Total pages in book: 106
Estimated words: 102394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 102394 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 512(@200wpm)___ 410(@250wpm)___ 341(@300wpm)
I didn’t have to fake the pain anymore as I winced. “Juliette.” I stood, moving slowly. When I reached her, I touched her arm, and she didn’t pull away. “I would never cheat on you. You have to know that.”
Her eyes met mine, still guarded, but something flickered there. “Maybe…” she whispered. “I guess I do.”
I slipped my arms around her waist and pulled her to me. Her shoulders relaxed into my hold, and I could feel the rise and fall of her breaths slow.
“I’m sorry I jumped to the wrong conclusion,” she said. “I just heard you on the phone and then…”
“Shhh…” I tightened my hold. “I’m sorry I upset you. I should’ve told you there’d been a change in plans.”
She nodded.
Hours later, things seemed ninety percent back to normal. Though, honestly, I wasn’t even sure what normal meant anymore. Was normal sitting in Vince Ginocassi’s daughter’s house and holding her, feeling my chest full of love while I pretended I wasn’t betraying everything I stood for? Or was normal being a cop? The lines had blurred so much, I could no longer tell where one life ended and the other began.
Juliette came into the bedroom with a basket full of supplies—gauze, peroxide, ointments, tape, pain medications that I wanted to take because I knew they would dull the stress I felt but couldn’t because I needed to stay mentally sharp.
“You ready for me to change your dressing?” she asked.
I nodded and rolled to my good side, giving her access to my wound. My head continued to spin in silence as she peeled off the old gauze, cleaned around the stitches, and prepared a new bandage.
“I hate that you’re doing this,” I said as she finished up.
“Doing what?”
“Taking care of me.”
“All done.” She packed everything back into the basket. “I like taking care of you.”
I rolled onto my back and reached for her. “I should be taking care of you. It’s my job.”
“There are two other men here to take care of me.”
“I didn’t mean job in the employment sense. It’s my job as your man.”
Her eyes went soft. Juliette set her basket of supplies on the floor and laid on the bed, snuggling up next to me.
“Come here,” I said softly. “Put your head on my chest, like you used to.”
“I don’t want to put my weight on you and press your wound into the mattress more than it already is. I don’t want to hurt you.”
“You being close to me could only help.”
She hesitated but rested her head on my chest after a moment. I stroked her hair in silence.
After maybe fifteen minutes, her breaths started to slow, and I realized she’d fallen asleep. Her breath was warm against my skin, and I should’ve felt comfort that my girl was back in my arms. I should’ve felt peace that she thought she was safe enough to drift off. But instead, my heart pounded so hard I could feel it in my throat.
Because it wasn’t the truth that had calmed her; it was the lies I’d told. And I wasn’t sure what was more unsettling—the ones I’d told her, or the ones I was still telling myself.
***
The next morning, Juliette went to a meeting with her agent to talk about damage control. Not even her agent had known who Juliette’s father was until the news broke that the woman involved in the shooting was the daughter of a mob boss. Apparently, the creative community was buzzing about Juliette Grecco being Juliette Ginocassi. Her agent had already fielded two calls from clients—one who was worried about having the daughter of a mobster adapt his book, and another from someone eager to hire her to adapt his book about mob wives. They were meeting with a PR firm to figure out what kind of spin they could put on things.
I waited at the window until Juliette’s car disappeared down the street, then dug out my secret phone again. Though this time, I took it with me and went back to keeping one eye on the road so I didn’t get caught sneaking a call twice.
My captain had told me yesterday that she was going to send me some photos of known associates of some of the rival families, people who weren’t part of an inner circle but were suspected of handling some of their dirty work from time to time. But there was no message from her yet, so I tucked the flip phone back into my bag and shoved it under the bed before grabbing the New York Post from the kitchen table.
Settling on the couch, I was about to flip the paper over like I always did, to read the sports section in the back. But a small photo in the front bottom corner snagged my attention. It was Vince, caught midstep, climbing into the back of a car at what looked like JFK Airport. The headline underneath it read: