Page 10
CHAPTER 10
SCARLET
Quiet reigns in the house, and I hear my every movement. Each step on the floor, the creak of a chair, the brush of my fingers against the velvet drapes. The dreary weather looming through the panes is a far cry from the southern Italian sun, but a week into an English fall, I prefer the clouds mixed with the occasional pitter-patter of rain. Warmth fills the soulless rooms when the fireplaces come to life at night, and the scent of burning wood perfumes the air inside and out. I’ve also discovered a penchant for cuddling under throws while reading, something I didn’t do back home as I was so often sitting at a desk in the office.
A week has passed since Lina and I went to London to go through Willow’s belongings. Other than her clothes and art, there was nothing of hers to retrieve. She hadn’t lived here long before her past—our family—brought her down. I don’t understand all the details surrounding her death. But I understand enough to know our family’s sick culture is to blame. Our capo’s brother wanted her, and when Leo killed him while defending his wife, Massimo struck out for revenge. Maybe he only wanted to kill Leo. Perhaps in Massimo’s mind, Willow is collateral damage. Or perhaps he wanted revenge for her choosing someone other than his brother, a man forty years older with violent tendencies.
A sickness permeates the famiglia. Sure, books and movies romanticize the mafia life, but when it comes down to it, it’s a life where women are subservient and treated as a commodity. When I bring the family down, there will be no regrets. A world where women aren’t allotted equality is a world in need of change.
I shipped Willow’s art—the same art that I packed and shipped to her after her move to London—back to my aunt and uncle. To Orlando, I sent her sketchbooks, as they included her doodles and random quotes and thoughts she jotted down that he would appreciate. And for myself, I kept her clothes. It felt wasteful to throw them away. Her wardrobe sits in the trunks she shipped, stowed in the guest suite’s closet. Keeping all of her clothes may not be prudent, but I’m not ready to go through each item. Purging her belongings makes her death feel that much more real. It may be years before I can bring myself to sort the trunks.
While her life ended far too early, the knowledge she discovered love before her death is comforting. Neither of us expected love to blossom from her arranged marriage. Admittedly, her parents didn’t arrange the marriage. She begged Leo to help her avoid a forced marriage to a monster. At least, Willow told me she was happy. She said he told her that he loved her.
Love or lust, it had been new, and her time here was so limited there wasn’t anything noteworthy of hers in the condominium. Interestingly, Leo didn’t have any photos either. Or perhaps he did, and someone else removed his personal effects before I arrived.
In the flat, I found an empty walk-in safe with the door ajar. Nick mentioned he’d been through Leo’s office to remove any business-related documents. It’s conceivable Nick possesses more emotion than he lets on and he gathered photographs and mementos. I snapped photos with my phone of their wedding and messaged the photos to Willow on her wedding day, but I assume she hadn’t had time to print them and get them framed. Or perhaps she printed them and that’s something else Nick grabbed.
Security accompanied us to the flat. Lina wanted to leave, and she wasn’t allowed. I get his sister is far younger than him, but she’s still in her mid-twenties. His controlling tendencies are reminiscent of my family’s culture, a troubling trait given I’m trusting the man. But he hinted there are more serious issues with Lina, so I’ve remained quiet.
In London, I asked her a bit about it.
“He’s a nutter,” she’d said. “The way he goes on when I have a cocktail, you’d think I snorted coke.”
“Why do you put up with it?” My question had been an honest one.
“He’ll cut me off.”
“Why not earn your own money?”
She’d smiled like I was the na?ve one. “You’ve no idea how expensive London is, do you? Besides, I am working. I just need a bit more time for it to take off. Then I won’t need his money. But until then…” She smiled and took my arm, treating me like a girlfriend. She read me wrong, because I’m not the linking-arms gal-pal type, but I played along. “Let’s go shopping, shall we?”
I narrowed my eyes. I can only assume my face relayed judgment.
“I promise you. It’s for the job. And it’ll make Nick happy. He loves to buy gifts. Makes him feel important.”
Those two have some serious sibling issues, but it’s not for me to resolve. I’ve been keeping my distance, eating by myself often. I found a library stocked with historical fiction, and that’s where I’ve been spending my days.
