Chapter 7

CHAPTER

SEVEN

Anya

T he minute the door shuts behind Saverio, I jump to my feet. A dizzy spell hits me hard. I pinch my eyes shut and open them slowly, waiting for the room to stop spinning before I go to the lounge and look through the street-facing window.

Saverio stands on the sidewalk, buttoning up his coat. He seems like any regular man dressed for a fancy office job, and at the same time, he doesn't. There's something different about him—a discerning, dangerous edge. With not a hair out of place and an undecipherable mask on his face, no one would guess what he's been up to. You'd never say he just pulled down a woman's panties and wrenched an orgasm from her body while spanking her. He gives the impression of a CEO leaving one board meeting for another.

The black car pulls up to where Saverio waits on the curb. He folds his body double to get into the back. The tinted window hides his face when he shuts the door. The driver hits the road, and just when he picks up speed, the window on Saverio's side lowers a fraction. He tilts his face up to the building, our gazes clashing across the distance as a knowing smile tugs at his lips.

I spin away from the window and lean against the wall.

What the hell just happened?

How did our dynamic go from murderous to sexual? Saverio can call it what he wants, but the spanking wasn't a punishment, at least not one designed to hurt. Maybe his aim was humiliation. If that's the case, he succeeded.

My face turns hot as I recall how he made me come. I don't understand that either. I don't know why my body betrayed me, why the sting of his palm on my skin heated me right to my core. The idea of him pulling down my underwear and punishing me as if I were a naughty girl didn't completely repulse me. The fact that the game turned him on was clear, and it didn't leave me unaffected. A flame of something licked my belly, something that felt a lot like arousal, and that only makes my stomach burn with shame. How could I derive pleasure from such an act and from a man like him no less?

The reason I didn't fight him wasn't born from perverse anticipation. It was born from self-preservation. A part of me reckoned if I just let him finish, he'd go away and leave me alone. If I learned anything about him, it's that he likes a fight. When I give him resistance, something unsettling sparks in his eyes. It makes him more excited. Compliance gets me further. However, I never intended to go that far. I didn't expect him to bring me to climax and then to come all over my body.

I rub my blazing cheeks, taking a shaky breath as I face the ugly truth. Saverio turned my apartment into a prison, and he holds the key. I'm not only his hostage, trapped in the web of lies he spun, but I'm also utterly at his mercy, and he made sure I understood that.

The thought sends ripples of fear through me. The cold, naked fact steals my breath.

He can do anything he fancies to me, and if I value the lives of the people in my life, I don't have a choice but to let him.

Shit.

I'm so fucked.

Literally.

Pushing my hair out of my face, I straighten my spine.

I should have a bolt and chain fitted to the door. I can change the lock. Only, that won't keep him out. He'll probably break it down. But I can't let him use me. I have to be cleverer. If I can't beat him in strength, I have to fight with my brainpower. I must find a way of getting myself out of this mess.

The resolve calms me somewhat. Taking strength from that, I push off the wall and clean the apartment to stay busy while I rack my brain for solutions. By the time the place is squeaky clean, I've only come up with two possibilities.

Either I have to kill Saverio or blackmail him.

Seeing that I have nothing to blackmail him with and that I don't have it in me to kill a bug, let alone a human being, that leaves me with nothing.

Despondent, I try not to think about what happened. Instead, I count out the money I have left, pull on a cardigan and sneakers, and go to the corner store to buy fresh pasta and basil. After cooking dinner, I deliver a plate of pasta with homemade pesto sauce to Livy, who opens the door with a strained face.

"Is everything all right?" I ask.

"This business with Frank Lewis kept me up all night." She steps aside. "Don't mind me. I'm just a sentimental old woman who can't believe he's gone just like that. Come on in." She glances at the plate in my hand. "What do you have there?"

"It's nothing fancy, but I thought you may not feel like cooking."

"You're a darling," she says, taking my arm and pulling me inside. "You're one of the good ones, Anya."

Swallowing my guilt, I don't reply. While she locks the door, I go to the kitchen and leave the plate on the table.

"Have a seat," she says when she joins me. "I'll make us some tea."

I take in her rickety frame as I sit down at the table. "Have you eaten?"

She waves a heavily ringed hand before bustling over to the stove and grabbing the kettle. "After everything that's happened, I don't have an appetite."

"You must take care of yourself."

"Don't worry." She fills the kettle with water from the tap. "I won't let your generous effort go to waste." After carrying it back to the stove and lighting the gas, she turns to face me. "What did they tell you at the office?"

"Nothing other than what the police who questioned us said."

Frowning, she says with a thoughtful air, "His wife said he carried a panic button."

"He did?"

That meant he expected trouble. It explains why he was so jumpy.

