Page 41 of Darling Venom
“Come see me at ten.”
I was one-hundred percent certain I had a C-section scheduled for ten. I’d figure it out if I made it till tomorrow without committing a murder.
“Fantastic! Is there anything else you wanted?”
Yes. Your assistant in a cage, so I can cross-examine her in ways that’d make the Spanish Inquisition look like Sesame Street.
“I think your assistant forgot something at my clinic. How can I get it to her?”
“You can send a courier to my office. Have your receptionist email her the invoice.”
“The thing she forgot is of a personal nature.”
It sounded like bullshit, even to my own ears.
What could she have forgotten that was so private I had to hand it over in person? Her goddamn vibrator?
“What’s your address?” I used my cordial, sane, doctor voice.
“Hmm. That’s weird. She just texted me that she’s working from home for the rest of the day. That is so unlike her.”
I didn’t care what she was like. I cared that she apparently had answers to questions that had been brewing inside me for four years.
“Will she be there tomorrow?” It took every ounce of patience I had left not to snap.
“She better be.” Reagan snorted. “Let me text you my office address.”
“Thanks.”
“Are you sure I can’t pick it up tomorrow when I see you?”
“Positive.”
“Are you maybe a tiny bit infatuated with my little anime princess?”
I didn’t know what anime was, and I definitely was not interested in finding out. “She’s young enough to be my daughter.”
“Not quite.”
“I assure you, I have no romantic interest in your assistant.”
“Should I be concerned about what she left behind?”
The word yes rolled on the tip of my tongue.
I could screw Miss Richards over the way she had me. But at the end of the day, I couldn’t risk her resenting me even more than she already did, because I needed answers from her.
“No. It’s fine.”
“She’s a gem, isn’t she?” Reagan purred. “I love her. Such a sweet girl.”
“Sure,” I said, tromping back to my office, hitting the red button on my phone to end the call. My knuckles dripped blood all over the limestone floor. “Such a fucking delight.”
Here’s a lesson I learned at an early age—if there’s a rabbit hole to fall into, a Marchetti man would find a way to get sucked in.
Later that night, my poor excuse for a father sat across from me for our annual Valentine’s Day meal. One of the rare times I saw him unless he ran out of money, blow, or people to cry to.
We’d started the tradition after Kellan died, and I’d be lying if I said I found it comforting. It was more of a checkup to make sure we were both still alive. Misery, like self-destruction, ran in our genes.
