Total pages in book: 77
Estimated words: 75748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 75748 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 379(@200wpm)___ 303(@250wpm)___ 252(@300wpm)
The look that slashed across his face told me it was definitely one of Ronny’s snide remarks.
“You can tell me. Trust me, I’ve heard worse.”
Nico sucked in a breath so deep it expanded his whole chest. “She said she wanted to get Matt’s personal effects before you sold them.”
“Sold them,” I scoffed, shaking my head. “Because I need the money.” I waved a hand out at the apartment that he had to know I paid for all on my own. Since Matthew never could keep a job.
When we’d first met, he’d told me he was a consultant. And I’d been so starry-eyed and caught up in his web of charm that I hadn’t realized that was just a synonym for ‘unemployed.’
“I’m sorry,” Nico said.
“It’s not your fault. Maybe this is good. Maybe I won’t have to worry about them bursting in at a future date. Do you want some coffee?”
“Sure. Whatever you’re having is fine.”
“I’m having a banana bread latte,” I warned him. Despite myself, my late husband’s words came back to me, teasing me about my ‘expensive girly drinks’ in such a way that it was more of a judgment than just a lighthearted jab. Objectively, I knew he was probably just annoyed that he couldn’t pay for my coffee habit. Though that didn’t explain why—when I’d really been trying to get pregnant—he continued to tease me about it even when I’d given up coffee for months.
“Whatever you’re having, sweetheart,” he said, shrugging.
“I can make a plain one,” I told him as I got my homemade banana bread syrup out of the fridge.
Unwanted, Ronny’s words came back to me.
“A glass-front fridge? What, does she want to show off how empty it is? What does she even feed you, baby?”
It had been useless to remind her that I liked aesthetics. My whole career revolved around them.
All she cared about was if I was cooking for Matthew or not.
And I was. I just liked to go daily to the market to pick out the ingredients to whatever spoke to me. To make a meal that Matthew would inevitably call “too fancy,” refuse to eat, and then go out to get greasy fast food.
“Is that homemade coffee syrup?” Nico asked, head tipping to the side. “Now I have to try it.” I offered him a little smile as I poured a generous amount into each cup before brewing the espresso. “Damn, that smells good.”
Even if he just had good manners, I felt a little tingle at the praise.
When was the last time I heard a man say something nice to me? Months, at least.
“Hot or iced?” I asked, going into the freezer to grab my acrylic container full of round ice cubes.
“Iced sounds good.” There was another crash coming from my bedroom, making him wince.
“They were going to pick my lock.” I don’t know why I said that. He clearly knew the Ferraro family. He didn’t want to hear anyone talking shit about them.
“What?” he asked, tone going sharp.
“I was debating not answering the door,” I admitted. “But then I heard Ronny ask if Danny could pick the lock.”
“Christ,” Nico said, sighing.
“I figured it might be best to get this part over with.” I was pretty sure he heard what I wasn’t saying: that I wanted to be done with them.
“Don’t be so sure this will be the end of it,” Nico said, pitching his voice for just the two of us.
“But they hate me,” I said, stomach sinking.
“Hey, I don’t think they hate you,” Nico, clearly a good guy, insisted.
“Oh, they hate me. I came to terms with that a long time ago.”
Nico glanced down the hall, then back at me. He was clearly fighting with his loyalties. In the end, he chose diplomacy, not picking sides. “If they can think of a reason to, they will contact you.”
A reason.
It wasn’t a stretch to assume he meant money.
That was the only time Ronny would speak to me directly. And she’d lean heavily on the guilt. “You need to pitch in for Danny’s bail. He’s family.” Or “Carol needs money to pay down her medical bills. It’s what family does.”
It was like she dangled the carrot she knew I was starving for. Family. Belonging. Just to get something out of me. Then snatching it right away again.
Of course, I would still be beholden to the Ferraro family. So long as I had what they wanted, they would come knocking.
“Maybe I should move,” I said, glancing around the apartment.
I no longer felt all the hope and joy that I once did when I looked around. Back when I saw kids running down the long hallway, laughter wafting out toward me as I cooked dinner. Or all of us gathered in the living room in matching Christmas PJs. Or gathered around the too-large dining room table with all our loved ones on holidays.