Nikolai leaves and returns without my knowledge. The chef might mention it, or sometimes Lina will. The occupants of this estate are like ships maneuvering through a harbor.
My phone vibrates, and the name Catarina Gagliano flashes on my screen. My attention doesn’t stray from the device. No, I watch it as if a spider might crawl from beneath the black box. One, two, five seconds later, the screen goes dark. A minute later, the screen lights again. With a swipe of my index finger, the screen displays a message.
Catarina Gagliano
Did you receive my message? When is your return flight?
Never. That’s when.
I let out a sigh and tap out a response.
Me
I’m extending my stay. I don’t have a return flight yet.
Catarina Gagliano
You need to schedule your return flight. Your uncle has requested your return.
I type, then delete, then type. Her name lights the screen, and I’m careful not to touch the device, lest I accidentally answer. It rings twice, then silence resumes.
While I’m typing a response, a message appears.
Catarina Gagliano
I knew it was a bad idea to let you stay. If you don’t want to end up like Willow, you’ll come home.
I turn the phone off. If I return home, I will end up like Willow. My mother is willingly blind to reality.
Outside, there’s a slight drizzle and a mix of fog and cloud cover shrouds the tree line and beyond. I bundle up in Wellies, an overcoat with a hood, and a scarf. I leave in search of the barn dog that is aptly named Dog.
“Dog,” I call.
Lina is home, and it’s possible she’s off riding and the dog followed her. The stalls are empty. A pungent scent of wood chips and manure wafts in the breeze. Outside the stable, there’s another small building with a sliding door. The design matches the stable, and it looks like an extension. I haven’t seen the door open before, so I wander closer, curious.
I pause in the doorway and blink to ensure I’m not hallucinating.
Nick is shirtless, clinging to a pull-up bar, and lifting himself. Light perspiration coats his skin, highlighting the corded muscles along his back. In the mirror on the wall, I visually trace the line of his pecs, the ridges lining his firm abdomen, and a dusting of dark hair trailing down to the pair of sweats that hang precariously low on his narrow hips.
With each rise over the bar, he gasps for air. His jaw flexes with determination, his lips in a set, firm line.
The second he catches my reflection in the mirror, his movement slows. He drops from the bar, slaps his palms against his thighs, and addresses me in the mirror.
“Did you come to work out?”
“No.” I look like a fool. “I…ah, I was looking for Dog and didn’t know what was out here.”
He bends, picks up a white towel, and wipes his face, neck, and shoulders.
Back away, Scarlet.
My legs don’t move. My throat and mouth are dry.
The hair along his brow is darker, damp with sweat. Light shimmers along the curve of his biceps. The shirts and coats he sports reveal the breadth of his shoulders, but they don’t do justice to his taut, muscled abdomen.
“Scarlet?”
I bring my hand to my nose and pinch the bridge, snapping my brain back into functioning mode.
“Is everything all right?”
“Yes. Yes.” Tell him something. Anything . “Yes, ah, my mother wants me to come home.”
I shift my attention to the pasture.
My reaction to a shirtless man defies logic. I can’t remember ever being attracted to a man, at least not since school. A flash of Vincent naked comes to mind, his hairy chest, bulbous belly, and thick, gnarly curls. There it is. That’s the reaction I know. Revulsion. I can swallow again, but I don’t dare look Nick’s way.
“My family will probably become insistent. You might get a call.”
“Won’t be a problem.”
“Has anything happened yet? Any progress?”
His footsteps warn me he’s approaching, but I start when pressure befalls my shoulder.
“Wheels are turning.”
I risk a glance, and he’s donned a long-sleeve thermal.
“It’s my understanding several businesses were notified this morning that an investigation has been opened into their accounting practices.”
My mother’s phone call makes sense then. “If they are asking questions about the books, my uncle will want me to return home to assist him.”
“You look tense.”
“I’m fine. I was quite aware that when I handed the evidence over, it would point to me. It might be best if you tell my uncle I’m not here. He’ll send men here to retrieve me if I refuse to return.”
“I’d like to see him do that.”
Goose bumps rise on my skin. I’m dressed warmly enough, but the damp air cuts through the fabric.
“Come on. Let’s ask Chef for a tea service. Get you under a blanket.”
“I’m not cold.” The rebuttal falls flat. He’s close, and his scent clogs my senses. It’s molten. Sweaty, yes, but also dangerous and irrationally enticing.
