Beautiful Thief (Omerta Law 2)

Opening the fridge, I bite my bottom lip anxiously, hoping it’s okay that I help myself. There’s some fresh cut fruit on the top shelf. I grab the tub, flip the top off, and grab a sliced apple. Juices of citric sweetness fill my mouth. Leaning against the counter, I close my eyes and enjoy the cool fruit. God, this feels like a dream.

“Morning.”

I jerk, the fruit nearly tumbling from my hand. Romeo comes into the kitchen and shuts the refrigerator door I left open. He’s wearing black briefs, his muscled thighs showing, and I can’t help but see the bulge in the front pocket of his underwear. Clearing my throat, I take a piece of watermelon from the Tupperware and gently bite into it.

“M-morning,” I respond. I wonder if he’s thinking about last night and wondering why I ran and hid in the bathroom. It seems childish thinking about it now, but I just needed to get away. This is all so new to me.

He reaches forward, grabbing a couple pieces of fruit from my hands, and tosses them back. His jaw working to bite through the thick apple slices. His cheeks look to have more stubble on them today than yesterday. I like it, it makes him look more distinguished.

A knock sounds at the door, and I freeze. The fruit falling from my hands and splatters all over the floor. A cold rush of fear slips down my neck and has my body shake instantly.

It’s them. They’re here to take me back.

Romeo gives me an off look, holds his hand up for me to stay where I am and walks over to the door. He looks through the peephole and drops his hand before unlocking it.

“Mr. DeAngelo, you had several packages delivered today,” an older man informs.

I don’t know who it is, I stay where I am glued to the floor.

“Oh, and your keys, I parked your SUV in the front of the garage.”

“Thanks Henry.”

I hear the door shut and Romeo walks back around the corner with two big boxes and a few white enveloped packages in his hands. He tosses them on the kitchen island, and a warmth of relief has me take a deep breath. It was just the doorman. I was scared it was them wanting to take me back to hell. Which means Romeo is heaven? I don’t know, but he’s not anything like I’ve encountered in years. After the orphanage, I was sent to foster care for a brief time and then was sold. Kind, gentle souls are few to none. The cooling of my toes reminding me of the mess I made, I squat, picking up the dirty fruit.

“Don’t worry about it, it’s okay,” Romeo states, coming to help me clean it up.

“No, I’m sorry, I’m just a bit jumpy I guess,” I try to explain my behavior, but I just feel embarrassed. After all the fruit is picked up and tossed in the trash, I tuck a hair behind my ear and look at the packages. What did he order?

He grabs one of the smaller ones with one hand and tears it open with his teeth. A pretty shade of pink slips from it, and he tosses it to me. I barely catch it and hold it up. It’s a sports bra? Shaking my head, confused, I look at him.

“I got you a few things. Things I thought you might need,” he says, looking over the boxes and packages.

My mouth parts in disbelief. He bought me stuff? Stepping forward, my hand touches the box, dust from being in the back of a truck covering my fingertips. I’ve never had anyone buy me stuff, not like this. Holidays have passed, even my birthday, and I’ve never received a single thing. I got used to it, Christmas was just any other day. My birthday, I would sing to myself before I went to bed in a cot, hard floor, chained to a fence. Wherever I might have been.

My eyes sting, threatening to spill with tears and I choke back the sob trying to ripple up my throat.

Reaching for another package, I open it, but slowly. I want the anticipation to last as long as it can. My nail drags through the thick plastic, pulling up the top before my hand dives inside to pull out… a pair of pants. Sweatpants. They’re a grayish color. Rubbing my thumb and forefinger over the fabric, I find the material to be really soft, like a cottony silk.

I reach for another. It’s a dress, a beautiful black dress. Like one that would belong to a beautiful wife in Manhattan.

I open another: A blouse.

Another: A shirt.

After opening all the packages, I stare at the neatly folded linens in front of me. I have clothes. Outfits even.

He grabs the box, collapsing it with his hands so he can shove it into the trash.