I’d put out any fires, if necessary.
It was what Luca expected.
As always, thoughts of him made me feel many emotions at once. He’d given me so much, a fresh start, yet as winter soldiered on, the cold didn’t just stay outside. Though the house staff kept the temperature toasty inside, they couldn’t warm the coolness of Luca’s attitude toward me.
Our relationship had eroded, from close to professional to him only speaking in person with me for a few minutes daily. I wondered if that would eventually go away, too. Maybe he’d start to deal with me like I dealt with my middlemen, primarily by text.
I’d barely seen Anna, who was growing like a little weed. Every time I did see her, she seemed taller. She seemed to sense that something was amiss, as well, as I often heard her being fussier than usual a few doors down.
Not that her father appeared daunted by this. Unlike my own father, he kept his voice down, never yelling. Never losing his temper no matter how long she cried. It was like he had a superpower; he might shout at someone else or throw down with his brothers, but he had the patience of Job when it came to his daughter.
I’d been in my bathtub when I heard a crash downstairs, and fearful something like what had happened the night of Angelo’s murder might be happening again, I’d hurried down to check as soon as I could. But what I’d found had been Rosa cleaning up some broken glass, the pungent smell of whiskey giving away what had been inside it.
“Is everything okay?” I asked her, but she merely shushed me and waved her hands.
“No, no, Queen Molly. Don’t you worry yourself over this. I have everything under control.”
Since I’d never once seen Rosa or any other me
mbers of the staff drinking alcohol, I severely doubted she’d been the one to create that mess. In fact, the only person I’d seen drink the occasional shot of whiskey was Luca.
Had he dropped his glass?
No. If it’d been an accident, the glass would’ve ended up on the carpeted floor. But that’s not what it looked like. It looked like he’d hurled it at the wall.
As if he’d been so enraged, he couldn’t contain himself.
Not that I would know.
I padded down the hallway in my bare feet, listening at his door. I heard nothing. I couldn’t tell whether he was in there or not. Maybe it hadn’t been him tossing his whiskey around, after all. Maybe he was in bed asleep. Or maybe he was lounging on the sofa we’d spent our very memorable night on.
Well, it’d been memorable to me.
Feeling like an idiot, I turned to go back to my room. It’d been a long day, and I felt drained, but it was more emotional than physical. I’d just made it to my threshold when I heard a noise coming from somewhere down the hall. I considered ignoring it. Maybe it was Marco with another one of his floozies—I’d heard giggles coming from his room more than once.
But something made me want to be certain.
Moving as stealthily as possible, I promptly made my way toward the sound. It was coming from a doorway at the opposite end of the hall from my room, the gym I knew was there but had never entered. There was another sound, a grunt, issuing through a door not quite closed.
I went in, looking around. Like many parts in the Varasso mansion, the gym was enormous.
Weight sets of various sizes as well as a rowing machine and a treadmill had been lined up in the center of the room. Around the circumference was a racing track, complete with designated lanes. One whole wall seemed to be a window, but blinds had been pulled over it, offering whoever might be within privacy.
In one corner, cordoned off, was what appeared to be a boxing area, with a full-size punching bag. There next to the bag was Luca. Pouring sweat and wearing nothing but laced up shoes and athletic shorts, he reminded me of something out of Rocky. Then, he turned in my direction, looking pissed off, frustrated and sexy as hell.
Too bad he wouldn’t let me help him out with that.
“What are you doing here, Molly?” he asked me, as if doing his best to repress a snarl. At the same time he walloped the bag so hard I wondered if he might bust it loose from the ceiling.
I took note of every defined muscle, every scar, and that unforgettable tattoo. Yep, they were just as I remembered. I could use a refresher course, though I knew I’d be unlikely to ever get one.
“I heard a noise.”
Doing some sort of left hook, right hook combination I’d only ever seen performed on a movie screen, he spoke, his words coming out as more of a jibe than anything else, “Don’t worry, I killed all the bogeymen. It’s safe for you to go back to bed.”
Ah, sarcasm. Well, that was my jam. “It’s too soft,” I told him.
That got his attention. He quit beating the crap out of the bag for long enough to gawk at me in confusion. “What?”