Chapter 22

CHAPTER

TWENTY-TWO

Saverio

T he room is bathed in darkness when the sharp prick of a subconscious warning pulls me from my sleep.

I'm alone.

I know it instantly.

The place next to me in the bed is empty.

In a second, I'm wide awake.

Alert.

The bathroom door stands open. It's dark inside.

Panic grips me. The familiar rush of adrenaline pumps through my veins, gearing me for battle even as my mind stays calm. My actions are meticulous and focused. The most powerful weapon is your brain. Years of practice taught me how to keep my head level in the most dangerous situations.

I get up without making a sound. Even as I check the time on my phone, I prick up my ears for noises. Clues.

Just after three in the morning. I couldn't have been asleep for more than ten minutes. I got home not long ago after a strenuous cardio workout of forty-five minutes.

My senses are heightened. My hearing is primed for the softest squeak and the barest exhale of a breath. My sight is like an owl's in the night, my attention like a hawk's.

The house is quiet.

Too quiet.

Nothing stirs.

My bare feet are soundless on the floor as I go to the dressing room and open the safe. I'm wearing nothing but pajama bottoms, but I don't waste time with dressing. In less than five seconds, I'm making my way to the door with my gun in my hands. I know the placement of every statue and each vase. I can walk through the house blindfolded without creaking a single floorboard.

On the landing, I wait. The hallway is dark. The guest bedroom doors are shut. If someone opened one, I would've heard. I don't oil the hinges on purpose. I'm manic like that.

My pulse hammers in my temples as I climb down the stairs. Scenarios flash through my mind. Anya ran. She packed a bag and left. I made it clear she's not a prisoner here. She can come and go as she pleases. In the very unlikely event that she did, she slipped past my men. Otherwise, they would've alerted me that she was on the move.

But running from me isn't the worst. If she did, I'd always find her.

Far more terrifying is that someone offed my men, waited for her to leave my room, maybe to go downstairs for a glass of milk, and took her.

My enemies.

Or God forbid, Luigi.

My security is state of the art, but where there's a will, there's always a way.

My steps are driven by one goal only.

Find Anya.

In one piece.

I'm a man on a mission when I hit the foyer. The red button on the alarm panel next to the front door flickers. The system is armed. The number that flashes in green shows movement in zone two.

The kitchen.

Fuck.

The back door.

The alarm didn't go off, but that doesn't mean someone didn't override it.

I clutch the weapon in both hands, my aim steady as I point the barrel in front of me.

Light washes from the end of the hallway.

I turn the corner, moving fast but quietly. A bright white beam spills through the kitchen door, cutting a wedge across the corridor wall. It could be nothing, just Anya getting that glass of milk, but I take nothing for granted.

A metallic clang cuts through the space, the razor-edged echo stabbing me right in the chest as I imagine Anya fighting for her life in the clutches of an attacker.

My pulse goes into overdrive.

In four long strides, I'm at the door, killing rage already flowing through my veins as I train my weapon with practiced precision in the direction of the noise and charge into the room while cataloguing everything at a glance—the red splashes on the bottom of the cupboards, the bloody puddle on the floor, and Anya kneeling in it.

"Anya," I say in a controlled but terse voice, my gaze searching for the danger behind the island counter and in the dark shadows of the pantry as I move quickly toward her.

At the sound of her name, she jerks. When she looks up, her eyes grow round. "Saverio." She raises her hands, staring at the gun. "What are you doing?"

She's alone. Not under attack. Not in pain. Not bleeding. Not in distress. Except for the distress that the gun I'm waving at her is causing, that is.

"Jesus," I say, lowering the weapon and spearing my fingers through my hair.

A can of tomatoes, the lid peeled open, lies next to the fridge.

"What are you doing?" she asks again, her tone uncertain. Scared.

I take a breath, take a moment to let the air fill my lungs. "I heard a noise." I flick on the safety, walk around the mess, and put the gun on the fridge where it's high enough to be out of her reach. "What are you doing?"

"Sorry," she says, catching her bottom lip between her teeth. "I didn't mean to wake you. I felt a little peckish, but the can slipped from my hands."

I frown. "Are you hungry?"

She averts her gaze, almost appearing guilty. "We didn't eat a proper dinner."

"So you wanted to snack on canned tomatoes?"

Sticking her tongue into her cheek, she shrugs. "With Worcester sauce."

"Worcester sauce?" I ask, going to the sink and grabbing a roll of paper towels from the cupboard underneath.

"Livy used to make me toast with grilled cheese and Worcester sauce when I was little."

I crouch down and wipe up the mess. "You want grilled cheese on toast?"

"Just tomatoes with the sauce."

Resting a hand on my bent knee, I look at her. "Let me get this straight. You want canned tomatoes with Worcester sauce."

"Yes," she says enthusiastically before adding hopefully, "You don't happen to have Worcester sauce, do you?"

"No." I get up and throw the soaked paper towels in the trash. "I've never had the craving."

And then I stop dead.

Fuck me.

She's having one of those weird cravings pregnant women get, those inexplicable urges to eat strange food combinations for a reason no one can explain. Some articles I read suggested it's their bodies' way of telling them they need certain nutrients. Vitamin C and sodium? Others said the hormones heighten a woman's sense of smell and taste, causing these strange culinary desires.

"Here," I say, offering her a hand and helping her to her feet. "I'll go get you some."

She blinks. "It's three o'clock in the morning."

My smile is teasing. "There are twenty-four-seven shops in New York City."

"You can't go out looking for a shop at this hour."

