Page 14

CHAPTER 14

SCARLET

Catarina Gagliano

Luisa scheduled your return flight for tomorrow morning. She will email you the itinerary and boarding pass.

I read the message. That’s typical of my mother. She ignores that which displeases her and assumes that by insisting something happen, it will.

When she saw my bruises, broken bones, and stitches, she told me to be a good wife and refused to see the truth. She avoided me, as if putting me out of sight would eliminate the issue. And perhaps it did. Avoiding me eased her guilt. She could tell herself I was living a good life as the wife of the enforcer, and in her mind, it would be true.

I could respond and tell her I won’t be on the flight, but that might expedite plans to retrieve me.

I set the phone down and look outside the window to judge the weather. It’s overcast with a weighted melancholy I feel in my bones. My sundresses and skirts don’t work in this climate. I peruse the assortment of clothes Lina ordered for me at her brother’s request. He asked her to ensure I had a full wardrobe suitable for an English winter, and she delivered. Tags remain on many of the hanging and folded items. If I don’t use them, they can return them. At least, that’s my thought process. I locate a pair of denims and a thermal. It’s not particularly fashionable, and most definitely casual, but I’ll be warm, and there’s no need to dress for business.

I head to Nick’s office to locate him. He offered me his protection and his home, but it’s better if I leave. Tristan Voignier mentioned Interpol could protect me, and it’s better if I pursue that option rather than bring Massimo’s retrievers to Nick’s doorstep. Each attempted contact from my mother drives that point home.

An angry voice coming from the office halts my steps.

“You don’t believe that for one minute.”

A brief silence follows.

“Bullshit! I want to know everything. Every detail they discover at the crash site. You hear me? They’re going to spin it. I want the truth.”

I step to the doorway as Nikolai hurls a glass against the wall. Crystal shatters.

“Bad time?”

He startles, a reaction I didn’t expect. I took him to be a man who is never taken by surprise.

“Come on in,” he says, running his fingers through his hair and turning to the window.

“Did something happen?”

“I don’t know.” He’s thoughtful, eyes narrowed, his mind somewhere far from his study.

I stand there, torn between taking his time or exiting and leaving him be.

“Don’t just stand there. Enter. Sit. What do you need?”

“Was that about Willow’s wreck?”

He blinks, and the hard lines around his eyes soften.

“No. A plane crash. What did you need?”

“Ah, I…” I swipe my palms on my front and step forward. “I plan to ask Interpol to place me under their protection.”

That gets his attention.

“Why?” He looks like he needs a smoker’s pipe to hold. Something to do with his hands. Maybe it’s the stuffy room. “What makes you say that?"

“My mother booked a return flight. When I’m not on the plane?—”

“Didn’t you tell her you weren’t coming home?”

“Yes. She doesn’t care. I could fight her. Message her back and tell her I won’t be on the plane. But Orlando said Massimo is threatening to send someone to retrieve me. If I fight her?—”

“Right. Well, here’s what we’re going to do.”

I take a seat and cross one leg over the other. My fingers twitch, wishing for a notepad.

“You’ll stay here.” His tone brooks no will for argument, but I open my mouth. “You’re safest here.”

He can be as firm as he wishes. “This isn’t your fight. It’s mine.”

“Massimo won’t send his thugs to my estate. If he does, retribution will be swift.”

“You mean, you’ll send men or?—”

“We’ll fuck his distribution chain.”

“You’re already?—”

“But he doesn’t know that. If he sends men, I’ll shift demand to one of the other families that are still in favor, and he’ll find his routes getting busted one after the other.” His lips spread into a slow, conniving grin. “Massimo fucked with me once. He won’t get a second chance. It’s probably why they’re using your mother.”

“If that’s true, then it’s best to tell her I won’t be on the plane, right? It will just be a quarrel between my mother and me.”

“Are you close to her?”

“No.”

When I was younger, we were close. I’ve lived lifetimes since those days.

“Who raised you?”

What’s he on about? “That’s an odd question.”

“You’re resilient. Confident. Those things don’t come about when someone grows in the wild.”

“Are you sure about that?”

With a grin, he sinks down into the chair across from me. “No. I’d imagine some kids would fare better in the wild than with their parents.”

“Were you close to your parents?”

“I was.” The grin disappears, and the room is noticeably draftier without it.

I’m sorry is on the tip of my tongue, but I bite it back. “And they raised you?”

“Yes.” His gaze lifts from his lap. “They were exemplary parents. The best, truly.”

I sense there’s more, but he doesn’t want to talk about his past.

“It’s not fair of me to say my mother didn’t raise me. She did. She was very present in my life as a child. But, as I grew older, and after my father’s death, we grew apart. And I became an asset. Something to be bartered.”

“In marriage, you mean?”

I lift my brows and nod at the bizarre notion. It shouldn’t bother me so much, as it’s what I grew up with, but it infuriates me that I'm not seen as human and worthy. Less so now, given I’ve got a broken hymen and can’t bear children. What a screwed-up world.

“But now”—he lifts his shoulders—“how does that play out? You’re not on the marriage market—is that what they call it?”

