It almost reminded me of the painting in Professor Nelson’s lecture hall with angels and demons. The mural was divided into two sections—one that looked like the clouds of heaven and the other the darkness of hell.
The angels in the clouds had fluffy white wings and golden skin. The ones in the darkness were surrounded by storm clouds with black wings and broken halos.
My hand dropped to my tattoo.
A knock on the door interrupted my staring.
“Yoo-hoo!” a woman shouted from the other end. “Are you hungry, Miss Blair?”
I rolled out of bed, wearing a black tee and sweats that I’d thieved from Enzo’s closet, and opened the door. A short, olderwoman with pink-streaked hair stood on the other side in the sitting room.
Her smile was as bright as the sun radiating through the blinds. “Good morning,” she said, all chipper. “What would you like for breakfast this morning?”
“Uh,” I muttered, still waking up as I raked a hand through the knots in my hair. “Good morning. What are my choices?”
I’d never had anyone come to my door for a breakfast order.
“Whatever you’d like, dear. Eggs, spinach omelet, cereal, croissant. Any of those sound appetizing to you?”
I smiled at her gratefully. “An omelet sounds amazing.”
“Very well. And to drink? Juice? Coffee? Latte?”
“A latte?” I replied, though it sounded almost like a question.
She awarded me a quick nod. “I’ll be back with an omelet and a latte.”
I inched out of the bedroom, halfway out the doorway, when she started to leave. “Do I have to eat in here?” I called out to her.
She halted, staring at me over her shoulder. “That’s what Mr. Marchetti directed.” She lowered her head in a nod before departing from Enzo’s wing.
Which Mr. Marchetti directed that?
Cristian, Benny, or Enzo?
I wished she’d been more specific.
Knowing I couldn’t argue with her, I shuffled back to bed and collapsed onto it face-first.
I’d waited for hours for Enzo to return last night before saying screw it and going to bed. I didn’t have a phone or the password to his MacBook. Therefore, any information I had was from the news.
They only reported on the president’s condition. Not Cristian Marchetti’s.
I returned to the sitting room and was watching my next round of news—the most I had in all my years of life—when the woman returned with my breakfast.
As she set the tray in front of me and spread out my food, I felt bad that I didn’t have any money to tip her with.
Am I supposed to tip her?
I had no idea how this worked.
“What’s your name?” I asked.
She was old, a grandmother’s age, and I wondered how long she’d worked for the Marchettis.
“Miriam,” she replied with a sweet, wrinkled smile.
I returned it. “Hi, Miriam. It’s nice to meet you.”