“You’re tense. There’s nothing to fear. You’re safe here. Come on. Let’s get you warm.”
* * *
Inside the billiard room, the fire crackles. My skin heats beneath the heavy blanket.
The chef isn’t on the property, so Nikolai pours bourbon and drops a square ice cube in the glass for me.
“More effective than tea,” he says with a wink that flips my tummy. Inexplicable, as I haven’t yet imbibed. “Sip. It’s good. Like candy.”
In a trance, I do as he suggests. The bourbon burns a trail down my throat, and my muscles loosen. Nikolai—Nick—is a handsome man, but he’s not a good man. And I’m not in the market for a man at all. I married once and murdered the man. From here on out, I’ll stick to vibrators and plants. Things that don’t cause a stir when they meet their maker.
I set the drained glass down and lie back against the pillows. My eyelids burn as I close them, a reminder that I haven’t been sleeping well. I’m not sure why. I prepared for this moment for years. Gathering evidence on the sly. Waiting for the moment to end their corrupt little kingdom. Willow’s death freed me. I hesitated because of her, but now I’ve acted. If there’s a god, the destruction will occur before Orlando sells his soul irrevocably.
“Better?”
“Yes, it’s good.” I observe him watching me, and a question that has repeatedly appeared and disappeared in my mind surfaces. “Do you have Willow’s mobile?”
“No.” His index finger taps against his glass. “If it was recovered, I imagine it’s nonfunctioning.”
Right, because the vehicle she was in sat meters below the surface of the river. Based on the location of her body when it was recovered, she and Leo escaped the vehicle, but the current had been too strong for them. I squeeze my eyes closed. I don’t want to think about what her last moments would have been like, what she went through, or her fear.
Redirect.
“Where’s Lina?”
“Off pouting somewhere, I’m sure.”
He’s freshly showered, something he must’ve done when he went off in search of the chef. Damp, his chestnut hair is darker, and when he nears, I inhale soap and sandalwood.
I’m noticing too much about this imperfect man. He treats his sister abysmally.
“Why?” What did you do to her?
“I said no when she wanted a yes.”
“Why don’t you let Lina live her life?” What gives you the right to control her?
“You think I’m holding her back, do you?” I open my mouth, but he speaks before I launch a word. “She’s free to leave and do as she pleases. But as long as I’m paying her bills, she’s not going out clubbing. Is that the life you like to lead?”
“Me?”
“Do you live to party?”
“No.”
“Did you ever?”
“When you’re forced into an abusive marriage at eighteen, you skip that stage.”
“Noted. Well, you might not have picked up on all the signs then, but my sister loves getting high. I’m not granting her free use of the heli to party with her friends.”
She said he blows everything out of proportion. She didn’t get high with me. But…the man and the envelope. Huh.
“Is she an addict?”
“She’d say no. I’d say yes.”
It makes more sense now. He’s controlling, yes, but with reason. Whether his fears are rational or not, keeping her under lock and key strikes me as misguided. “Does it work? Forcing her to stay home?”
He narrows his eyes, and I’m struck by the stormy blue. When he’s commanding and forthright, he’s gorgeous.
Keep the conversation flowing. “Is she following your path?”
“Hardly.”
“You never went through the partying phase?”
“When your parents die in a car bomb, leaving you with a toddler to raise and businesses to manage at the ripe age of fourteen, you tend to skip that phase.”
“Right.” I might’ve just met the first person who one-upped me on a shite life. “But you do party.” He shakes his head in disagreement. “You stay the night in London. You’ve a bar cart in multiple rooms in your house.”
“Scooch.”
“Pardon?” He’s standing beside the sofa, looking down at me, tall and divine like the Archangel Gabriel.
“Slide over.” I do as he commands, but I do so while eyeing all the space on the other end of the sofa.
“You’re tense. I’m going to work those shoulder muscles of yours.”
“I don’t need?—”
“Come now.” He sits behind me and tugs on my jumper. “Have you got something on underneath this?”
It’s been years since anyone touched my skin. This is not necessary.
The jumper pulls as he lifts it from the back, not waiting for my answer. There’s only a cotton tank beneath the itchy material, and the removal is welcome.