"He activated it just before the attack. That's the reason the police got to the scene so fast. His security company alerted them. The security personnel arrived five minutes after the police on the scene." She fixes a non-seeing gaze on the wall and mutters, "It must be terrible to have a job like that, to give people such bad news, telling them someone they loved died."

"How is she doing?" I ask, fumbling with the hem of my cardigan. "His wife?"

Livy sighs. "As well as can be expected."

I clear my throat to get rid of the lump that's lodged there. "And the kids?"

The whistle of the kettle cuts into the space.

She switches off the gas and brings the kettle to the table. "They're grown up and living their own lives." Her mouth pulls down. "They weren't that close to their father. I suppose he was always working, but you'd think they'd appreciate the opportunities he created for them. He gave them the best education money can buy."

I ponder the question I've been asking myself since this morning. "Who do you think will take over the firm?"

"It's difficult to say." She fetches two mugs and a box of tea bags from the cupboard that she puts in front of me. "Perhaps his oldest son? I say that, but he's a lawyer in Washington now and very successful in his own right. Accounting never interested him. Besides, his family is established there. His wife may not be keen on moving." She lowers herself into a chair, supporting her weight with a palm on the table. "His daughter may be more inclined to sell her florist shop and move back home, but she's never liked the accounting business." She picks up the kettle and fills the mugs. "I assume his widow will inherit the business. Maybe she'll promote one of the senior executives to CEO. If you ask me?—"

The ringtone of her phone cuts her short with the tune of La Vie En Rose.

When she makes to get up again, I stop her with a hand on her arm.

"I'll get it."

I retrieve the phone from where it's charging on the counter and hand it to her.

She answers in her teacher's voice. "Ms. Simmons here, how may I help you?"

I busy myself by going through the wooden box with the compartments that holds her tea collection to give her a measure of privacy. Opting for a lemon verbena infusion, I drop the teabag in my mug.

When I start to crumple the wrapper in my fist, I notice the bar code on the back. I take a few teabags in individual wrappers from the box and add the barcodes in my head before multiplying them. As always, the figures jump out at me in an instant. It's a soothing exercise.

"No, my dear," Livy says. "I'm very sorry. I don't have any availability at the moment." She listens to the caller's reply before continuing. "Nor in the foreseeable future, I'm afraid, but you're welcome to send me your details. If an apartment becomes available, I'll let you know. However, you should know there's a waiting list."

I take the total of the multiplication and subtract the barcode numbers, starting with the Earl Grey and finishing with the chai tea.

They talk for another minute about the rent and deposit requirements before she says in a dismissive manner, "Yes, yes, I'll let you know. I'm afraid I have to go. I have company."

"Another prospective tenant?" I ask when she hangs up, putting the teabags back in the box.

"A rental agent." She blows out a breath. "The area is becoming more and more popular. With the easy access to the river and the High Line, it's increasingly sought after."

Fresh guilt assaults me. "I'll be out of your hair soon. When my employment becomes permanent, I'll be able to get my own place."

She leans forward and squeezes my hand. "You shouldn't worry about that. I told you you're welcome to stay for as long as you like."

"You're losing out on good money by not renting out the apartment."

She clicks her tongue and waves her hand with an elegant flair. "My pension is enough to live on. This fancy building I inherited from my father is just a bonus."

"Still, your father wanted you to live comfortably. I don't want to take away the money he intended you to have."

"My darling child." She stretches a long, sinewy arm draped with gold bangles over the table and cups my cheek. "Life dealt you a bad hand. The scholarship didn't work out because you had other priorities. You did the responsible thing, choosing to take care of your mother instead. Now, she's in good hands. It's time you put yourself first. Go study if that's what you want. Get yourself the job you deserve."

"It's too late for that," I say, biting my lip.

She pulls away and says with vehemence, "It's never too late."

In my case, it is, but I can't find it in my heart to tell her I'm pregnant, that I screwed up in a moment of weakness. I won't be able to bear her disappointment. All I manage is a meek shake of my head.

"I always knew you were special." Her wrinkled face softens with compassion. "I knew it from the moment you walked into my first-grade class, not even five years old, and blurted out the answers to the calculations I'd written on the blackboard." A coquettish smile curves her lips. "And those were meant for the twelve-grade students."

The ones she gave extra lessons. That's how she met Mr. Lewis. She helped his son from flunking math to passing with flying colors. The distinction allowed him to get into one of the best universities. That's how Mr. Lewis ended up owing her a favor, and the favor turned out to be me.

I'm so damn tired of being a charity case.

"You can do it," she says with an assertive nod. "You were meant for great things, Anya."

I want to scoff at that. I barely pulled myself out of the gutter. If it weren't for Livy, I'd still be in that terrible place of humiliation and desperation. She brought sandwiches to school because she knew I was starving. When I was old enough to work, she arranged casual jobs during school vacations.

"Never doubt yourself," she says when I don't reply.

