Sighing, I turn to look out the window. “It just seems silly at this point. It’s been over a decade. What’s the point?”
“The point is, my dear Vincenza, I think you’re more interested in Mr. Lucchetti than you care to admit.”
But she’s wrong. My interest in the Lucchettis—inSly—begins and ends with the simple fact that the man infuriates me, and any connection to them is a connection none of us want to have.
Chapter 9
Sly
Sweat drips down my brow, my lungs burning as the soles of my shoes carry me through mile seven on the treadmill. Grabbing my water bottle, I squeeze some into my mouth and keep running, watching as the machine counts me into my eighth.
Running is my preferred way to channel my anger and frustration.
I hate it—running.
Hate the burn in my lungs, the tightness I sometimes get in my calves. Hate the way my feet sound every time they touch the machine's walking belt. Or the sidewalk. Or the dirt, for that matter.
Regardless of my location, I hate the exercise.
Still, I do it because it allows me to think. It gives me the mental clarity I need.
And at this moment, Ineedthe clarity.
This morning I saw three patients, all with varyingneeds for their care, yet none with the resources to get it.
The first, a young mother with her four-year-old son. He’s had a high fever for days, his throat so raw and red with white patches he can’t even speak. His tears have dried up, none left to cry, the pain has been so great.
But his mother works odd jobs to get by, none of which offers insurance. Even if one did, she couldn’t afford it. She’s doing the best she can, but just can’t quite get the help she needs.
Thankfully, I have antibiotics on hand. After a full assessment of his health, I hand her the medicine, a treatment plan, and a card with my phone number on it in case she needs to reach out regarding her son. Within twenty-four hours, the antibiotics will begin to do their job and the little guy should be feeling significantly better.
My other two patients were adults, but that didn’t make seeing their struggle any easier. It eats at me that there is such a divide between affluence. Even the difference between middle class to lower class is astonishing. And lower class to poverty level?
Heart-shattering.
So badly, I wish there was more I could do.
In my periphery, I see Sully approach, wiping his face with a towel. Ignoring him, I keep going, but still his voice pushes through my headphones. “Really, Sylvester? Eight miles? Why do you have to be such a show-off?”
When I don’t respond, he continues. “Eight miles seems excessive, Lucchetti. Hello? Can you even hear me through these?” He reaches over and plucks the headphone out of my ear. A grin rivaling the Cheshire Cat widens across his face.
With a huff of annoyance, I punch the buttons of the treadmill to slow it down, taking my pace to a walk. “Are you done with your workout already? Why are you interrupting mine?”
“Oh, someone’s cranky. How long has it been since you’ve gotten laid, buddy?”
I shoot him a glare. I’m notcranky, nor does my mood have any correlation with having sex. I’m stressed. Angry at the uneven and unfair systematics of this country. Of thisworld.
“Well, I have a solution for that,” he continues. Somehow, his smile widens, despite the frown I know is scrawled across my face.
Grabbing my towel, I swipe it over my forehead before stepping off the treadmill. “I’m not in need of one.”
Passing rows of exercise machines, weight benches, and squat racks, he follows me through the gym and into the locker room.
“I have a date with the heiress on Friday?—”
“Doesn’t she have arealname you should be using?”
“She wants to bring her friend along, too. You know, like a double date? Turns out, this friend was also at the masquerade, andapparentlysomeone by the name of Sly Lucchetti piqued her interest.”