In the absence of the heavy outer layer, my skin chills. He lifts my hair off my neck and drapes it over one shoulder. The fine hairs on my arms rise in unison. The backs of his fingers skim slowly from my elbow to my shoulder, dragging warmth as they climb.
The heat from his touch soothes. I breathe out air I hadn’t realized I’d been holding. My neck bends forward, pulling the muscles along the spine and the base of my scalp.
I am allowing him to touch me.
The thought comes out of nowhere. If it didn’t feel so good, I’d push him away. But his touch feels divine. The pads of his fingers dig into sore muscles. He kneads, playing me pliant.
Be careful , my inner voice cautions.
A moan escapes in response to his thumb flattening against the corded shoulder muscle.
I went to therapy to face my fears. A determination born out of a stubborn refusal to let Vincent win, to let him take any more from me.
The past is behind me.
Strength and warmth cover my shoulder blades, and pressure kneads my spine, melting years of carefully constructed barriers.
A lone tear slips down my cheek, and I swipe it away quickly, surprised by my own vulnerability.
“I like your tat.” His voice is low, miraculously both rough and syrupy.
I aim for a mild acquiescence, but what comes out is another mottled moan. I hadn’t realized how tight and sore my muscles were. More than that, I hadn’t realized how deeply I’d buried my need for human contact. His fingers spin magic, awakening sensations I thought I’d forgotten how to feel.
“Angel wings? What’s the meaning?”
Tattoos don’t have to have meaning. Mine cover scars, but I was thoughtful when I chose my body art. “The wings remind me this isn’t the end game.”
He digs into a tight knot, and my spine curves into the pain.
“When I close my eyes, with a little effort, I feel myself flying high above an ephemeral planet. I suppose that’s another reason I chose wings. It’s a reminder that I can close my eyes and travel anywhere.”
Another tear escapes.
“Am I hurting you?”
He must think I’m such a freak. “No, it’s just…”
“Does touch frighten you?”
“I’m not scared.” My muscles tighten as my spine straightens. He removes his hands, and…that’s not what I want. It’s not what I need either. Dr. Atherton’s kind, wrinkled face flits before my mind’s eye. A brave soul. She met with me for years, knowing someone from the mafia might knock on her door.
I exhale, swallow, and admit, “It’s the first time someone has touched me in years. There’s just… It’s my body’s physical reaction. I am not afraid.”
“Hmm.” He shifts. “Lie down. Flat on your belly.”
Is that wise?
I close my eyes to quell the torrent of tears threatening to swell. I haven’t cried in years, and I’m not sad. It must be the bourbon.
It’s not the bourbon. It’s your body’s reaction. It’s not your fault. None of this is your fault.
Dr. Atherton’s kind words reverberate deep within. Nick’s palm warms my shoulder blade, and I settle into his suggestion and arrange myself flat on the sofa. He sits on the edge, and I close my eyes as he kneads my spine.
His fingers span my sides, and I inhale, expanding my rib cage and clearing my mind.
Warmth accompanies the pressure, and my core tightens as my muscles release. Needs and desires stir, and I force those sensations away, pushing everything out of my mind until my skull is a void.
His palm warms my buttock, over my clothes, but the intimate placement snaps me out of my meditative trance.
“I can do more for you.”
My thigh muscles tense as my pulse quickens.
“No…” I breathe out, blinking my way back to the room. “You’ve done plenty. Thank you.” I’m too weak and spent to lift my head, but add, “That felt amazing.”
“Anytime, angel.” I sense his presence hovering over me, and my eyelids open in time to see him descending. His lips brush my forehead for the briefest second, and he departs.
Table of Contents
- Page 1
- Page 2
- Page 3
- Page 4
- Page 5
- Page 6
- Page 7
- Page 8
- Page 9
- Page 10 (Reading here)
- Page 11
- Page 12
- Page 13
- Page 14
- Page 15
- Page 16
- Page 17
- Page 18
- Page 19
- Page 20
- Page 21
- Page 22
- Page 23
- Page 24
- Page 25
- Page 26
- Page 27
- Page 28
- Page 29
- Page 30
- Page 31
- Page 32
- Page 33
- Page 34
- Page 35
- Page 36
- Page 37
- Page 38
- Page 39
- Page 40
- Page 41