But Too Well

X : Court

Enjoy. :)

***

THE WEEK GOES by in a blur, my anxiety steadily rising the closer it gets to Thursday. I try to get myself to remain calm as I go through the days, focusing on my job and my clients and my art, but as I'm sure you can guess, it doesn't work so well.

I know I'm off because I don't even make cupcakes on Monday; I'm so jittery and restless that I spend a couple hours making chocolate tarts, completely from scratch. They are so much work and they are fabulous, and I leave a few by Nero's door, with a note that says "More croissants would be appreciated."

Despite this, I desperately hope to avoid running into him. I'm not sure my nerves could take it, and I worry that seeing him would make me spill something stupid about the case and my dad and my brother. I'm sure he'll find out eventually.

I worry for the day he does, because he's definitely involved in it. My family's success mean his failure, and the opposite is just as true.

Something tells me that Nero and whoever else he works with are very used to getting their way, and that if it means messing with defense lawyers and prosecutors and judges and officers and the evidence to get it done, then they will, no matter what. The law is just an inconvenience to them, and they know so many sneaky, scary ways to get around it.

This does little to comfort me, though at least I understand exactly how and why my life is going to shit.

I might just be the unluckiest person in the world, and it'll be a miracle if I can get out of this all in one piece. Shit.

I am so screwed.

•§•

THE NEXT MORNING, like clockwork, a warm plate of croissants sits outside my door, ready for me to eat them. I have one for breakfast before I head out, reading the carefully scripted, laconic note that he leaves with them, and smiling in spite of myself. He's so damn charming, that man. It's frustrating, and I know it's my fault for continuing to lavish my delicious, unhealthy baked goods on him.

Why I still do this in spite of everything I have no idea, but it makes his flirtatious words my own wrong-doing. How could he resist being nice to a woman who bakes him amazing, heart-stopping desserts?

Rosalina,
You're going to make me fat.
Until then, thank you dolcezza
You are my favourite neighbour

I hear his voice, low and rough and completely mesmerizing, forming the words as I read them. I chuckle—as if I'm not his only neighbour, that bastard.

Deep in my chest I have a nagging feeling, one of guilt. I should not be doing this. I should not continue to be friendly and civil to the evil criminal who lives next door, because he doesn't deserve it.

He doesn't deserve my cupcakes and tarts and whatever else I have tucked up my sleeve, and I should stop giving them to him, because he kills people and assaults people and deals with drugs and trafficking and all kinds of other horrendous crimes.

He's a bad person, and yet I can't make myself stop being nice to him.

Maybe it's a character flaw. I tell myself that it's just because I am good and kind, but deep down I know it has to do not with me but with Nero. He's disarming, and I can't stop myself from going along with our peaceful charade, despite everything.