I blink a thousand times like an idiot. “I…I hadn’t noticed.”
“I know.” There’s a strange glint in his eyes now. Nothing I’ve ever seen there before. Probably just a trick of the light. Reflection off his lenses.
God, he’s even hotter up close. Distinguished, yet also…raw? There’s something wild about him. The creases around his eyes and the silver streaks in his hair hint at the passage of years, but the rest could place him anywhere between mid-thirties and late forties. Who could tell? Nature itself seems to be keeping Adriano Ruffo’s secrets.
Who is this man? Besides a billionaire? Besides a killer, if that’s what he is? The evidence at my feet appears irrefutable. But had I been asked yesterday, nothing on this earth would have convinced me that he was capable of such an act. Will my ignorance, my infatuation, be my doom now?
A knock reverberates through the room. I shift my gaze toward the open doorway, where two men in black suits fill the threshold. Their jackets are open, revealing holsters with guns. I thought weapons were not allowed at tonight’s affair? Both men are wearing an earpiece in their left ear. Are they the don’s security guys? Their gazes are trained on Mr. Ruffo before silently shifting to me. Then, as if I’m simplynothing, they look at Mr. Ruffo again.
Without a word, Adriano Ruffo tilts his head. A silent command. In the next second, the men are gone, closing the door behind them. Shutting me in the room where I’m going to die. At the hand of the man I’ve been obsessing about.
I swallow. Hard. Waiting for the bullet to strike.
Will I even hear the shot before it’s over?
When my eyes collide with Mr. Ruffo’s, he’s leaning back in his chair again, sipping his scotch like nothing’s out of the ordinary.
“You should go now.”
I gape. Stunned.He’s letting me go?
“Unless you would rather stay and help with the disposal of the body?”
I shake my head, fiercely enough that it feels like it could come loose. Rising from the seat, I pick up the linens off the floor, then turn to leave as swiftly as possible.
“Porca puttana.” The muttered curse stops me dead in my tracks when I’m three steps from the door.
I glance over my shoulder. Mr. Ruffo is slumped forward with his elbows braced on his knees. His glasses are dangling in his left hand, while he presses the heel of his other hand to his temple.
“Not you. This fucking migraine,” he growls without looking at me. “Go now, Little Iris.”
Instead of turning back toward the door, I remain still, transfixed by the sight of him. His brows are furrowed into a deep vee, the crow’s-feet around his shut eyes more pronounced. He’s suffering. In pain. I can practically feel it.
Shifting the load in my hands, I reach into my pocket and pull out a half-squished rainbow cookie that I hastily wrapped up in some leftover cellophane before heading to work. I never had the time tonight to eat my homemade snack.
Retracing my steps, quietly as if even the slightest noise could disturb him, I place the cookie on the side table next to the gun. “Sweets can help ease the pain. Sometimes,” I whisper and dash toward the door.
God, I’m so stupid. The man is a killer, and I offered him a cookie? What the heck is wrong with me? Dumb. But I couldn’t just leave him in pain. I’ve seen too much suffering over theyears. Seen what pain can do to a person. Watched it wear on my mom. Maybe that’s what made me do it?
For a brief moment, suspended somewhere in time, Adriano Ruffo no longer seemed so scary. And the doubt that he killed that woman slipped in. Maybe he stumbled into this room erroneously, like me? Yes, that must be it. He probably doesn’t even know her.
I’m almost through the door when I lose my battle, glancing behind me at the dead body on the floor. My eyes catch sight of the woman’s face. Her vacant stare.
It sends icy chills up my spine.
And so does the recognition.
It’s Mr. Ruffo’s wife.
Chapter 2
Dr. Bartholomew Shaw’s office
“It’s been two weeks since your wife died,” Bartholomew comments while absentmindedly playing with his pen. “How have you been?”
I spread my arms across the back of the sofa and tilt my face to the side, mulling over the question as I keep him in my peripheral. Numerous accolades, awards, certificates, and degrees in psychology are displayed in shiny silver frames, aligned with perfect precision on the wall to the left. Ten years ago, they were all stacked in boxes, shoved into the dusty back corner of Barty’s garage. Boasting of accomplishments while battling accusations of malpractice must have seemed in bad taste.
“You should move your ‘doc of the year’ award back to the center.” I nod toward the largest frame. “It looks unbalanced as is.”