“Have you watched Bridgerton ?” I stifle a laugh.

“Do I not look the type?”

A girlish giggle escapes, and I clamp it down.

“I live on an English estate. I love a show with spice.”

My fingers cover my grin. I can’t imagine this man watching a romance.

“Lina,” he explains, grinning. “She’s fond of the telly.”

His shoulders lift, a nonchalant shrug, and as his shoulders fall, so does the mood in the room.

“In our world, we don’t have a marriage market. It’s not really given a name. But that’s what it feels like. Only it’s not so much about choice; it’s rather strategic. And there’s this idea that you always want to climb higher, the next level in the organizational hierarchy, so you want to be matched higher and higher.” I hold my hand up, visualizing a tiered cake with only the tip top being delightfully rich.

“How’s that work out for everyone?” He slouches in the chair and kicks one leg back over the other one on the ottoman.

“Horribly.”

He chuckles and I grin. It’s not a cheerful topic, but it’s a relief to talk with someone who will not counter with all the benefits of such an archaic system.

“Your English. It’s as good as Willow’s. Mild accent. Is that part of the social climb?”

“Oddly enough, no. At least, not how you mean. Uncle Alessio requires everyone to speak English on his property. He considers Titan Shipping to be a family-run operation, and speaking English is important for interacting with clients around the world.”

“If it was all about his business, I’d think Russian.”

“They don’t expect us to speak Russian. For a long time, Russians were competitors. It’s relatively recent that they’ve become clients, and only for my uncle. Many clients don’t speak Italian. English is an intermediary. Plus, given we’re a coastal family, many of the Lupi Grigi own businesses that cater to tourists. English is an asset.”

“Do you meet the clients?”

“Yes. Uncle Alessio likes to introduce family to clients when they visit. The meetings are always brief, but it’s the image he sells.”

“He’s a smart man. It surprised me that they didn’t pick him to be capo.”

“Massimo has the time. Uncle Alessio doesn’t. And Massimo also had the desire.”

“Your uncle didn’t want to reign?” He’s rightfully skeptical.

“I’m not close to my uncle. I can’t tell you exactly what he’s thinking. But from what I’ve observed, I’d say he’s been steadily working to separate himself from the Lupi Grigi.”

“Which is why he was open to his daughter marrying outside the family?”

“Marrying her to Leandro would’ve been cruel.” Leandro was almost as horrible as Vincent. Almost.

I glance up to find Nick’s gaze on me, studying me like an art exhibit. I can’t blame him for thinking I’m an odd one. Our world is bizarre. And I killed my husband. Can’t quite forget that eccentricity.

“Alessio Gagliano arranged a cruel marriage for you.”

“That he did.” Bastard . “And that’s why I’m working with the authorities to bring him down.”

“But he didn’t do that to his own daughter.”

“Don’t grant him grace. Willow made an alternative path for herself. Her father didn’t lift a finger to make that happen. All my uncle did was agree, and the choice played into his desires. Hierarchy, remember? Syndicate over Massimo and his demented brother.”

“Even after what happened. The accident. You think it’s better she married Leo?”

“A marriage to Leandro would have been a death sentence, too.”

Nick’s a well-to-do man in his thirties or early forties who is handsome yet single. Admittedly, he lives in the modern world, far removed from our traditions. But there are still expectations. “What about you? How are you not married?”

This earns a prideful smirk. “First, my parents passed when I was far too young for them to push a union on me. Second, where I’m from, if one locks himself down, it’s for love. At least, the perception of love.”

“Do you not believe in it?”

“I’m not an ogre. I’ve seen Bridgerton .”

I’m not really the smiling sort, but he’s beginning to make me do it quite a lot.

“My parents loved each other.” The tentative way he lifts his gaze, he reminds me of a young boy with a shy admission. “But marriage isn’t in my future. I quite like the life I’ve laid out.”

“Roaming a quiet country house with a sister who hates you half the time?”

He chuckles. “She’s twelve years younger. We had nannies, but in many ways, I’m the only parent she’s known. So, I suppose that attitude she shows me… It’s not so different from your feelings toward your mother.”

“It’s different.” It’s absolutely different.

“How?”

“You would never marry her to a known psychopath. Vincent hunted feral cats and killed them as a child. He was cruel and disturbed even as a child.”

“What did your mother get from the marriage?”

“My uncle acquired Vincent’s father’s shipping business on favorable terms. Vincent wasn’t only an enforcer. His laundromat business performed well. And what does my mother get? To live at the Gagliano estate in perpetuity.”

“Wouldn’t she get that, anyway? She’s your aunt’s sister, right?”

“My father was my uncle’s younger brother. Still, one would think Uncle Alessio would look out for her.”

All she told me was that we owe Uncle Alessio and that we need to do what’s best for him. The old proverbial we .

“What did your father look like?”

He’s cautious, tentative even with the question. He’s not the first to ask.

“I’m adopted. At least, I hope I’m adopted and not stolen.”

“Pardon?”

“I’ve searched. I can’t find a record of an adoption.”

