Page 34 of The Count
“What’s all this?” I asked and dragged my napkin across my lap.
She poured me a glass of wine and slipped her smile back into place. “Call it, making amends. Tonight, I’m playing dress up just for you.”
I scanned her again. If she dressed for me, she should have come to the table nude. But I didn’t want to mock her efforts or make her feel foolish. “You look beautiful.”
She flushed and I thought it might be a real reaction. Dinner was already laid out so I removed the lid my plate and stared down at … I don’t know what. “Did you change the menu?”
She nodded, pointing her fork at the pasta dish on my plate. “I didn’t just change it. I cooked it.”
The world slid a little sideways on its axis. She’d dressed up for me. She cooked for me. No one had done anything formesince…before.
My first instance was to ask her what she wanted. What was the game or angle I’d missed here. But second glance told me this wasn’t a game. She sat here trying to make amends and I should relax, eat my carbs, and play nice.
I feared moments like this would erode the plans waiting to be completed. Letting anything that wasn’t about my revenge into my life would sand away the edges of the anger I needed sharp enough to cut. To kill.
But looking at her I couldn’t do anything but grab my fork and start eating. I could feel her eyes on me over her own plate until I gave a few encouraging nods. Her cooking tasted incredible. Not that I expected any less when she’d been taught her he Nona as a child. The only family member that didn’t beat her ruthlessly just for existing.
After we both had our fill, I went for another bottle of wine. While I’d been gone, she’d removed her fearsome shoes and sat cross legged on the chair opposite mine. Her dress hiked up around her hips. Even in the candle light I caught the smudges of faint bruises on her inner thighs. Had I done that?
I sat and poured more wine for both of us. “What now, Chef?”
She chuckled and sipped. I decided I liked her this way. When I’d spent weeks following her, watching her every move to make my plan, I’d not seen this woman. This Mercy appeared—dare I think it—happy.
And why did that inflate a balloon in my lungs. I hid my sudden inability to draw a full breath with a sip of the wine.
“I thought we might talk. Tell me about jail.”
The abrupt mention of the worst times of my life popped that poor little balloon prematurely.
“I mean twenty years is a long time. Did you have something specific in mind you wanted to know?”
She leaned forward, and I fell in a spell watching the candlelight play with the shimmer on her eyelids.
“I don’t know. Who was this man you mentioned before? The one you studied with.”
The one who loved me like a father. The one who kept me alive. The one who gave me the means, and the keys, for my revenge.
“Everyone called him The Mad Priest.”
“And was he?”
“What?”
“Mad?”
I considered. “Everyone in prison is a little bit. But, yes, I’d say he was crazier than most. Especially since he was an innocent man.”
She popped her head on her hand and watched me. “How did you know? Didn’t everyone say they were innocent?”
“No, your crimes were like your scout badges for the lifers. You needed to have something to fit in.”
“If he was innocent, what was he in prison for?”
I’d asked the man a similar question so many years ago. “He said for the things men in power throw at those weaker than them. He’d been put in for corruption, embezzlement, and third-degree murder.”
“Wow. So he was there awhile?’
I nodded. The memories clogging my throat.
