Total pages in book: 131
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 126682 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 633(@200wpm)___ 507(@250wpm)___ 422(@300wpm)
I check the time. It’s after eight. I’ve been holed up in here for most of the day. Livy brought me dinner. The food sits untouched on my desk, cold now. I haven’t seen Anya since they got home. I reckoned she’d be busy with feeding and bathing Claire, and the workout I challenged myself with while blasting music loud enough through my ear to damage my remaining hearing served as a distraction to prevent me from sticking my nose in where it wouldn’t be welcome.
Making a conscious effort, I go back to perusing my fixed assets.
Maybe I should sell the house.
No. Anya and Claire need a safe place to live. Besides, putting the property on the market will tell my enemies exactly what I don’t want them to know—that the business is in financial trouble. That the territory I inherited from Luigi is at stake.
The Corvette will definitely have to go. I wince at the idea of parting with that particular toy. It’s not as much a fast car as a token of my success. I bought it to reward myself for obtaining my goals. I guess it’s fitting that I sell it to recognize my failure.
I sit back and rub a hand over my face. My fingertips brush over the patch. The presence of it still surprises me even though I should be used to it by now. It’s like getting used to the loss of an eye. I don’t think I’ll ever grow accustomed to it.
I underestimated Raphael. That one is on me. This mess is my fault, and I’ll fix it no matter what it takes. Even if it means sacrificing myself.
Another bout of laughter rises from the back of the house. This time, I discern the pretty, demure sound of Anya’s voice that calls to me like a siren.
Fuck it.
Irritated with my life, my limitations, and my inability to concentrate, I shut my laptop, take my crutches, and follow the animated conversation to the kitchen. Only, it doesn’t come from the kitchen. It comes from the backyard. That’s when I smell the smoke.
I yank open the back door, expecting the grass or something to be on fire. There is a fire, but it’s not what I thought.
Anya, Livy, and Nicole sit in camping chairs around a portable fire pit on the lawn. A small bonfire burns in the pit, the flames licking the air and sending sparks into the night. Anya wears a knitted beanie, a puffy jacket, and jeans tucked into Uggs. Livy is decked out in a camo ski suit with snow boots, looking as if she’s about to hit the slopes with a fleece headband covering her ears and ski goggles with yellow-tinted, one-way lenses obscuring her eyes. What surprises me the most is finding Nicole there. She’s wrapped up in an enormous faux fur coat with a matching hat, her high-heeled boots sticking out from under the hem of the long coat.
The women each have a glass in their hands—wineglasses for Livy and Nicole and a tumbler for Anya. They have their legs stretched out, warming their feet around the fire.
“You’re not going home now,” Livy says. “We’re having another one.”
Nicole holds up a finger, slurring slightly when she says, “At this rate, no driver will let me into a taxi.”
“Don’t worry.” Anya chuckles. “We have spare bedrooms.”
“Nope.” Nicole hiccups. “Not going to do the walk of shame home tomorrow morning. My husband will have a fit.”
“Call him and tell him to come over,” Anya says.
“And spoil our girls’ fun?” Nicole shrieks. “Never.”
What the hell? The women are so caught up in their fun they don’t notice me.
I climb down the step. “What’s going on?”
Livy twists in her seat. “Sav.” Her voice is nasally from the mask that pinches her nose. “We’re having a lady’s night.”
Is she tipsy? “What’s with the mask, Liv?”
“It prevents the smoke from burning my eyes.”
I swing a crutch toward the fire pit. “This is illegal. You know that, right?”
“There’s my grumpy friend,” Nicole says with a cackle. “Trust the mafia boss to stick to the rules. How’s that for irony?” She strains her neck to look at me and rolls her eyes. “We won’t tell if you don’t. Don’t get your boxers in a twist. We’re just letting our hair down a bit.” She kicks Livy’s snow boot and snickers. “And boy, do we need it.”
Anya gives me a sweet smile. “We’re grilling marshmallows. Livy is sentimental tonight. She misses her camping days.” She points at the garden table on which marshmallows on skewers and bowls of flaked chocolate and whipped cream are set out. An almost empty bottle of my best red and an open bottle of sherry flank the baby monitor. The grape juice must be for Anya who doesn’t drink alcohol because she’s breastfeeding. “Want to join us?”