"It won't take me long." I grab the gun and walk to the door. Turning back, I say, "If you're going to walk around barefoot at night, switch on the underfloor heating. I don't want you to catch a cold. While you're at it, go put on socks and a sweater. When I go to bed, I switch off the heat in the rooms I don't use, but seeing that you're sleepwalking at all hours, I'll leave it on. In any event, it'll take a while before the kitchen is warm."

Leaving her with that order, I get dressed and take the Corvette out of the garage before locking up and making sure the alarm is set. I tell the men stationed outside I'll be out and to let no one near the house.

"Shoot first and ask questions later," I say.

They comply with a uniform, "Yes, sir."

I use a phone app to find a few shops that are open, but none of them stock Worcester sauce. I drive from Brooklyn to Queens, making several stops on my way. It's only at a small convenience store in Chinatown where I find what I'm looking for. I take the maxi size bottle of sauce and make my way to the counter. On second thought, I throw in a few cans of tomatoes, choosing diced, whole, pureed, and sun-dried ones.

The guy who rings up the items gives my sweatpants and overcoat a knowing grin. "Pregnant wife, huh?"

I pause in counting out cash from my wallet. "Excuse me?"

"The missus has a bun in the oven." He waves at my purchases. "No man will come out at this hour dressed like he pulled on his clothes in a hurry to buy shit you can get at a supermarket in the daylight hours."

"Something like that," I say, giving him the money.

And I'll be damned if I don't feel an unjustified sliver of pride as he hands me the bag. I guess that's how men feel when they've made their women pregnant. They know those cravings for ungodly food pairings are because of them, that they are the ones who planted them with their seed in their wives' or girlfriends' bodies, and they'll move heaven and earth to get their females what they want.

The thought is like swallowing a mouthful of cranberries—sweet with a bitter edge. I used to raid the bush in my grandmother's garden when we visited her on Sundays, and I always ended up with stomachache. Back then, I took a lot for granted. But I don't want to ponder on that. I don't want to overthink what I can't change.

Pushing the raw memory and its painful association away, I focus on what needs to be done, which is satisfying my treasure's craving.

When I get home, it's five thirty. Yet Anya is still up, sitting at the island unit in the kitchen with a bowl of squishy tomatoes in front of her. She must really be desperate for the sauce if she waited for two hours.

The splatters on the cupboards are gone and the floor is shiny. I should've told her not to exert herself with tidying up the spillage. The cleaning team comes in tomorrow. At least she put on a sweater. I dip my head to study her legs. Socks too. I'm glad she listened.

"You battled to find it," she says, making a guilty face.

I put my shopping on the counter. "A few shops were out of stock."

She's got her head stuck inside the bag before I've removed my coat. Pulling out the bottle of sauce by its neck, she clutches it like a treasure against her chest. "Thank you."

A grin tugs at my lips. "You're welcome."

"You got more tomatoes too," she says excitedly as she continues to investigate the contents of the bag. "Sun-dried tomatoes. Yum."

I take a seat opposite her and watch with fascination as she removes the seal in the lid and shakes a generous amount of sauce over the messy puree in her bowl before mixing everything together. When she dips a spoon into that brownish slush and brings it to her lips, I shudder.

"Mm." She closes her eyes and hums her approval. "Oh my God. This is delicious." Holding out the spoon, she asks, "Want to try it?"

I squint at her meal. "No thanks."

"Good." She shoves another spoonful into her mouth. "More for me."

"Your baby has strange tastes," I note with humor.

"Tell me about it," she says between bites. Or sips. "And I don't even like tomatoes." She licks a bit of juice from the corner of her mouth. "At least, I didn't until you cooked that sauce."

I'm riveted by the scene in front of me. If she licks her lips like that, I can watch her eat weird food all night. "I'll have to make more then."

"Yes, please. I'm on board. If it's not too much trouble." She adds quickly, "After all, you have to eat too."

"Right." And I'll happily eat spaghetti and marinara sauce every night if it makes her and the baby happy.

She pushes her empty bowl aside and rubs her stomach. "I can't have another bite."

"Feeling better?"

"That was exactly what I needed." Her smile is shy. "Thank you."

"I'm glad I could be of assistance." Taking her hand, I help her to her feet. "Next time, wake me up."

She pulls free. "I'm sorry. I shouldn't have snooped around, but I didn't want to disturb your sleep."

"One, there's nothing to be sorry about. You're living here. What's mine is yours. You're free to eat and cook and do what the hell ever you please in this house. Two, you can never disturb me. I thought the worst when I found you gone."

"Really?" She tilts her head. "Where would I have gone?"

Instead of telling her about those ugly scenarios that embedded themselves in my psyche, I say, "Just wake me up, okay?"

She frowns, but she doesn't argue.

"Good girl. Now back to bed with you."

"Let me tidy?—"

"The cleaners can take care of it tomorrow." I point at the door. "Go."

She goes obediently, sneaking a look at me over her shoulder.

In the silence that follows after her exit, I lean my palms on the counter and hang my head between my shoulders.

I've been through some scary shit in my life, but what I imagined tonight is at the top of that list with all the other gruesome scenes where I barely walked away with my life.

Did I overreact?

Yes and no.

I shouldn't have jumped to conclusions, but I couldn't take a risk either. I know how badly Luigi wants to put a bullet in Anya's head. Our snitch in the force confirmed the forensics team didn't find anything on the murder scene that could tie the homicide to Giorgio or me. In time, I won't need an alibi because I won't be a suspect. That doesn't mean something won't come up in the future. I'm not taking that chance. Luigi, on the other hand, thinks letting Anya live is a bigger risk. Sooner or later, he'll insist that I finish her, and if I don't comply, he'll get someone else to do it.