“He needs more medication with his dinner,” she explains, casting a glance at the old man on the daybed, his wily brown eyes dim with age. He watches me, a vague smirk on his face.
“I’ll give it to him,” I tell her.
Nodding uncertainly, she approaches the counter of the little kitchenette in his suite to grab a bottle of pills. “I’m not really sure what I should do,” she tells me.
I look her over once more. She flushes, thinking I’m being an asshole, but I’m just trying to determine whether or not I should send her to Mateo. He’s never gone for a redhead before, but I don’t want to invite more trouble into my life. That said, he does need a maid, and we probably can’t release this girl back into the wild right now.
“Go downstairs. I’ll be down in a little bit.”
She looks decidedly uncomfortable with these instructions, but she’s trained well enough to listen anyway.
Once she’s gone, I put the cake box down on the counter.
Matt Morelli glances at the cake, then meets my gaze. “Here to celebrate my birthday?”
“I think I missed it by a couple months,” I tell him. “Better late than never.”
The old man sighs, maneuvering himself into a sitting position. “Should’ve called first. Ilya and I had shows to watch for a couple more hours.”
Ilya, that’s her name.
“I’m sure she’ll be heartbroken in the absence of your company,” I state, turning to open the cake box.
“They always are,” he agrees.
I roll my eyes at that one. There’s never existed a woman whose heart was broken by losing this man, only by the heinous shit he did to them.
“You got any knives?” I ask, opening and closing drawers in search of one.
“No. Strangely enough, Mateo won’t let me have any,” he says, as if amused.
“Well, he knows you.” I grab a spatula instead. It won’t be as neat, but hell, who do I need to impress?
“I can’t believe it’s taken this long for you to walk through my door, Adrian. To what do I owe this pleasure?”
“I think you know,” I tell him, grabbing a plate and plopping an enormous slice of cake down on it.
“Why don’t you humor an old man,” he says, playing at docility.
I shake my head, grabbing a fork and walking over to him. I hold out the plate and he just stares at it. His eyes move over the huge slice of cake, but then they wander to the hand holding it. My left hand. The scars end before they reach my fingers, but the marbled skin nearly reaches my knuckles.
“Your favorite,” he remarks.
It takes me a second to realize he means the cake. I put a mocking hand to my heart. “You remembered.”
His lips curve up again, another little smirk. I don’t think he remembers how to smile. There’s too much evil in him for such a harmless expression.
“Cake, huh? That’s how you’re gonna do it?”
“Do you still possess the strength to feed yourself, old man, or should I do it for you?”
His feigned amusement fades at that, his dark eyes flashing at the insult. Matt’s never been able to handle a real insult. He snaps the plate up and settles it on his lap, but doesn’t move to take a bite.
“I’m disappointed,” he says, looking up at me. “I expected more from you.”
“You thrive on violence. You don’t deserve anything you’d enjoy. I know how much you hate sweets,” I tell him. Then, because it brings me joy, I tell him, “It came special from Belle’s bakery. I know how many good memories you have there. Why, it was probably prepared on the same counter where she let another man fuck her.”
Even after all these years, the bitter old man snarls at me for the visual.
Maybe he’s why Mateo doesn’t hold a grudge. He’s seen what holding grudges does to a man, how it breaks you down, controls you.
I nod at the plate. “Get going on that. I don’t have all day.” I go back to the dining area, opening the fridge and drawing out two beers. I pop the caps off on the countertop and head back to the living room, holding one out to Matt. “Something to wash it down with.”
I drop onto the couch where Ilya had been seated, reclining and propping my feet up on the coffee table. Matt looks at the plate again, but still doesn’t touch it. I’m probably gonna have to feed the old bastard. I thought maybe he’d accept his end with some kind of dignity, understanding it’s been a long time coming, but I guess I shouldn’t have expected so much.
“Your son’s dead,” I tell him. I take no joy in Joey’s death, but I figure he should probably know.
“Which one?” He doesn’t sound like he cares. He doesn’t even seem excessively curious; he just knows he’s expected to ask.