Privilege (Special Tactical Units Division 2)

Alessandra laughed. “You are correct. Merda! What I mean is, you’re right. We’re both upset. B. The truth. Did you really just go on vacation?”

Bianca thought about her answer. Tell Alessandra that she’d been the victim of a stalker? That a mentally ill man had terrorized her? That he’d tried to kill her?

That was not a conversation to have

over the phone.

“B? Tell me the truth! I know something is wrong.”

“Nothing’s wrong,” Bianca said. And then, because she knew Alessandra wouldn’t give up until she had an answer, she took a breath and said, “I went away with Chayton Olivieri.”

She could almost hear her sister’s jaw hit the floor.

“You did what?”

“I went away with him.”

“But—but—but—”

“You sound like a motorboat. Is this so difficult to understand? We were attracted to each other that night in California. He came east. He contacted me. We went out. And, you know, we got together.”

“Does Tanner know? He couldn’t, or he’d have told me.”

“Dio, what does your husband have to do with this? Honestly, Alessandra—“

There was a knock at the door.

“A. I have to go.”

“Go where? I want to know more. This makes no sense, Bianca. You said you didn’t like Chay…”

The knock sounded again.

“Alessandra, I’ll call you tomorrow. Right now, I have to go.”

Bianca ended the call. Grabbed her tote bag, fished in it for her wallet. Charging the meal to her room was one thing, but she knew tips were shared by the service staff and she always felt bad about that, so she liked to give whoever delivered the meal something for him or her alone.

Knock. Knock. Knock.

Mannaggia! “I’m coming,” she called out. “Just one second!”

Except, when she flung open the door, it wasn’t room service.

It was Chay.

• • •

Great.

Bianca was staring at him as if he were an apparition.

Or a bad dream.

He couldn’t blame her. He’d caught the first flight he could and, dammit, that meant changing planes not once, not twice, but three times. Three fucking times. In three fucking time zones. The last plane, he’d ended up in a seat so cramped his knees had been up around his chin until one of the flight attendants took pity on him and quietly moved him into an empty seat in first class.

And he probably looked like shit.

No shower. No shave. Not today, or whatever constituted today after all those hours in the air. Not yesterday, either. Probably not yesterday.