Chapter 50

I stared at her for a long moment, wondering if this was her trying to be nice or if she was just carrying out his orders in a subtle way, but I didn't have the energy to fight right now, so I just turned away and went into the bathroom to put on the clothes she'd brought me, and I was grateful. The pants went past my ankles and were a little tight in my ass, and the T-shirt was a little tight across my chest, but they fit well enough. Luckily, the material was super soft, so the chafing was minimal on both my red ass and my still sensitive nipples. There was no bra or underwear, but at least I was covered.

When I came back out, Lisa handed me a glass with some type of ambercolored alcohol. Whiskey, if I had to guess. But honestly, it could've been horse piss and I wouldn't have cared. Not if it made me drunk enough to forget the last twenty-four hours. "Thank you," I whispered.

"You're welcome," she answered with a small smile that dripped with sympathy.

Maybe I was a bitch, because that smile made me want to slap her. Avoiding her eyes, I brought the glass to my lips, welcoming the burn it left behind as I swallowed half of it in one gulp. To Lisa's credit, she didn't tell me to slow down, just let me do what I needed to do.

Filling up my glass again, she sat beside me on the bed, cradling her own between her two hands after taking a small sip. I studied her from the corner of my eye. "Isn't Mr. Morelli"—I tried to keep the disgust out of my voice but didn't know how successful I was—"going to be pissed you're drinking on the job?"

"Technically, I'm off," she told me. "So, there's really nothing he can say." She paused. "Well, maybe a little bit of something about the fact that I took his favorite whiskey from his office." She waved one hand in the air, as though to chase away any negative vibes she'd brought on herself. "But I'm sure he must have more hidden away somewhere."

"So, you've got some balls on you," I said.

She let out a small laugh. "I guess."

I watched her again as she sipped on her drink. "Aren't you afraid of him?"

She seemed surprised by my question. "Mr. Morelli?" When I nodded, she shook her head. "No, I'm not. Not at all."

"He's going to kill me, you know," I told her in a flat voice, beyond caring at this point.

To her credit, she didn't look away, but held my gaze as she said, "I really don't think he will."

"You do know he's in the mafia, right? And the kind of things they do?"

Lisa nodded. "I do. And Mr. Morelli will do what he has to, when he has to. But only that.”

This took me aback, and for a moment I just stared at her. "Which is why he's going to kill me," I insisted. I didn't know why I was pushing the subject with her. Maybe I just wanted her to see him, really see him, for the kind of man he was. Or perhaps I needed her to either confirm my fears were justified or give me a damn good solid reason why they weren't. Telling me, "He's not that kind of man..." just didn't cut it. "You don't believe me," I said when she just sat there looking down at her drink.

She sighed. "I think that right now he believes he will have to do that eventually, yes. For his own safety." She turned to me, placing one hand on the bed close to my leg. "But, Veda. I honestly believe that when it comes down to it, he won't do it. He won't kill an innocent woman."

"What other option does he have, Lisa?" I finished my second glass and looked around for the bottle, feeling a bit dazed. I realized I was exhausted, now that the alcohol was doing its job and the numbness was coming back. "And since we're being all truthful and shit, I'm kind of okay with that right now."

"You don't mean that," she said with more emotion in her voice than I'd ever heard from her. "Things will get better, Veda. Eventually. It’s just going to take some time."

I took a drink and handed her the bottle. Maybe. Maybe not. I'd never lived life without my sister in it. Sometimes I liked her, most of the time I'd hated her, but she was always there. Always. I never thought I'd have to go through it without her. "Do you have more whiskey?" I asked her. "Actually, could you just leave me a bottle?" In other words, I was done being sociable. I was being rude, but I didn't care.

"No, hon. I'm not going to do that."

I swallowed as the tears welled up again. "I'm just so tired," I told her by way of explanation. "I know you are."

"I just want to sleep."

"I know."

She didn't get me that bottle, but she sat with me until I passed out, glass still in my hand and tears streaming silently down my cheeks.

At some point during the night, I woke up. It was still dark outside. Or maybe I'd slept through the day and into the next. There was a tray on the nightstand with a bowl of something, some crusty bread, and a glass of water.

My mouth tasted like something had crawled in there and died, and I had to pee. So, I got up and took care of business and then rinsed my mouth out with some mouthwash I found under the sink. Ignoring the tray, I locked the bedroom door again and crawled into bed, turning my back to the food.

Closing my eyes, I tried to go back to sleep. And when I couldn't, I opened them again. My sister was lying in bed beside me. Her face, so familiar to me, not five inches from my own. I didn't question if it was real or not. I didn't really care.

I gave her a teary smile.

She didn't smile back.