Chapter Twenty-One
The sharpest sword is
a word spoken in wrath.
Guatama Buddha
present
When Minka moves in, it’s almost pitiful how few things she brings with her.
There’s one small box of clothes, about the size of a carryon luggage; an even smaller box full of knickknacks, a couple of textbooks and some romance novels, which I find completely out of character from what I’ve seen of her; and a medium sized purse that looks like it’s on its deathbed, and judging from the two sole items in it, Minka doesn’t trust it to carry anything heavier than a wallet and keys either.
I can’t help but let a bit of the old Niccolaio out as I stack the boxes on top of one another, throw the bag on top, and lift the three things easily at once. “Damn. We should have hired a moving crew,” I joke, out of character and feeling like my old self in that moment.
She scowls at me, the irritation in her eyes familiar. “Are you making fun of my poverty?” She looks around at my place from our spot in the grand foyer, slowly taking everything in. Everything is nice, shiny, and sparkly, but that’s how having money works. “Not everyone is as privileged as you are.”
I shrug, because if you don’t include the bloodshed and being disowned by my family, she’s right. For the most part, I’ve lived a pretty damn privileged life. Even though the past seven years have been spent in hiding, for most of it, I’ve lived in luxury, except for that one cold ass month when I was homeless and living under a goddamn bridge for a bit.
“You’re shameless,” she mutters, though it sounds deflated.
In fact, she doesn’t seem like her sassy self. Sure, she’s not exactly meek. But over the past twenty-four hours or so since I offered to let her move in, I was preparing myself for a spitfire. For a sassy hellion. For battle after battle with her sharp tongue.
And the woman before me isn’t the woman I was expecting.
She looks almost… contemplative.
Like she’s somehow went from a woman who knows who is to a woman who’s still trying to figure it out.
For some reason, that disturbs me deeply.
I think I like her better when she’s angry at the world and especially me.
What’s wrong with me, I’ll never know. Call it boredom or call it attraction, but her typical sass excites me. Seeing her like this, though, is almost draining. I resist the urge to press her body against the wall and watch her eyes flare with excitement and lust, anything other than the despondency I’m witnessing right now.
“Where’s my room?” she asks, and I’m grateful for the opportunity to drop her off and rid myself of her in this odd state of hers.
I lead her upstairs to the bedroom across from mine. It’s a generous sized room with a queen sized bed, a flat screen television mounted to the wall, a large bathroom, and a walk in closet capable of holding ten thousand times the amount of clothes she actually owns.
I place the boxes on the floor by the opened door. “Want a tour of the place?” I ask, because I don’t want her wandering where she doesn’t belong later.
When she nods, I lead her around the brownstone, pointing out some spare bedrooms, my room, the office, the library, the gym, the theater, living room, and the security room, which is empty, since I already sent everyone home for the day.
Judging by her reaction when I suggested hiring personal security for her, I thought it might be safer not to risk freaking her out. As I lead her toward the kitchen, I hear a loud groan coming from the stairwell.
The one leading to the basement.
The basement where I’m illegally holding the guy who shot at us prisoner.
I hope she didn’t hear that.
“What was that?” she asks.
Fucking Hell.
“Nothing,” I reply casually, hoping my prisoner stops acting like a little bitch.
“It didn’t sound like nothing.”
“Don’t,” I say, but she’s already heading towards the stairwell.
And honestly, other than that halfhearted “don’t,” I don’t bother stopping her. Because she’ll figure it out eventually when she sees me bringing food and water down to him. It would be exhausting hiding him from her for the duration of her entire stay.
Plus, maybe she can help me change out his pissing bucket every now and then.
Then again, probably not.
I eye her and roll my eyes at the way she walks. She has her chin held up and her back prim and straight, walking like she’s the Queen of fucking England or some shit. I don’t know where she learned to do that, but it’s at odds with what she insinuated to me about her upbringing.
Her “poverty,” as she called it.
When we round the corner to where I’m holding Jax, I study her, waiting to see how she reacts, knowing that I’ll be learning a lot about her from her reaction. And damn, if I’m not a little curious to learn more about her.
And at the last second, I force myself to turn away.
Because what the Hell kind of thought is that?
She’s not here for me to learn more about her, like we’re on a fucking dating show or whatever. She’s here because she threatened to call the cops on me, and I’m not shitty enough of a person to kill an innocent civilian just to keep them quiet.
That’s all.
A gasp leaves her lips, and I see her stopping beside me from my peripherals.
“Why is he here?” she asks, her voice calm and not even a little incensed.
And honestly, that takes me by surprise, because it’s a far tamer reaction than I expected.
This girl’s got spunk. Any other girl, and I can guarantee there would have been screaming. Maybe even some crying. Because Jax’s face is a fucking mess, caked in dried blood and ugly green and purple bruises.
Both of his bullet wounds were clean shots, through and through, so I sewed him up, and that’s about all the upkeep he’s gotten from me since.
He hasn’t even showered.
In my defense, I spray some Febreeze on his skin every now and then when the stink gets to be too much.
Good as new.
I turn to her. “You’re not angry? Disgusted?”
She shrugs. “He shot at me.”
“Fair enough,” I say, but my mind is reeling.
Because this chick is badass.
“He’s here because I’ve still got questions for him,” I continue, answering her earlier question. I kick at his feet, ignoring his whimpers that are loud despite the tape on his mouth. “Jax, here, is a liar.” I turn towards him and look him in the eye. “Aren’t you?”
He mumbles something unintelligibly through the tape, and I tear it from his mouth, unfazed by his screams at the tape ripping from his skin. He has got to be the biggest baby I have ever met. If I even step in his direction, he’ll shriek. I’m almost offended that he thought he could kill me.
I’ve seen ex-girlfriends sit through Brazilian waxes with sultry smiles and bedroom eyes on their faces.
In fact, the girl beside me seems like someone who can take pain like a champ.
At that thought, the part of me that hasn’t gotten laid in too long wonders how rough she likes sex.
“I’m not a liar,” Jax groans, drawing my attention back to him.
I turn to Minka. “He told me that he doesn’t have a partner. He claims he only works alone.” I shift my attention back to Jax and say, “But Minka told me that someone’s been following her. Who am I supposed to believe? You, an F grade, bottom of the barrel, wannabe hitman, or Minka?” I lower my voice to a false whisper, “I’ll give you a hint—I’m more inclined to believe her.”
My voice returns to a normal volume, and when I turn to Minka to ask if she wants to have a go at questioning him, I see something in her eyes that confuses me.
I see guilt.