Page 45 of A Love Most Fatal
“What?” I ask, afraid of the thought that’s making her look like she’s on the brink of a scientific discovery.
Vanessa takes a deep inhale through her nose. “I will hire you to interview them.”
Oh.
She’slost her mind.
“Vet them for me,” she says, rushed. “You were just saying you want a job and you’re right; I can’t take this massive project on alone. Too busy.”
“That is aridiculousidea.”
“No, think about it, you’d be great! It would keep you busy. Leo will be your bodyguard.”
“What would I even ask them?”
“Up to you,” she shrugs. “That’s part of the job. I’ll pay you. Bunches.”
As compelling as being paidbunchessounds, Vanessa is most definitely not thinking clearly. If she was, she would just tell me to fuck off and stop complaining, or something. Not this.
“I’m not working for the mafia, Vanessa,” I insist.
“You wouldn’t be working for the mafia, you’d be working for me.”
“What’s the difference?”
Vanessa levels a wry glance my way. “I exist outside of my job.”
“How very humanist of you,” I snipe, but she waves me off.
“Whatever.” Vanessa stands up and stretches her arms over her head making her sweatshirt reveal a sliver of her stomach. “Do it, or don’t. I don’t care.”
The credits roll on the TV, the last of the movie having passed by without me realizing.
I’m inclined to believe that she’s joking, but really, how often does Vanessa Morelli joke?
I let myself imagine what this would look like, me vetting her list of criminals to find her perfect mafioso spouse so that she can make little mafia babies.
“It’s not safe,” I say, my voice quieter than I would like.
“You’d have Leo,” she points out. “He’s a good fighter. One of the best.”
“Yeah, I’m sure he is.” The man is absurdly massive, he would probably have a successful fighting career if he wasn’t into organized crime. “But the night of the wedding and then again in my apartment,” I trail off for a moment, remembering the blood, the three bodies drained of life in front of me. “I was useless.”
Vanessa presses her lips together into a tight line, but there’s something sympathetic in her dark brown eyes. I swallow the lump that’s found its way to my throat.
She’s hearing what I haven’t said. That I’m scared all the damn time, even in her fortress mansion, because someone could come for me at any time and no amount of beginner kickboxing classes at the Y would save me.
“Did you bring gym clothes?” Vanessa asks.
I blink at the question. “I brought some.” Or I think I did, at least.
“We’ll train you,” she says, like it’s simple. Decision made. Vanessa shuts off the TV and stands.
I stand, too. It’s still a shock looking down at her without her heels. “What?”
“You want to be safe? We’ll teach you.” Vanessa nods. “Meet in the basement at 5 PM tomorrow.”
“Oh, I—” My tongue is uselessly searching for syllables. “Okay.”