“My dad taught me. When I got scared, he told me to close my eyes and count to three. He would hold my hand and then it wasn’t so scary anymore. Maybe he could teach you.”
Every inch of me grows warm at the look in his eyes as he talks about Matteo. It’s clear his son adores him very much. A part of me struggles to imagine Matteo as a soft, doting father. But then I think about the other glimpses of him I saw, as well.
Underneath it all, he’s exactly the kind of man Leo’s describing.
“What else did he tell you about me?” I question curiously.
“He said to keep you company and that I should make sure you eat breakfast,” Leo states. “My favorite breakfast is chocolate chip pancakes. What’s yours?”
“I love pancakes!” I tell him with a wide smile.
He grins. “Okay. After we eat, I can take you to see my pets.”
I rise to my feet and he slips his palm into mine, leading me toward the dining room I’m guessing.
“You have pets?”
My eyes roam around the house. It’s so clean and precise. I can’t imagine pets roaming through the halls.
“They’re in the back of the house, in my pet house,” Leo clarifies.
“What kind of pets do you have?”
Leo proceeds to talk my ear off about his numerous pets for the next hour while we have breakfast. He tells me all about his fish and his rabbits and his toads. And he tells me about his father, as well.
The man in Leo’s stories isn’t a man I’m familiar with—an amazing, loving dad that grants his son everything he desires.
After breakfast, Leo is escorted to his room while a tall, beefy man with brown eyes approaches me.
“Miss Beaumont, my name is Roscoe. I’m the head of security here and also Leo’s primary guard,” he says in a cool, blank tone.
“Nice to meet you,” I say dryly.
“Mr. Vitale asked me to pass on a message.”
I roll my eyes. “As opposed to delivering it to me himself?”
If he had something to say, he could have just texted it to me. I told him to give me space; he didn’t have to create a world between us.
A voice inside my head whispers that I’m getting exactly what I wanted. But a part of me is disappointed that I ruined what we had.
Roscoe looks at me, unimpressed, until I sigh and roll my wrist in a gesture for him to spit out the message.
“He suggested that you contact your office to take some time off. Perhaps a couple of weeks.”
“I can’t take a couple of weeks off. I have pending trials,” I state.
“He said you would say that. But he also asked me to point out that the person responsible for shooting your father is still at large. He said he was sure you could find someone else to handle your trials until your return.”
My fists clench. “And what am I supposed to do in the meantime?”
“Whatever you want. As long as you do it within the four walls of this house.”
“Making me a prisoner wasn’t the deal when I agreed to be brought here,” I mutter.
Roscoe’s expression grows amused. “I was under the impression you didn’t agree to be brought here at all.”
I roll my eyes. He’s just as annoying as his boss.
