The kind of house that also has ghosts.
I feel that without being able to explain it.
Mario closes the door behind us, and the sound echoes softly in the large entryway.
I glance around before I can stop myself.
He notices.
He notices everything.
“The house is empty,” he says.
I look back at him.
“My boys are gone for the evening.”
His boys.
Oh God.
His sons.
He has sons. Adult sons.
Sons who are only a couple of years younger than me.
The thought drops into my stomach like a stone.
For one brief, horrifying second, I see myself from the outside. Victoria Murray, not even thirty, Managing Partner, standing in Mario Conti’s house after letting him do unspeakable things to her in his office while his grown sons exist somewhere in the world.
What am I doing?
This is insane.
This is beyond insane.
This is the kind of decision that should come with a legal waiver, a psychiatric evaluation, and possibly a priest.
Mario’s gaze sharpens on my face. “What?”
“Nothing.”
His eyes narrow slightly.
I force myself not to look guilty.
Which is difficult, because I feel guilty about approximately eighteen things at once.
“Victoria.”
“I just remembered you have sons.”
His expression does not change, but something like amusement flickers at the corner of his mouth.
“Yes.”
“Sons,” I repeat, because apparently I need the full horror spoken aloud. Repeatedly.
