Page 20 of Heaven Help Me

Valentina’s head snaps up, body tense and eyes snapping even as they focus on my nose instead of holding my gaze. At least her breathing seems to be back to normal.

“Just felt like it was time,” she says dismissively.

She’s clearly lying.

Which pisses me off. I’ve rearranged my whole life to protect her and she won’t tell me what’s actually going on?

“We need some level of trust between us, Valentina,” I growl.

Her gaze finally meets mine, her expression shifting to that cunning smile I hate so much. “Do we?”

CHAPTER EIGHT

Valentina, AKA Landry

Deuce in a three-piece suit and a pocket square should be illegal.

Seriously. Who can pull off an outfit like that anymore? It’s giving Al Capone, Cary Grant, Paul Newman, or Michael B. Jordan when he won that Oscar vibes. After he closed up his boutique, I saw not one, not two, but three women nearly walk into traffic or a post because they were staring at him so hard.

For a man like that to reach forty-one years of age and still be single takes focus and determination. I should know. I’m the same age and single too. By choice, of course. Marriage in organized crime is rare due to trust issues and the high probability of dying. But what’s Deuce’s reason for being single?

I don’t even hear Deuce calling me until his arm snakes around my waist and he chuckles warm and sensual in my ear.

“Landry, honey, you okay? Been calling you. We’re parked over here,” he says loudly, nodding hello as someone passes us on the sidewalk outside his boutique. When they’ve moved on, he growls in my ear. “Get it together, Valentina.”

I blink. Shit. I guess I do need to get my head back in the game. I smile over at him, realizing he’s definitely taller than me now that I traded the sky-high heels for sandals. I don’t like it.

“Sorry, honeybear. Just daydreamin’!”

Deuce’s smile tightens at the accent I’m still trying to nail. He steers me in the opposite direction and pushes me toward the matte-black Mercedes that’s over the top for a small town like this. He’d fit right in in the city, but Heaven, Mississippi, sees more trucks and SUVs than Batmobiles.

Deuce keeps up a steady stream of conversation on the way home, telling me all about his various customers today. I spent very little time out on the sales floor, but from what I did see, the man knows how to run a successful business. I wonder if that’s what I’ll do once things are cleared up in New York. I haven’t given it much thought, but staying idle like I have the last year or so since retiring has proven boring.

As we’re entering his house, I miscalculate how much room I need to get through the doorway with my arms full of the binder Janie gave me. Several sheets of paper slide out and I lunge for them. The binder is bobbling, and as I try to steady it, I end up bashing my shin into the rocking chair that’s right beside the front door.

“Fuckity fuck fucknuts!” I hiss, now holding the binder and hopping around on one foot. My shin is smarting so badly I forget all about the papers that fell.

“Valentina?” Deuce doubles back and grabs the binder out of my arms, placing it carefully on a little table right inside the doorway. Then he grabs my arms and steadies me.

I look down to my abused shin and see that it’s already swollen and it’s also bleeding down my leg. Deuce follows my gaze and instantly lets me go. I lose my balance again and have to put my foot down to steady myself. My shin sends up an SOS and I’m back to cursing as I hobble into the house following Deuce, the asshat who left me to fend for myself.

“Can you get some ice or something?” I snap.

I’ve had worse wounds before. Couple broken bones. One burn that was unfortunate for the ends of my hair and a two-inch spot on my back. But ever since leaving the Barzettis I’ve let my guard down. I’ve become a bit complacent. When you’re not expecting violence every single day, you start to enjoy creature comforts. A simple bash to the shin feels painful again.

I try to keep my foot lifted because the blood’s about to drip on the hardwood floors. Deuce turns around, takes one look at my shin, and turns whiter than a sheet. He spins back around and lists to the side before righting himself.

“Hello?” I ask with quite a bit of attitude. “A tissue or something would be helpful.”

I collapse into a chair at the small round breakfast table adjacent to the kitchen. Lifting my leg, I settle my foot on another chair. On closer inspection, I did some damage. If Deuce doesn’t have butterfly bandages, I might have to stitch it up. Fuck. I haven’t done my own stitches in years. Hopefully he’s got whiskey on hand. I’ll need a few shots before I thread a needle through my skin again.

Deuce comes back in my direction with one hand clapped over his eyes and his other hand extended with a box of tissues. He clips his hip on the table and nearly falls into my lap.

“Jesus! Watch where you’re going!” I snap, snatching up the tissues and dabbing at my leg before it drips onto the floor. What is his problem?

His fingers spread and I see two wide eyes peeking through his hand. He makes a puking noise and then he’s falling. It all happens in slow motion. It’s like watching a tree fall in the forest. One minute he’s standing, white as a ghost. The next he’s tipping backward, landing on the floor with a loud bang.

I hop to my feet, trying to hold a wad of tissues to my shin while I limp over to him. He had to have hit his head.