"It's not that." I pull my tea closer, my ribcage squeezing as I consider being honest with her. At some point, I have to tell her. She's going to notice when I start showing.

"Then what is it?" she asks, dipping her chin to search my face.

Pressure builds behind my eyes, unwelcome tears pricking at the back as the words push their way to my tongue.

Just as I open my mouth to admit the truth, she says, "How silly of me. Yes, of course. You met a man." Her azure blue eyes sparkle. "You fell in love." Taking my hand in both of hers, she continues, "That's a wonderful thing, my dear child, maybe the most important thing in life. Don't throw a chance at happiness away for the sake of money. Always follow your passion." She lets me go and taps her chest. "Follow your heart, and everything else will fall into place. You can get married and have a family as well as a career. These days, there are many solutions and options for women who want both."

I want to tell her how wrong she is, but I can't do that without risking her life. Instead, I give her a weak smile before picking up my mug and hiding my face behind it. If she knew the extent of the trouble I'm in, she'd not only be disappointed but she'd also never look at me with the same pride and approval again.

When Livy starts asking questions about how Saverio and I met, I excuse myself, saying I have to be up early for work, which isn't a lie.

Back in my own apartment, I let the fa?ade drop. The talk with Livy served as a stark reminder of everything that's wrong in my life. There are too many things I can't fix, serious things with life-altering consequences. For once, I long for my mom, wishing she could just be that to me—a mother who loves her child unconditionally, no matter how badly I messed up.

Making an impulsive decision, I call to speak to my mom, but the nurse says she's already asleep. The brand-new phone in my hand mocks me when I end the call. I can't forget who gave it to me or why. If I had money, I would've thrown it through the window. As it is, I don't know how I'm going to make ends meet until my next paycheck arrives.

Between my mom's housing and medical bills, there's not enough money to cover our expenses. My bank account is in overdraft, and my credit card is in the red.

The nagging worry that's forever at the forefront of my mind ties my stomach into knots. How will I be able to support a child if I can't even support myself? I settle on the sofa with my dinosaur laptop and work on my budget spreadsheet, removing every cost I can, but I only end up doing myself short while still having a negative balance. My financial situation isn't going to improve until my probation period is over and the increase that will come with my permanent position kicks in.

With that thought, fear sets in. Now that they know I'm pregnant, I'm scared about what will happen tomorrow. If Ms. Price spills the beans, they may decide to terminate my employment because I lied in my application. They may demand a doctor's letter stating how far along I am, and then the numbers will speak for themselves. I'm three months pregnant, but I only signed the contract a month ago.

Shutting the laptop with a sigh, I rub a hand over my belly.

"Don't worry, Baby. I'm going to take good care of you."

I won't fail my baby. I can't. I'll never submit her to the childhood I had. I just have to pray that Mr. Lewis's successor will be so happy with the quality of my work that he'll look past my unethical behavior. I'll explain that I was scared they wouldn't employ me if they knew I was pregnant. If I want to prove my worth, I can't be washed out and tired in the morning. I better go to bed.

I make to stand only to grip the armrest of the sofa as a fresh bout of dizziness hits me. It takes a little longer than this morning before my legs are stable enough to carry me to the bathroom where I wash my face and brush my teeth.

I'm about to undress when the doorbell rings. My stomach contracts into a tight ball.

It's not Saverio.

He wouldn't ring the bell. He'd use his key.

What if it's the police? After what happened, I can't not call Saverio.

I tiptoe to the door and peer through the peephole. A man wearing a delivery company cap stands on the threshold, carrying a large box.

"Can I help you?" I call through the door.

"I have a delivery for Ms. Brennan."

"Who let you in?"

"The landlady." He swifts the box in his arms. "Ms. Summers or something. She left just as I arrived."

That would be Livy going to the bar for her habitual nightcap.

I open the door a crack.

He looks me up and down. "Ms. Brennan?"

"That's me."

"This is heavy." He flashes me with a grin. "Where would you like me put it?"

"Who's it from?"

He motions with his chin at the piece of paper that lies on top of the box.

I snatch it up and read the details.

It's from Saverio?

"Ma'am?" The man clears his throat. "This thing weighs a ton."

Not trusting anyone, I don't invite him into the apartment. "You can leave it there."

He sighs but puts the box on the doormat. "No signature is necessary." Saluting me, he says, "Have yourself a good evening."

"Thank you," I reply to his back.

I wait until he's gone before I sneak to the top of the stairs. When I'm certain there's no one hovering downstairs, I go back and open the box.

It's filled with … groceries.

From fresh vegetables and fruit neatly arranged in transparent containers to vacuum-packed meat and fish, there's enough to feed a small army. On the top lies a punnet of big, red, juicy-looking strawberries. A note is stuck to the side with sticky tape.

Tearing off the piece of paper, I unfold it. The handwriting is bold and neat.

For a woman who needs to eat for two.