Page 8

Chapter Eight

Cleopatra

I don’t have much experience traveling, but I thought we would land at a bustling airport, surrounded by an anxiety-inducing crowd. I pictured a sternly dressed customs officer staring through me, pulling rumpled underwear from my bag for everyone to see.

To my surprise, we instead touched down at a charming little private airport in Italy, where we’re now preparing to hop onto a smaller second plane. “Don’t we have to go through customs?” I glance around as the staff gather our things for us.

“Customs?” He holds in a chuckle. “We’re Bachmans.”

As if that explains everything.

Once we settle into the plane, he briefly explains what happened in hushed whispers that Haze received an emergency alert that a rival gang might have placed an explosive at the church .

When I asked why a rival gang would target my parents’ non-Bachman wedding, he said, “They lacked the power to strike near the Village. So, when they learned a Bachman was visiting the chapel, they saw an opportunity.”

Blaze decided taking our small, unconventional family of four to Italy with Haze was safer.

I do love how protective he is of his family. It’s endearing. And if I’m being completely honest, sexy.

He assures me we’ll return to the city for Lydia’s wedding, if not sooner, and expresses confidence that the Bachmans will have the situation entirely under control by then.

He takes my hand. “Benvenuti in Italia. Andiamo ad esplorare. Welcome to Italy. Let’s explore.”

“Here we go!” An excited smile hits my face, as the butterflies flock to my tummy.

Stepping off a private jet onto the stunning tarmac of an Italian lakeside estate feels surreal, especially for someone like me. The gentle breeze refreshes our faces after the long flight. I think I’ll enjoy this forced vacation after all. As I gently glide down the stairway, it's like a dream that the staff graciously rolled out to welcome us, with Blaze’s warm hand firmly holding mine.

Will we share a bed? Would it be rude to ask for a separate room? One far away from his charms and his you-know-what.

If I’m being completely honest, I’m leaning towards the hope that we share a room, which could be dangerous. I don’t want to give him the wrong idea. Additionally, I don’t think it’s healthy to further feed my body’s addiction to him and his talented hands.

I look at him, hoping to read his expression to decipher what he expects from this. From me. From this sticky, taboo situationship that fate has once again forced us into, this time not only through marriage but also by impending danger.

I’ll be safe here, at least.

It’s not so bad. Lying by the lake with Seraphina, enjoying endless history that predates anything we’ve recorded in America. Of course, it will come with a hefty price tag that I insist on repaying. I spent the brief second flight thinking of ways to make quick money.

Creating an online kindergarten curriculum? Tutoring private school children in Hudson Yards? Selling homemade baked goods?

The only real idea I had for quick cash was more terrible homemade porn. Well, that’s not happening.

Blaze will have to take his payment in installments.

We load up into white Cadillac Escalades that will take us to the lakeside estate they call the Villa. Ready to take on this strange, forced vacation with my dad, ex—no—re-stepmother, and best friend.

Oh, and him . The large-handed, gorgeous spanking mafia man at my side.

This time, I rush to sit beside Blaze, sliding into the backseat next to him. Seraphina occupies the captain's chair in front of me. The lovebirds have their own car. Relaxing in the plush leather seat of the Escalade, I’m beginning to appreciate the trip as we follow our tour guide around the estate. While it’s technically four a.m. for us, it’s nine a.m. here as we journey down a lengthy road.

Lush evergreens and distant mountains rise into bright white snowcaps, with the main villa at the lake's edge. The water shimmers a beautiful rich aqua, creating a striking contrast against the smooth white stucco and soft gray wooden shutters of the expansive main home, which is the first to appear.

The driver informs us that this is the Villa that lends its name to the place—the original structure of the estate, currently home to Liam, the leader of the Bachman Italy branch, and his wife, Emilia.

I observe the vast estate as though I’m witnessing a beautiful moment from one of the romantic films that Seraphina and I love. The sun illuminates the carefully maintained gardens, creating a warm ambiance in a setting rich with leisure and the soft hum of affluence. On sun-drenched terraces, we enjoy our espresso, its rich scent blending with the gentle rustling of the morning breeze that flows through the open car windows.

