Total pages in book: 97
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 92873 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 464(@200wpm)___ 371(@250wpm)___ 310(@300wpm)
I don’t think so.
I down my coffee and leave the cup on the saucer before getting to my feet. “I’ll let you get to your scones and cream.”
He’s all teeth as he follows my example and stands. “Do let me know in advance next time you’re planning a visit. I’ll make sure Toma is home. We can have lunch together.”
“Where is Toma?”
“He got his own place.” He tilts his head. “Didn’t you know?”
“No,” I drawl. “He forgot to mention it.”
“Yes, well.” Uncle Nico pats my shoulder and says with staged regret, “It’s been a while since we’ve seen each other.” He pauses, no doubt giving the accusation time to sink in. “When your father was alive, we had dinner together every week.”
“That my mother cooked. Now that you have a housekeeper with such a talent for baking, you could take the initiative of organizing a dinner upon yourself.”
The smug look vanishes from his face.
“Goodbye, Uncle,” I say, walking to the door. “You don’t have to see me out. I know my way.”
He doesn’t follow me down the hallway. As I fit my coat, a movement on the landing catches my eye. Emilia stands in the shadows, hiding behind one of the grotesque marble statues. I get the feeling I know her. Then I remember. She’s the hooker Uncle Enzo tried to set me up with in Marseille, the one I rejected.
Before I’m out of the door, I already have my phone in my hand. I fire off a message to my financial manager to get me Toma’s address. It shouldn’t be difficult. He only has to tap into the bank account and follow the money trail. Getting into my car, I send an email to one of my PI’s and instruct him to gather information on Emilia.
I’m pulling into the road when Toma’s address comes through on my phone. He rents a sea-facing loft apartment near the old city.
I drive to the location and park in the street. The old building is well restored. Expensive. The owner is a business connection. I punch in the code my financial manager provided to open the main door and take the staircase that spirals to the top.
There’s only one door on the penthouse floor. I knock on the carved wood with a gloved hand. It takes a few minutes before my cousin opens the door in nothing but a pair of boxer shorts, yawning as he scratches his jaw.
His eyes grow round. Suddenly wide awake, he exclaims, “Angelo.”
“Hello, Toma,” I say, forcing him back as I invite myself in.
He shuts the door. “This is, um, unexpected.” Glancing toward the closed door at the end of the hallway, he says, “Do you want to grab a coffee in the bar downstairs?” His bony back is rigid even as he trots casually toward that door. “Let me grab some clothes.”
“That won’t be necessary.” I add with a wry smile, “We’re not going to the bar. With regard to the clothes, by all means, go ahead.”
He turns to face me. “I don’t have coffee in the apartment. I haven’t had time to do the shopping.”
“I already had coffee at your father’s house.”
His pale skin turns even whiter. “You had a meeting?”
“Impromptu business call,” I say, looking around as I remove my gloves.
The furniture and decoration are contemporary. A designer white leather sofa faces a coffee table. A pewter statue of a naked woman on her hands and knees forms the base. The glass top is balanced on her back. She’s in a crawling position, one knee and one palm placed in front of the other, her breasts hanging down like melons. I tilt my head to study the artwork. Interesting.
“I, um…” He scratches his head. “Can I take your coat?”
I pull off my coat and throw it over the back of a red plastic chair with crystal feet.
He swallows.
The door he eyed opens. A curvy young woman dressed in a silk negligee steps barefoot into the hallway. “Toma?”
“Go back to bed, Iris,” he says.
“Who is he?” she asks, craning her neck to look at me.
“Go back to bed,” he bites out, hurrying toward her and spinning her around with his hands on her waist.
“But I want coffee,” she says, her tone disgruntled as he shoves her into the room. “You promised me breakfast in bed and—”
He slams the door, cutting short her protest, and tames his curls with his fingers before facing me again. “Sorry about that.” Rolling his eyes in an attempt at humor he doesn’t manage to pull off, he adds, “Women.”
“Hmm. It seems you’ve conquered your…” I drop my gaze to his crotch, “…problem.”
His face turns red. “It’s not like that. She’s just a friend.”
I raise an eyebrow. “Does your future wife know your friends sleep over?”
Exhaling through his nose, he stalks to an open-plan kitchen. “It’s my home. I can do as I please.”