That softly spoken statement has been living in my head rent-free. Not only because of what those words mean, butbecause of how he said them. As if he truly meant it. Why? Why, why, why? Each time I see that man, I’m left with more and more questions.
He was over at the don’s again this week, on Monday. But luckily, he didn’t see me. As soon as I saw him stepping through the main entrance, I rushed to the kitchen and stayed there, busying myself with making a cherry pie. The dreadful thing ended up in the trash because I was too distracted to pay attention to what I was doing and added salt to the filling instead of sugar. Not to mention that I forgot the cornstarch altogether and ended up with a runny mess.
Knowing that Ruffo was under the same roof as me had me on edge. Antsy. I kept expecting to be told to take refreshments out to the meeting room, and the possibility of that both petrified and excited me simultaneously. Then, when I finally heard his car pull away from the driveway, I felt equally relieved and disappointed. I hope he won’t be coming back any time soon, but I know that’s very unlikely. Lately, Ruffo has been stopping by the Spada Estate a lot. Sometimes, multiple times a week.
The traffic light changes to red, and I stop at the crosswalk, pulling my coat tighter around myself. As if the rain wasn’t enough, this wind is killing me. I’m bouncing on the spot, trying to keep warm, when a fancy car, way too flashy for this neighborhood, rolls up beside me, also waiting for the light to turn. I spare it a brief glance before I refocus on the traffic light. A cab flies through the intersection, blaring its horn at a guy running across the street. On the other side, a woman hollers from an apartment window, calling for some poor Frank to get his ass back home. Everybody has some place to be.
My attention gets snagged on the brightly illuminated billboard mounted on the side of the building across the street.The ad is for an upcoming exhibition of the Crown Jewels of the European Royalty that is supposed to open in Boston in a few months. It features a close-up of an intricate gold necklace with a stunning teardrop pendant, a sparkling violet-colored solitaire. It’s gorgeous. The brilliance of the gem is accentuated by the navy velvet background. The image is more than simply eye-catching. The necklace, and especially the pendant, feels hypnotic, keeping my gaze transfixed. But the ad for the regal jewelry seems utterly preposterous in a neighborhood where the paint is peeling off the building it’s being displayed on. I shake my head, wondering if whoever chose the location to showcase this promo is living in a different world than the rest of us.
“You look like you need a ride,” a deep voice says behind me.
I almost jump out of my skin.
As I turn around, goose bumps break out across my arms. Partially from the cold, but mostly from the sight in front of me. Adriano Ruffo, holding open the back door of that fancy car. Rain is drenching his expensive-looking gray suit while he towers over me like a terrifying, dark colossus. I take a step back. Away from him. Suddenly even more frightened of this man. The other times we were this close, he was sitting. I didn’t realize he’d have more than a foot on me. I’m not exactly tall, but at five feet four, I’m no pip-squeak either.
“Thank you for the offer. But I’m… I’m good.”
His dark eyebrows furrow. “You resemble a drowned rat.”
I shiver. The puddles have soaked my jeans halfway up my knees. My feet are swimming inside my sneakers. And my coat feels like it weighs a ton, and possibly has reached its saturation point, because my shirt underneath is now also damp. My eyes dart to the back seat of his car. The interior seems warm, dry,and inviting. I’m tempted. Curious, too. But curiosity has been known to kill the cat.
“Really, I’m good. Thank you.” I clear my throat. “Have a nice evening, Mr. Ruffo.”
Before I finish that sentence, I’m rushing across the street.
What the hell is Adriano Ruffo doing in my neighborhood?People like him don’t come down here without a reason.Why would he offer me a ride?There’s usually a single explanation for why men troll these streets. I doubt Ruffo has to stoop that low. But a man of his stature also wouldn’t offer a woman like me a ride just because he knows me.
The muffled thud of a door, then the rev of an engine as the sleek black Bentley zooms past me. Thank God. A relieved sigh has barely left my lips when the car screeches to a halt just in front of me. The back door flies open, blocking my path.
“Do not be childish.” Ruffo’s rich baritone comes from inside the car. “I won’t bite.”
Sure. I bet the Big Bad Wolf said the same thing to Little Red Riding Hood. Immediately before he tried to eat her. I get a flash in my mind of Adriano Ruffo trying to eat me. And not in the Hannibal Lecter sort of way.
I sink my teeth into my lower lip. Ruffo is settled in the leather seat, regarding me with a slight scowl on his face. Again, he didn’t word it as an order, but the look in his eyes tells me a different story. The man is glaring at me like he isn’t used to hearing no.Which would be worse? Ignoring his demand or getting into this car with him?He didn’t suddenly decide to kill me, did he? He had plenty of chances over the past weeks, right?
Swallowing my apprehension, I slip inside the car, taking the seat across from Ruffo. As soon as I buckle in, the privacyscreen separating us from the driver rises, leaving Ruffo and me facing each other in the back of his flashy limousine. Alone. Just the two of us. In deadly silence.
The engine rumbles once more as the car pulls back into traffic, swerving effortlessly to get around the bus. My bus. The bus that would have taken me safely home.
“Um… I could have walked,” I mumble. “My place is only a few blocks away.”
Ruffo cocks his head to the side, his eyes intent on me from behind his black-rimmed glasses, as if he’s not exactly sure what he wants to do with me. My pulse skyrockets. Usually, glasses make the wearer seem less threatening. But Ruffo’s frames only make his icy irises stand out. I fidget beneath that glacial glare. Looking around to focus on anything but him.
The interior of the car screams luxury. Every detail is pristine. The champagne-colored leather seats are so soft and smooth, the upholstery feels like butter. The clean lines and wooden finishings on the cabinetry and folding tables remind me of the superyachts I’ve seen on TV.
I swallow past the lump in my throat and lean back into the comfy seat, acutely aware of how utterly out of place I must look in this lavish setting. Familiar setting? My skin itches as that prickling feeling that I might have been in this car before settles over me. Am I imagining things again? It also doesn’t help that beneath my feet, a puddle is forming from the rainwater dripping off the hem of my coat. The damn thing is so heavy, having absorbed so much, that it’s weighing me down. I nearly slump in my seat. My wet hair is plastered to my scalp and face, so I must truly resemble the “drowned rat” he called me. All of that is shaking the last traces of my confidence as I face the menacing presence of Adriano Ruffo.
“Is this your car?” I blurt, desperate to fill the silence.
Ruffo regards me with a raised brow but doesn’t say anything.
“It’s just… It looks like the car that took me to the hospital when my mom— Never mind.” I clamp my mouth shut, realizing my nerves have me babbling nonsense. There’s no way he would’ve done that, right? Sent his car to drive me over that day?
His gaze drifts down from the top of my head, landing on the bouquet of soaked and haggard flowers on my lap. “That arrangement looks like it has seen better days.”
“I guess.” I fidget some more. “But it’s still nice to get them.”
Something dangerous flashes in his eyes.
