“Just a bit dizzy.” I try and smile at Harvey. “Is, um, Mr. Morelli or any of the others around…?”
His expression is a little too sympathetic. “Mr. Morelli and Mr. Bassilotta have gone to New York and Mr. Rossi and Mr. Valente have business elsewhere today.”
“Oh.” I suppose it was the same while I was in the cage and I just had no idea, but it’s strange they’ve gone and left me here. Like all five of us should be in the same space.
“Mr. Morelli told me you’re free to explore the house,” Harvey says. “There’s a library and gym. Or you can visit the family gallery on the third floor or watch a movie in the cinema. Or I’d be happy to take you for a walk around the grounds?”
My head swims. I just want to go somewhere quiet and sit down. “That all sounds really lovely but could I maybe have breakfast before I decide please?”
“Of course.”
We continue on our way, Harvey talking about the history of Velvet House at the top of his voice, and I wonder if he was involved in getting rid of Kurt’s body. He seems like such a nice man. Is he some kind of psychopath? But then who am I to judge? I let Kurt’s murderer go down on me. And I came while he did it. I could blame the Orchard, but I’d be lying.
Your morals are untested.
It’s another couple of minutes of winding staircases and same-y hallways before we enter a marble-floored area. Harvey pushes open a metal door. “This is the kitchen.”
I have to bite my tongue to keep from crying out. It’s gigantic, even bigger than the cafeteria at school, and it’sfilthy. Every surface is covered in grease or dirty cups and plates, and it smells like old vegetables that have been left in the sun. If Zia Teresa saw this place, she would faint.
Harvey clears his throat. “It’s a little… We haven’t had a cleaner in a while. Or a chef. Let’s not stay here. Your breakfast is this way.”
He leads me out through another door to a beautiful dining room that is also filthy. The massive table is heaving with boxes and paper and takeout containers and more dirty plates. There’s so much garbage that most of the velvet-backed chairs have been stacked high too.
Harvey points to where a small space has been cleared for me. A box of cornflakes waits patiently next to a bottle of milk and a single bowl and spoon. “There you go, Miss”
“Thank you, Harvey.” Inside, I’m screaming. How do these men live like this? I know they’re murderers but messing up this gorgeous old house is a different kind of crime.
I take my seat and pour the cereal. Harvey hovers with grandfatherly concern. “Would you like some coffee?”
“Only if you’re getting some for yourself,” I say, and a thought occurs to me. “Mr. Harvey—”
“Just Harvey.”
“Sorry, Harvey, how many people work at Velvet House?”
I expect him to become cagy, but he keeps smiling at me. “There’s a rotating staff of thirty, and five of us live on site. Gretzky and myself you’ve already met, but there’s also Dolmio, Jackie Schnee and my son, Sal.”
“Your son?” I say. “You live here together?”
“We do. It’s been great for Sal since his divorce.” Harvey glances at the door then gives me a big grin. “Would you like to meet him and the others?”
The idea of meeting more men is a little scary but Harvey’s excitement is cute. “That would be lovely.”
He leaves by the door we came through and I add milk to my cereal and try not to think about how dirty my bowl might be. You can tell this is a house only men live in. Aside from the mess, it’s freezing cold. Maybe this is why Adriano is in such a bad mood all the time.
I’m scraping up the last of my cereal when there’s a knock at the door. Harvey reappears with a bald-headed man and a middle-aged guy with droopy eyelids.
“Dolmio and Schnee,” he says. “Sal’s napping and I couldn’t get that grumpy bastard Gretzky to come see you. Oops. Apologies for swearing.”
“That’s completely fine.” I stand, extending my hand to the middle-aged guy. “Hi, I’m January.”
“I know,” he says, rubbing his nose. We shake hands. Mr. Schnee’s touch is as limp as wet noodles.
The younger guy, Dolmio, grins at me. “You’re eighteen.”
“I am.” I hold out my right hand. “How old are you?”
“Thirty-nine.” He holds out his left hand and the two of us stare at each other. But when I withdraw my right hand and hold out my left, he changes hands too, leaving us unable to shake again.