Now he understands.

“Have you asked your mother?”

“The first time I asked in a fit of fury. I knew I didn’t look like her, but people would say things like the shape of our eyes were the same or they’d comment on the remarkable recessive genes and so I didn’t really believe I’d been adopted. But, when I shouted it, her expression gave her away. But I’ve been unable to uncover a record of the adoption.”

“Did your mother ever admit it?”

“Years later. She said it was a closed adoption, and she didn’t tell me because she didn’t want others to know. She wanted people to see me as a blood relative, although obviously my aunt and uncle know. It was more… I don’t know what she and my father were thinking.”

“What was your father like?”

“I don’t remember him well. He was a Lupi Grigi. Died for them. That says it all.”

“And then they married you off to a monster.”

“A ‘good’ marriage,” I say, the sarcasm thick on my tongue.

I’ll never forgive my mother, my uncle, or any of the bastards. But there’s no need to dwell on it. They raised a serpent, and I struck. Now, I’ve only to wait for the poison to take hold.

“Are you sure you want me to stay here?” That’s what I came here to ask. “I have options.”

“You’re safest here. I don’t trust Interpol.”

“Why?”

“Too many countries source intel from them. If you want a secret distributed broadly, tell Interpol.”

“I don’t want to put you or Lina in danger.”

“I’d like nothing more than for Massimo to give me a reason to go after him. He sends someone to my gate, and that’s reason.”

“You’re already going after him.”

“Covertly.” He stretches his neck and scratches his throat. “Which is frustrating as fuck, given the process is achingly slow.”

“You’re not worried it won’t happen, are you?”

“No. It was always going to take time. Your smoking gun isn’t the garden-variety murder weapon and photo routine. It’s accounting. It’s numbers. It’s the Achilles’ heel of all criminal organizations. The reason billionaires back crypto and love untraceable currency flowing between countries in the EU. Anything to make catching them harder. But you handed over the keys to the deceit machine. The crimes cross borders and are bound to incriminate powerful players in the Lupi Grigi’s pockets, so the case has to be ironclad. But it will be. You’ll get your revenge.”

I stiffen at the word, accurate as it is.

“What is your business? Not shipping. What do you do exactly?”

“I’m a hotelier and real estate investor. I’m a majority owner of three different tech enterprises. Security. My businesses are quite legal.”

“Industries associated with organized crime.”

“Association doesn’t equal guilt.”

“But you’re also an arms dealer.”

“I bring together suppliers with buyers. Nice margins. It’s not a core business.”

With dark, hooded eyes, he examines me. I want to believe him, but I’m not sure I can, which is why I keep asking questions.

“Why did the plane crash upset you?”

His eyelids flutter closed, and it’s as if I’ve caused him pain. He rubs his face and sits forward. “Eighty on board.” He lifts his eyebrow for emphasis. “Eighty.”

“And you had?—”

“No, no.” He dismisses the notion with a wave. “But I suspect I know who did.” He rubs the tip of this thumb, his gaze down at his hands. “You may think of me as a bad guy, and I’ll grant that I bend laws. But a lot that I do…it’s a balancing act. It’s meant to keep things level.”

His hand cups the back of his neck, and he flinches as he stretches his head to the right.

I push off. “Is it tight? Let me.”

I come around behind him and tap his jacket. “Take this off.”

He does as I ask.

“Why do you wear business attire at home?”

“It’s a mindset.” He sounds tired, like he’s taken on too much.

I attempt to reach over the seat, but I’m too short to do so, so I have him shift and stand behind him from the side. I dig into rock-hard muscle.

“Christ,” he grumbles.

“Too much?”

“No, no. Feels good.”

“You’re stressed.” I’ve read about knots in muscles, and have them, too, but his shoulders feel like a steel rod. He bends his head forward, and I dig into the firm muscle along his neck. My fingers drift of their own accord into his thick hair at the base of his neck, eliciting a groan.

“Do you like that?”

“Fuck yes.”

As I work his muscles, a thought comes to mind. Or rather, it’s a vision that flies to me from the skies. It’s of me kneeling before him, taking him into my mouth. I imagine he’d be shocked. Pleased, but shocked.

I’ve never willingly given a man oral sex. I doubt I’d be any good. Buried memories threaten to spring forward, and I force my gaze skyward.

I am strong. I beat him.

“Oh, my word. You have magic hands. Has anyone told you that?”

He brings me back into the moment, but this time when I smile, my eyes threaten to water.

“Can’t say they have.”

“It’s a crime.”

Is that why I’m here seeking revenge? Because I haven’t been valued? No, I’m here because I’ve been underestimated. They thought they could treat me as a disposable asset, my only value tied to my virginity and ability to birth children. They have never been more wrong.

He catches my hand and presses his lips to my palm. The pressure radiates through my body, a sensuous pulse that awakens every nerve ending.

“Thank you.”

Blithe, casual commentary circles in my head. Standard quips for civilized society.

Anytime. No problem. Of course.

But my throat is too tight and my mouth dry, so I back away and retreat to my room.