I do?”
Dr. Turov smiles. “Good.” She takes a breath. “Today, I just want to establish a baseline. Mind if I ask you a few questions?”
I shake my head.
