Gian (Trassato Crime Family Book 1)(43)

I still had Carmela and Kevin, so I pushed on, filling my time with meaningless wedding details and helping Carmela get over the death of her fiancé. Now, I had no one. Gian didn’t count. If everything worked to plan, he’d be out of my life by the end of the summer.

When I realized I’d paused on an infomercial on skin care for a good half an hour, I turned off the television. My eyes heavy, I slumped against the arm of the sofa. I draped one hand over my face, and the other hand dangled above the floor, still clutching the stupid knife.

Like everything else, going to bed involved a choice. I didn’t know if I should go to the guest bedroom or Gian’s bedroom. The weak part of me wanted to avoid the choice altogether and fall asleep here. It’d be easier, but taking the easy path over the last year landed me in this mess in the first place. I pulled the gray throw blanket over my legs, promising myself I’d make a choice soon.

As my eyes drifted closed, the loud crash of exploding glass from somewhere near the entry ricocheted through the house. My heart skittered to a stop. The air whooshed out of my lungs in a half-scream and half-exhalation. I scrambled to my feet then fell onto all fours, tripping over the throw blanket tangled around my legs.

With my eyes wide and my blood chugging like a freight train, I scrutinized every shadowed corner of the dimly lit room. Coming to my knees, I grabbed the discarded paring knife, gripping it so tightly my knuckles whitened. My jagged breaths echoed through room, competing for attention with the hysterical drum of my heart.

I waited…

Listening for a creak of the hardwood floors, a bang of a kicked in door, or more shattered glass. I stayed that way, with one arm raised prepared to slash at anything in my vicinity, my eyes wildly searching and scanning for anyone or anything.

I heard nothing except the steady tick tock of the clock over the fireplace mantel and the constant whirr of the furnace. After I had managed to compose myself, I pushed to my feet and tiptoed to the foyer where the stairs were located.

With my back pressed against the wall, I stopped dead. A strong breeze blew through the glass panel inset in the upper half of the front door. Tiny silvers of glass littered the gray and white marble floor, and a rust-colored brick was perched on its side. Black letters in all caps stained one side. The low light and angle of the offending chunk of clay prevented me from making out the words.

“Oh my God,” I mumbled, panic inching up my throat. I swallowed it back and sucked in what I hoped would be a calming breath. I didn’t have time for a breakdown right now. I needed my phone. I needed to call Gian, and I couldn’t do either unless I went upstairs.

Shivering, I sprinted up the stairs, my bare feet slapping against the cold treads. When I reached the third floor, I snagged my purse off the dresser and dumped it contents on the floor. Hands fumbling, I called up Gian’s name from my list of contents.

The call went directly to voicemail. I tried two more times with identical results.

Dammit, answer your phone. Where are you?

If I lived with a different man, I’d call the police, but something told me Gian would lose his mind if I went that route. I scrolled through my contacts, pausing at Carmela’s name. I hesitated, recounting our conversation last night after I fainted. While she hadn’t done anything overtly rude, there was a big fat wall between us, and I didn’t know if I’d ever scale it.

Sadly, she was my only option because my mom couldn’t do a damn thing from halfway across the country and my brother was deployed on the other side of the world. I pressed her name and waited. Unlike Gian, she answered on the second ring.

“Hello?” she said over a steady hum of voices.

“Carmela, it’s Evie.” My voice warbled.

“Evie, are you okay?”

“No.” I lowered my voice. “Someone threw a brick through the glass in the front door at Gian’s house.”

“Where’s Gian?”

“I don’t know.” I rolled my head in a circle, mentally pushing away the icy grip of fear. “He went out with a friend, and he’s not answering his phone.”

She didn’t respond for a beat, then, “Did you call the police?”

“No. Of course not.” I frowned, dragging my free hand down the back of my neck. “Do you think I should?”

“No. No. It was probably a couple of kids playing a prank. I’ll be there in a few minutes. I’m not that far away.”

“Yeah, you’re probably right.” I leaned against the side of the dresser, trying to relax the knots in my shoulders. “Are you sure you’re okay with coming here? If you’re busy—”