The Woman on the Jury (Costa Family #7) Read Online Jessica Gadziala

Categories Genre: Alpha Male, Contemporary, Dark, Mafia Tags Authors: Series: Costa Family Series by Jessica Gadziala
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Total pages in book: 80
Estimated words: 77579 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 388(@200wpm)___ 310(@250wpm)___ 259(@300wpm)
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I mean, if I had my laptop, I could continue to work on the website. A lot of antique aficionados were online, not coming into the store. We could be missing out on a huge market by not having an online presence. But I was no expert, and I couldn’t afford to pay for one, so it was taking me a long time to figure it all out.

I guess I could spend some time at the library on their computers researching that more too.

That in mind, I headed out, losing a few hours at the library before heading back to the hospital.

I was paranoid at best as I slipped into the hospital, my head on a swivel, sure one of the brothers might be hiding behind any corner, waiting for me in the elevator, that kind of thing.

But there was no one.

Save for my grandfather who looked even smaller than before in the big hospital bed.

“Shouldn’t you be at work?” he asked, trying to squint at the clock.

He had bad eyes, but he never wanted to wear his glasses. He didn’t have them when he’d come in, so he was seeing everything all blurry.

I was lucky that it was late fall because the sun had set a while ago, and he was none the wiser.

“It was closing time,” I told him, having decided that my best course of action was just to pretend that everything was status quo, so he would allow himself to stay and get better, not be stubborn and sign himself out against doctor’s orders, only to go back and, what? Get hurt again? No, I wouldn’t allow that. “How are you feeling?”

“Oh, they gave me the good stuff,” he said, giving me a bleary-eyed smile.

“Did you eat lunch?” I asked.

“Oh, yes. They had tapioca!” he said, thrilled at the delicacy. He was a man of simple tastes, and he didn’t allow dessert, save for fruit, most nights.

“Food for the soul,” I told him, patting his hand. “I did some studying in my, uhm, free time today,” I told him.

Then we launched into industry talk. I liked the books, but I learned so much more from hearing my grandfather talk about it. Facts came alive in his words. I figured maybe that had something to do with having grown up listening to him tell me bedtime stories. This during the time when my mom, brother, and I were staying with him to get away from my father.

Those stories were rich with history but told in fantastical ways, with thrills and intrigue. And very detailed accounts of the art, swords, and statues. Even the rugs. As an adult, I realized that it was him weaving his own love into the stories.

So as he told me about Hellenistic sculptures, I could suddenly see the finer details in the fabrics, in the bodies, compared to that of the classical style. I would no longer see the image of The Boxer at Rest as curly-haired and freakishly black-eyed. I could see the cords of his muscles, the shadows of the wraps on his hands, the little cuts in his face, even the way his, well, cock and balls sat on the stone.

My grandfather never shied away from talking about genitals. I guess since classic art was so full of it, he had learned to be able to see and speak of it without the embarrassment that many of us felt.

By the time we were done discussing the Hellenistic era, he was already starting to drift off, so I excused myself, ready to make my way across town to the hotel.

At first, I’d wanted to stay in one close to the hospital, but my paranoia had me choosing one further away, so I wouldn’t be looking over my shoulder.

I ducked into a taxi right outside the hospital. Again, paranoid, and thinking I’d be harder to follow in a taxi, even if it killed me to spend even the few dollars on a ride when I could have easily walked.

I ducked into the bodega on the corner, grabbing a toothbrush, paste, and a bar of soap, resigning myself to wearing my clothes again tomorrow, and just… wearing my undies to sleep in, then checked into the hotel.

It wasn’t much to write home about. A dark, but clean hotel meant to look more upscale than it was. And to tourists who might not know better, it likely even succeeded.

I’d been right about my room. A full-sized bed dominated the space, and the bathroom was somehow even more cramped than the one in my apartment. And, yes, my view was of the alley.

But it was clean and safe, I reminded myself.

Safe was what mattered most.

So I could finally get some rest.

I barely got a chance to brush my teeth and rush through a shower before I fell into the bed.



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