Gianni jerked as if slapped. An ugly look washed across his attractive face.
“You must have dropped it somewhere,” he said. “I keep telling you it wasn’t me.”
It absolutely was him. I had witnessed it.
I took my guardian angel role seriously.
“First, you’re spying on my texts, and now you’re accusing me of taking your money. Why you gotta have such trust issues?” Gianni huffed out a breath, threading his fingers into his hair, tilting his head upward.
We locked eyes, Gianni and I—his two to my one.
Gianni flinched backward with a loud yelp.
Blast.
I instantly pulled myself back through the wall and into the stairwell. Trust Gianni to break with convention and look up.
“An eye! There was an eye in the wall!” Gianni screeched like a little girl, his voice carrying through the shut door.
A shuffling sound.
“Seriously? There’s nothing there.”
“I swear! It was right there!”
“Whatever, Gianni. Walls don’t have eyes. Stop being so dramatic.” Chiara’s tone was all irritation.
“It was there! I’m telling you!”
Keys jingled in the lock.
“I’m not up for dealing with this. Have fun with your ex. Ciao, Gianni.”
The door swung open. I pressed myself into the space behind it, not wanting the wood to pass through me.
“Wait!” Gianni yelled. “Chiara—”
Chiara slammed the door shut. Gianni continued to call her name, pounding on the door.
She whirled and stared up at me, that toe tapping again. As her shoes were a glossy cherry red and her heels a solid four inches high, the toe tapping was hard to miss.
It matched the restless, jittery energy banding my chest.
Chiara shook her head, the motion more resigned than angry.Resignedwas not a common emotion for her. She tended to prefer frustration, irritation and annoyance where I was concerned.
Alarm bells sounded in my mind.
She jabbed a finger at me, pointed it at herself and then nodded toward the ceiling.
You. Me. Upstairs. Now.
Chiara was a skilled conversationalist. And clearly not amused (again) by my self-appointed, guardian angel-ship.
I had a feeling I was in for a lengthy, not altogether unjustified scold.
She turned and went up the stairs, shoes clicking on the stone. I trudged along behind her—silently, of course—staring at her spiky heels all the way. Even though I had no mass as a ghost, I still had to propel myself forward or upwards through space.
I also wasn’t worried about anyone in the apartment building seeing me. The entire palazzo belonged to the D’Angelo family—Chiara, her triplet older brothers, her mother and grandmother—and they all knew me and my story. This palazzo was a place of refuge.
