She grinned. “We’ll see you next week.”
My toe caught the tile’s grout, and I flung my arms wide for balance. There was something wrong with these shoes! “Excuse me?”
“Oh, goodness!” the receptionist gasped. “Are you alright?”
“Fine, I’m fine,” I coughed. “What did you say?”
“About your appointment? Is next Monday not a good day? We can change if you need to, but our instructions were to keep every Monday for you.”
I felt like sitting down.
Scratch that, Ineededto sit down.
“I have an appointment,” I repeated. “Here. Every Monday?”
“For the next two years, which is as far as we book out,” the receptionist clarified. “Those were our instructions.”
My husband, a man who forced his last name on me, who was a ruthless player in the Boston Underworld, made a standing appointment at the most luxurious spa outside of New York or LA…for me.
“Does the late afternoon like this work or would you prefer another time?” She looked so worried. I didn’t want to know what Vincenzo had done to make this happen.
“Yes, fine. Thank you!” I gave the woman a weak wave and bolted.
“Amanda, you look funny,” Bill quipped, waving the stump of beef at me. “You okay?”
“Where’s Vincenzo?” I croaked. We needed to talk about this. I didn’t come from oil money; I wasn’t a celebrity. I had enough funds for a nice life, thanks to him tucking them away, but this? This place? A standing appointment? Vincenzo couldn’t afford that—on second thought, he lived in prime real estate, keeping it empty and not turning it into rentals. But! Was he planning to be married to me in two years? We hadn’t even talked about our circumstances in the light of the doom my father clouded the horizon with.
And yet Vincenzo made the appointments.
How he managed that was another question.
“V’s at Mama Ana’s. Some big meeting.” Bill opened the car door. “You sure you’re okay? You look like you’re going to be sick.”
I felt like it. “He said someone else was picking me up,” I frowned, pausing before getting in the car. “Was there a change of plans?”
“Who?” Bill frowned right back at me.
“Um, G something.” I pulled out my phone. There were no new text messages. “Guglielmo?”
“DON’Tuse that name,” Bill barked.
I flinched. Had I said it wrong? My Italian was decent, but words like that didn’t come easy to a non-native speaker.
“Vincenzo does,” I faltered.
“What V does, he’s earned.” The henchman pointed a finger at me. “To you, it’s Bill, ‘hey you,’ or I’ll even answer to fuck-face. Not the other name.”
“You’re Gugli—”
“Not to you!”
I yelped, diving into the car.
Bill glowered at me and slammed the door.
But by the time he walked around, sat in the driver’s seat, and started the engine, the foul mood had vanished. Almost instantaneously.
“Had a nice massage?” He wagged his eyebrows. “Happy ending included?”
