Page 53 of Unforgiving Queen

Papà took a step down, now standing level with me, and pressed a kiss on my cheek. “I had some business in the city but wasn’t planning on staying long. What are you doing here?”

I couldn’t tell him I came to say my piece to Maestro for being a dick to my sister, so I opted for a little white lie. “The venue I lined up for my fashion show fell through. I’m here to check this one out for potential.”

Papà’s brows furrowed. “This building?”

I smiled uncomfortably, meeting Papà’s friend’s gaze. “Yeah, it’s probably not a good spot.” I tilted my head at him. “Hello.”

“Reina, this is a… colleague. Enrico Marchetti.”

“Mr. Marchetti.” I extended my hand and he accepted it. It was only then that his name registered. “Hold on. Like the most prestigious fashion house in Italy?ThatMarchetti?”

“One and the same.” Enrico flashed a smile, and if my heart hadn’t been so utterly broken, I would have probably fallen under this gorgeous man’s spell.

“Wow,” I muttered. “Nice to meet you. I had no idea. I should have pulled on Papà’s connections rather than Grandma’s when looking for a job.”

Mr. Marchetti chuckled deeply. “It’s not too late.”

“Well, unless you have a free venue in the heart of Paris that I could use in four days’ time,” I said with a regretful smile, “I’m afraid it is.”

I was about to address my father when Mr. Marchetti spoke again. “I do, actually. And if it suits your needs, it’s yours to use.”

My eyes widened. “Really?” I breathed, hope blooming in my chest.

The smile he gave me was gorgeous. Unfortunately, my heart didn’t flutter—not even a bit—much to my regret.

“Yes, really. I’d love to see your designs.”

“I’d like to see too,” my papà chimed in, surprising me. “Maybe I’ll stay in Paris for it. I have some business with the Leone brothers anyhow.”

This time, my heart responded. The poor organ stopped pumping, then resumed its beating, fluttering wildly. I immediately squashed it down.

“Thank you, Mr. Marchetti.” It was best that I didn’t acknowledge Papà’s comment. I just hoped he wouldn’t invite the Leone brothers to the event. “About the payment—”

He cut me off. “No payment. When I need a favor, you’ll reciprocate.”

Alert shot through me. What kind of favor would someone as powerful as Enrico Marchetti need that I could ever help him with? My eyes darted between both men, wondering how to respond. It would seem Papà found nothing out of the ordinary with Marchetti’s comment.How bizarre.

“Um, as long as it’s legal,” I muttered, meeting Marchetti’s dark eyes.

He chuckled. “Of course.” He flicked a look at Papà, then nodded. “I’ll work out all the arrangements and give your father the information. Does that sound good?”

I nodded. “Yes, thank you so much.”

A few minutes later, I waved goodbye before making my way up the stairs to Maestro Andrea’s studio. Could things be looking up?

* * *

After my intense discussion—possibly taken as a threat—with Maestro Andrea, I was pumped for my session with Darius.

Dressed in tight black leggings and a pink tank top, I stood in the middle of the mat of the training center that Darius owned.A dojo.The name of the training center wasn’t very creative, but it worked. I learned it was the Japanese term for immersive learning and training centers. Even places of meditation.

I’d stretched for the past thirty minutes. I was whirling with ecstatic energy, knowing my fashion show would be happening. Marchetti had come through. Barely two hours after saying goodbye, before I even got to Darius’s training center, I had a text message from Papà with an address, date, and time. It was mine for the entire day. Mr. Marchetti was also using his contacts to spread the word about my upcoming show. Still though, I was genuinely concerned about the favor he’d want in return.

“Ready for hand-to-hand combat?” Darius asked, rubbing his hands together, and it worked to pull me from my dwelling thoughts. I groaned. He knew full well I sucked at it and was probably ready to mop the floor with me.

“Can’t we stretch some more?”

Darius laughed. The man was ex-Special Forces and could be terrifying when he wanted to be. He was also gorgeous, often drawing appreciative looks from men and women alike. Even now, I could feel them—the French gym fanatics—all gawking at him. To me, he was a piece of home, being that he was a fellow American expat. We shared our love for peanut butter sandwiches, greasy American pizza, and morning cereal.