Knowing Vinnie is in my apartment has the neurons in my brain going haywire. I canfeelher presence around me. Every bone in my body, every instinct in my soul, has me tightening my hands into fists as I work ten times harder than I should have to just to push one single thought from my mind.
The most beautiful woman I’ve ever seen is standing inside my apartment.
I should hate her.
Idohate her.
At least, that’s what I continue to tell myself.
The breath inside my lungs catches as I turn and see her wandering around my living room, her eyes trailing along my space, taking it all in.
The natural light shines through the windows and casts a warm glow on the side of the apartment she’s on, making her appear ethereal and angelic.
But I know there is nothing angelic about her when the devil is her father.
“Did you just move in?” she asks, her eyes lingering on a box next to my nearly empty bookshelf. The box holds the majority of my books, still tucked safely inside. She cranes her neck a bit to see past the cardboard siding and into it.
“Not recently enough to justify still having unpacked boxes,” I muse as I lean against the wall of my living room, watching her. Curiosity is written all over her face as her eyes draw a path from the box of books to the bookshelf.
Her eyes meet mine briefly, and I do my best to make sure my expression remains impassive.
Next, she ventures to the mantel of my fireplace, her fingertips trailing over the bottom of my picture frames—various photos that I cherish of my family, my old dog Polpetta, and even one of me, Enzo, and Sully back when we were in college. When she stops in front of the final frame, I hold my breath.
Before moving back to New York, my last patient inVerona was a little boy whose mother I had to treat more and more frequently toward the end of my time abroad. She was the victim of domestic violence and had come to me at various times for a sprained wrist, a dislocated elbow, and severe stomach pain.
It was only when the violence turned to her son did she accept my offer to help her get out of her situation. When she brought him in, she was sobbing hysterically—absolutely beside herself in fear—and her son was bleeding from his forehead. His father had shoved him, and he hit his head on the edge of a wooden chair.
He required four stitches.
When his mother brought him back for me to remove the stitches, I presented her with new identities for them both, train tickets to Monaco, and enough cash for them to comfortably start anew.
After I gave her all of those things, her son handed me a picture he drew—a stick figure drawing of him, smiling from my exam table with a lollipop in his hand and a Band-Aid on his head, and a stick figure of me smiling at him next to the table.
Not prepared to talk about the meaning behind the drawing, I wordlessly push off the wall and walk into my bedroom to get Vinnie a shirt as promised.
My fingers flick the light switch in my closet so I can see which one to pick. My options are limited, being that I rarely wear any color other than black, but I decide to bring her a button-down, as it is like the one she has on.
Before I emerge from my room, I take a few deep breaths.
All I have to do is hand her the shirt, allow her a few moments to change, and say goodbye.
Another five minutes, maximum.
Then I can go back to my day, and my life, andhopefullynot have any more run-ins with Vincenza.
Momentarily, I question why that thought causes a bleak heaviness within me before I shake the feeling away, pull myself together, and stride out of my room.
Rounding the corner, I see her back is toward me while she stands at my kitchen sink, the water on a low stream. Part of her cream-colored coat sits on the edge of the marble as she gently dabs and twists with a bundle of wet paper towels.
“Is it ruined?” I ask, coming to the edge of the kitchen.
She lets the water soak into the towel again before squeezing the excess, turning off the faucet, and returning to her coat. “I hope not. It’s my favorite.”
“I grabbed you a shirt.” My voice is gruff, and a small twinge of regret for my tone sears through me.
“Do you always have a back stock of women's shirts at your apartment?”
With her question, which drips with sass and attitude, I cannot stop myself from stalking toward her—the need to close the distance is palpable.
