MIA
The air in my apartment was stuffy and warm when I got home.
I kicked off the heels that had been pinching my toes all evening, walked over to the living room window, and opened it as far as it would go. A barely there breeze skated over my face.
Closing my eyes, I took a deep breath.
The seating arrangement had done me no favors. Romolo had been able to see me. I couldn’t see him.
But I’d felt him.
His gaze had warmed the back of my head throughout the appetizers, the entrée, and the dessert. I’d tried to stay present, to feign interest in the people at my table, but I’d only been able to focus on bits and pieces of the conversation. I’d already forgotten most of their names. My awareness had been constantly drawn to the man I was supposed to forget.
His comment about how I made him smile had thrown me off-balance. I didn’t know what to make of it. I wished he’d kept the comment to himself.
In short, the evening had been a disaster. It had brought to the surface all of my confusing, frustrating emotions.
The only way it could have been worse was if Romolo had kissed me in front of everyone. And yet I’d spent a good chunk of time at that table imagining exactly that. The way someone might imagine stepping off a train platform just to see how it would feel.
The thought should have terrified me.
It had terrified me.
But it had also made me burn.
I rolled my neck and decided it was time to shower, go to bed, and pray that the acute sense of loss that had blanketed me right when I left the venue would be gone when I woke up.
The chances of another coincidence putting us in a room together were slim. I wasn’t going to be welcomed at any of Fabi’s wedding festivities—a fact she had apologized for profusely last weekend, even after I’d assured her I knew it wasn’t her decision to make.
Tonight had been goodbye for real.
Grabbing my purse off the kitchen counter, I carried it into my bedroom and dumped its contents onto the bed.
I had a large handbag collection, each one neatly stored in its dust bag when not in use. That was what I was about to do with the Bottega clutch when I felt something in the side pocket.
Huh. I didn’t remember putting anything there.
Frowning, I tugged on the zipper and fished out the small item with my index finger. The clutch slipped from my grasp.
A diamond necklace.
A thin ribbon of paper was spooled around one end.
Heart pounding, I unwrapped it and saw the jagged handwriting.
Something to remember me by.
I held it by one end, slowly lowering it into the center of my open palm.
A string of diamonds. From a New York City mobster I wasn’t supposed to see again. He must have slipped it into my bag when he carried it for me.
You’ll be compensated generously for your work.
Was this part of that compensation? I’d made it clear I didn’t want his money. Did he think this was any better?
My God. It was heavy. I didn’t even want to think about how much it was worth.
What did this mean?
Was it his way of telling me my opinions didn’t matter? That if he wanted to pay me, he would?
Or was this just another mind game?
I was leaning toward that option.
He wanted me to remember him. Which was the exact opposite of what I was trying to do.
For a fleeting moment, I considered texting him, demanding he take it back. But I dismissed the idea just as quickly. If Romolo Ferraro wanted to waste his money on me, that was his choice.
He could afford it.
But I’d never wear the damn thing. The necklace would spend its life tucked away. Just like my memory of him.
I opened the drawer of my vanity, lowered the necklace inside, and slammed it shut—like that would somehow lock away the tangled mess of feelings the man who’d given it to me had stirred.
