If the Tempeste mobsters wished me harm and had managed to sneak into my apartment, why take the time to find paper and scissors to cut out a lightning bolt? Why not finish the job? Or, at the very least, be less vague in their threats? It wasn’t like theCosa Nostradid subtlety.
It seemed an incredible coincidence otherwise, except—
I swallowed. Ideas swirled through my head. Persistent little buggers trying to overtake my consciousness, whispering that the Tempeste family were not my only reason to fear lightning, that the mafia threat had nothing to do with my initial freak-out on waking up.
Was there a possibility that I had created the lightning bolt in my sleep? I had been known to sleep walk from time to time.
I thought back through my restless night. I had no memory of lightning bolts.
No—
Only vague memories of a dream about Jack. Which had been . . . odd. Why was I dreaming about him now?
He had been swimming in a lake. I had been watching, peeking through the bushes like a creepy perv. His arms cut through the water with broad strokes, flashes of his face and strong arms. Jack’s splashing startled a family of cranes from the rushes nearby. The birds soared upward, their voices omens of warning, causing a sparrow to dart underneath them. The sparrow circled over Jack’s head, spinning in a circle. Oblivious to his surroundings, Jack reached the shore and walked out of the water, white shirt plastered to every chiseled muscle on his chest—
I blushed.
And then viciously scrubbed the image from my brain.
A word of advice: Don’t fall asleep binge watchingPride and Prejudice(the Colin Firth one . . . like any other version matters) after consuming an entire pint of Haagen Dazs caramel banana ice cream and expect your dreams to be normal.
Nope. Not gonna happen.
Wow. I needed to cut back on my film viewing. And get someone else to handle calls from women wanting to know how hot Jack was. He was starting to invade my dreams.
Of course, sexy Jack dreams did not explain the glittery lightning bolt. Just looking at it spiked my anxiety.
I refused to allow my brain to board the train to memory lane. Nope. Not gonna think about it. I stuffed all those thoughts deep into that emotional black hole within the recesses of my mind, firmly slamming the lid shut.
I faced two truths:
One, I had no idea how the paper cutout had come to be in my bedroom.
And, two, the fastest and easiest way to solve the mystery would be to ask my brothers to use their psychic powers to read the paper lightning bolt.
Until then, panicking would serve no purpose. Why freak out until I had something concrete to freak out over, right?
But still.
I hated asking my brothers for help.
Poor little Chiara can’t do things herself . . .
Okay, so maybe I was a little bit touchy about my height and petite size. In my head, I was an Amazon—tall, strong and built like a warrior.
A glance in my bathroom mirror confirmed otherwise. Or rather, a bop up to my tiptoes so I could see more than just my head in the bathroom mirror confirmed it. Long, dark hair. Wide, dark eyes. Pixie-like face, complete with pointed chin.
And small.
I was a peanut of a person. I had heard it all over the years—short stuff, pygmy, shrimp, stunted, miniature, vertically challenged.
Yeah, yeah.
I got it. I was firmly slotted into the category occupied by kittens, puppies, baby pandas and other cute things.
Confession.
I had tall-person envy. Dante’s wife, Claire, was tall. A graceful titan of a woman. She had presence and gravitas. Men’s heads turned when she walked into a room, and no one ever—and I meanever—referred to her as cute.