Men wearing impeccably tailored suits, their jackets fitting like a second skin, clutch sleek laptops and leather briefcases as they step away from their morning routines. With polished shoes that click with each step and strides full of purpose, these men embrace the day's possibilities. They slide into their gleaming cars, the metallic surfaces reflecting the morning sun, their tires gripping the cobblestone driveway with a reassuring hum .

Their vehicles, like the one we are riding in, with their smooth, waxed exteriors, look as if they have been driven straight out of a luxury lifestyle magazine. Money truly makes things more beautiful. I lean over, tugging on Seraphina’s elbow. “Doesn’t this place look like the setting of one of our movies?”

“Girl, you read my mind. I was thinking that same thing!” She points to a swarm of glamorous women clad in luxury yoga gear, the fabric hugging their toned forms, hurrying to some wellness class. Others glide in carefree dresses, the gauzy material fluttering in the breeze. They meander along the manicured paths while stylish handbags swing gently at their sides. “Look at these lovelies! They’ve got us city girls beat.”

Their lips are adorned with soft lipstick shades and curve into open, friendly smiles. Laughter bubbles up, blending with easy conversation as they pass each other, exchanging greetings that ripple through the air like a melody.

“Diva at five o’clock!” Seraphina calls, redirecting her attention to a woman in a pink floral dress who wears black sunglasses, the hinges at the corners of her eyes held by three thin gold bars. Her hair is styled in a high, curled ponytail. “How on earth did she get those shades? Dior isn’t releasing the S1I’s for two more weeks!”

Blaze laughs. “That’s Charlie. She’s known for chasing down the Dior releases.”

“A woman after my own heart!” Seraphina cranes her neck, glancing from window to window, not wanting to miss a single outfit or accessory. “Father Christmas, this place is posher than the Hamptons! It’s like the city summer escape on steroids.”

Blaze is a Bronx kid who hasn't been in Manhattan long enough to understand what ‘the summer escape’ is. He gives her a funny look, asking, “Is that a good thing?”

I clarify, “Seraphina’s talking about July and August when the wealthy residents of New York vacate the city, running from the sweltering humidity and stifling scent of hot garbage baking in alleyway dumpsters.”

Seraphina explains, “This place is the Hamptons without the bicycles, underpaid hourly staff, and overpriced breweries and loud nightclubs we’re all too old to be dancing at.”

He eyes me. “What do you do in the summer, Cleo? You have off work, right?”

“I typically spend the school holidays hiding in the air conditioning of the public library, enjoying the tranquility of quiet and free fresh air,” I admit.

Seraphina beams a grin at me. “Not sure I’d call that fresh air, sweet girl. You need to get out more. This trip is going to be good for you.”

Blaze puts a warm hand on my upper thigh. “I agree.”

I swallow. Hard.

“Are you guys hungry?” Blaze asks. “We do have a quaint little eatery on site.”

“Good.” Seraphina licks her lips. “Lead the way. I’m starving! ”

Blaze directs the driver, “Next stop, breakfast.”

We pull up to a white stone building with a green and white awning and cheerful red flowers in window boxes. Patrons are dining at outdoor black wrought-iron tables. Sharon and Dad choose to dive into full honeymoon mode and take their two-top table while Seraphina Blaze and I squeeze into stools at the crowded bar.

A woman dressed in those leggings I see women in the city wear breezes by. The kind with the high price tag and the little bumblebee on their hip, the ones that make their bums shaped like peaches.

I glance down at the dress I chose for this day—a cream-colored peasant number with an empire waist. When I picked it from my closet, it felt… fancy. I may as well be wearing an old burlap sack.

“Blaze, is that you?” The woman leans over the counter to speak to him. “I’d recognize the back of that gorgeous head anywhere. I didn’t realize you were already back from New York!

“Just touched down.” He presents her with that unfairly charming grin of his.

