I stop pacing and grip the counter until my knuckles ache.
“Even if Marco isn’t tracing their every move, Lucia will keep her safe,” he adds. “I’ve seen how she is with her on the surveillance clips they’ve come up in. She’s worse than a mama bear protecting her cub.”
The knot in my chest loosens a fraction. Giovanni is right. IfCamille is with Lucia, she’s safer than ever. Lucia is fiercely protective and has shown Camille how to defend herself.
Just last week, I watched Lucia teach her how to escape a perp’s hold.She made it seem like a game, and Camille hung off her every word.
“You’re right.”
“I know.” I roll my eyes, and he waits for my growl to simmer before he asks, “And you, D? Are you okay?”
I want to tell him I’m fine, but honestly, I don’t even know what fucking day it is. Maybe Thursday? My mind is a blank slate where time should be. The lack of memories, on top of this week’s battles, has me at my limit.
Edoardo’s claim of matrimony was proven legitimate, so I legally cannot touch Lucia until she explicitly states, without coercion, that their marriage is over.
Having her close but not being allowed to touch her is fucking killing me.
It is the worst form of torture.
The void deepens when I check my phone. What I see floors me.
I’ve lost two days. Two whole days are fucking gone.
I scrub a hand over my face, and my heart rate kicks up a beat. A faint, unmistakable scent lingers on my hand. It’s not the ghastly floral products Anna slathers her skin in each morning. It’s sweet and intimately familiar.
Lucia’s scent is on my skin.
Herintimatescent.
I don’t know what it means or how Lucia’s scent still clings to my skin a week after our last encounter. But I do know I can’t piece any of this together without her.
“Find them.” My voice is steadier now but still rigid. “Please.”
Giovanni relays the order to Nico, who reports back a moment later. “They’re at the grocery store with Marco, getting supplies. Someone’s eating fancy tonight. Lobster tails for you and crab sticks for Camille. No fucking clue who the ramen noodles are for.”
“Lucia,” Giovanni and I say in unison, well-versed on stubborn, beautiful women who refuse to accept a life vest even when they’re drowning.
Although I’m pissed Lucia still can’t put herself first, my lungs finally accept a full breath.
“Okay.” I exhale slowly. “If they have perishables, they should be home soon.”
“Are you sure you’re all right?” Giovanni asks, suspicion creeping into his tone. “You’re acting strange.”
I want to tell him I’ve lost two days of memories and ask him to find them, but that will only cause panic, which always leads to my brothers stomping over the privacy I’ve barely had a moment of recently.
“I’m fine,” I lie. “I’ll call you later.”
I hang up before he can question me further.
Needing to scrub the confusion off my skin before Lucia and Camille come through the door and see me like this, I head to the bathroom.
As I step inside, I notice a washcloth hanging partway out of the laundry basket. It’s damp and scented with soap, and the trash can is without a liner, as though it was removed in a hurry.
My stomach twists again, but no matter how deeply I search through the sludge in my head, nothing emerges.
In the shower, hot water pounds my back as I search for answers that refuse to come. I couldn’t have gotten blackout drunk. I’ve been struggling all week not to start a mafia war, so I might have had a drink to keep myself in my apartment instead of watching Lucia sleep, like a lovesick idiot, but a drink or three wouldn’t erase memories or explain why I woke up naked.
I don’t masturbate to my daughter’s nanny in a bedroom where evidence could be left.