She looks like she wishes he were just down somewhere on her right now. Her fingers lightly drag over her shoulder, her perfect chrome pearl manicured fingernails catching my attention as she does. “Let’s get that coffee you promised me.”

“Sounds good.” He offers her a smooth nod and a wave. “But I’ve got out-of-town guests right now.”

She accepts his excuse. “Soon! ”

I’m not expecting him to be a monk while I’m here, but coffee with another woman? And he didn’t introduce us. Is he embarrassed by me?

I try to hide the disappointment on my face. Then, he leans in and whispers to Seraphina and me, “I’m so sorry I didn’t introduce you both. I’m going to sound like a real shit here, but I can’t remember her name.”

Can’t remember the name of the woman he promised coffee to? Red flag alert.

At least that’s what I should be thinking.

Instead, I’m secretly thrilled he can’t remember the coffee woman's name.

He beams his smile at me, saying, “You living with me will be the perfect excuse to get out of a coffee date I don’t remember promising,” and his grin is a thousand times more genuine, natural, and more him than the charming stage smile he gave what’s-her-name.

I can feel Seraphina staring at my face, trying to figure out what’s going on here. I can’t tell her. I don’t quite know myself. Even though my heart is pitter-pattering, and my nerves are melting, I correct him. “Staying with you. Temporarily. Just until things settle down in New York.”

“Right.” But he says it more like I’m never leaving.

So, we will be sharing a bed… for an indeterminate amount of time. A kaleidoscope of butterflies tickles my stomach. Can you blame a girl?

He is a fantastic kisser .

Breakfast arrives on silver trays, the scent of freshly baked croissants mingling with the sweet aroma of ripe strawberries and juicy melon slices. After enjoying piles of fresh fruit, espresso, and one too many baked goods, I pull my notebook from my purse. Attempting to be discreet, I jot down what I think Seraphina and my breakfasts cost. He can pay for Dad, right? He is his stepfather, after all?—

A big hand interrupts my calculating, snapping my notebook shut.

“Hey!” I glance up indignantly, but I’m met with a pair of very stern—though beautiful—green eyes.

Blaze’s voice drops an octave. “Enough,” he says. He takes the notebook from the table and hands it back to me. “I’m paying. I don’t want to see this again.”

I go to argue, but the set of his jawline makes me go meek, so I slide the notebook into my purse.

Blaze stands from the table, offering, “Ready to see the houses?”

“Sure!” I hop up a little too fast.

Seraphina gives me a cool stare. I know she’s wondering what’s up between Blaze and me. She tried to corner me in the bathroom on the jet. I told her I had an iffy stomach, and she needed to make like a tree and leave.

It wasn’t an untruth, but I have to be careful. She’s onto me.

Sharon and my dad join us at the café's exit, making it a party of five. “Hey, sweetheart.” My dad pulls me in for a side hug. Eager to be alone with Sharon, he says, “You kids ready to get to the house for some rest? We old folks could use a nap.”

‘Nap’ is code for post-marital coitus, and everyone knows it. Sharon’s practically giggling.

Do not wink at Sharon, Dad.

He totally winked at her. Gross.

“We’ll drop Seraphina off at her cottage first,” Blaze says, leading us out of the café and into the sun.

Seraphina turns to me. “I hope you don’t mind. When Blaze asked me to come to Italy with you, I told him I’d need space to work. I hope to do a few personal social media shoots in my spare time. This place will be perfect!”

“No, it’s great!” My voice comes out super high. “I’m so grateful you came.” I shoot Blaze a grin. “Thanks again for making her so comfortable.”

“No worries,” he says. “It’ll be fun having a professional photographer stay with us. Careful though—once word gets around, you might be overwhelmed with Bachmans demanding a couple’s portrait by the beach.”

The excitement I’m pretending doesn’t exist builds as we walk away from Seraphina’s cottage. There’s no platonic roommate situation to save me from Blaze’s burning loins. We will share a bed.

I’m both terrified and turned on.