Chapter Fifteen

The next few days, I gave Santino some room and focused on my schedule. The first introductory courses were about to begin and I wanted to make sure I had everything I needed. I also signed up for an additional sewing course. I had already taken sewing lessons with our maid in the months leading up to my move to Paris, but I was still far from good. I knew I needed to get better if I wanted to get a good understanding of how clothes were made. How could you be a good designer without being able to sew a piece of clothing yourself?

Santino worked out in his room while I stayed in mine. Eventually, we headed out on foot to go to a secondhand shop that also sold sewing machines to people who wanted to upcycle items.

“My mother used to sew,” Santino said when we picked up an older model that still required plenty of handy work.

Surprise washed through me. He rarely talked about family, and if he did it was about his dad. I wasn’t sure what to say, completely caught off guard. I’d have thought he’d keep his silence for a few more days to punish me for my teasing. “It’s a handy skill.”

Santino nodded simply and silence descended on us once more as he carried the heavy machine while we strolled back home. As we waited on the sidewalk for the pedestrian lights to turn green, a group of nuns came our way. I stepped back with a small smile. Santino, however, let the nuns pass with a hostile expression as if they’d personally offended him.

“What’s your problem with nuns?” I asked as we finally crossed the street. The sidewalk here was narrow so Santino and I had to walk arm against arm, which felt nice. Santino had stopped walking a few steps behind me since we were alone in Paris anyway. It felt less and less like a working relationship.

“I don’t have a problem with nuns,” he said nonchalantly. Whom was he trying to fool? I’d known him for years and seen him at his worst and best, mostly worst though.

I knew when he was lying.

I made a face that made it blatantly clear I didn’t believe him. “Right. Did you hit on a nun and she refused your advances?”

That was something I could imagine vividly. Santino was the type to do so, just for fun.

Disgust skimmed his lips. “Why would I hit on a nun?”

“The thrill of the hunt and the forbidden? Just out of spite? Or maybe even boredom?”

“Since you entered my life, boredom is the least of my problems.”

I flashed him a cocky grin. “Thanks.”

“That wasn’t a compliment.”

“It sure sounded like one. I take it.”

Santino shook his head but I could tell he was fighting a smile. I really wished he would let it win more often. The sun had been shining all day, and it almost felt like spring. Considering how cold it had been a few days before, this caught me completely off guard. “Let’s head into the park and soak up the sunshine for a bit.”

Santino nodded and together we headed toward the lawn at the base of the Eiffel Tower. To my surprise, we weren’t the only people. Several people had put down blankets and sat on the grass, drinking wine and chatting.

“Let’s do the same.”

“We don’t have a blanket.”

I motioned at one of the street vendors that sold everything from small corny Eiffel Towers, over fake Cartier watches and MCM umbrellas, to blankets with the Louis Vuitton logo. Santino went over to the man and bargained for almost ten minutes until we got the blanket for half the price and an umbrella for free. We settled on the blanket. The ground was still cold, not yet warmed from the sun but I didn’t mind. I just wanted to enjoy the sun on my skin even if my butt froze off.

“It could be worse,” I murmured. “Most people would kill for your job.”

Santino sank down beside me. “Today has been one of my better work days.”

I chuckled and lay back on my back, loving the sight of the Eiffel Tower rising above us with the sun peeking out behind it. The thing with the nuns wouldn’t leave my mind though. There was a story to be told. I could feel it.

I rolled over on my belly, pushed up on my elbows and propped my chin up on Santino’s thigh.

“What are you doing?” he asked in a low, tense voice. He’d straightened his back, ready to spring, and I could feel his thigh muscles flex under my chin.

“Chill. I’m only getting comfortable. I won’t ravish you in the middle of a park.”

Santino didn’t crack a smile but I couldn’t help but grin devilishly. I loved when I could rattle him. Little phased Santino, but I did, big time.

He narrowed his eyes. “You realize the Paparazzi would have a field day if they got a photo of us like that. It would make headlines.”

“Nobody knows we’re here, and Dad would prevent it.”

“Probably. He’d also roast my balls on a barbecue.”

I let out a pleased sigh as I shifted so my cheek rested on Santino’s thigh instead. My pulse had picked up being so close to Santino and the part of him I had every intention of getting more acquainted with very soon.

“Anna.”

The low hum of warning in Santino’s deep voice sent a pleasant shiver down my back.

I closed my eyes. “Can you rub my back? I feel like napping.”

“Anna.”

I cracked open one eye. “How about this: you tell me what nuns ever did to you and I’ll sit beside you like a good girl?”

Santino considered it for almost a minute before he heaved a sigh. “All right. But get up first.”

“No, you go first. You’ll only run off if I lift my head.”

He chuckled. “Sometimes I really don’t know what’s going on in your head.”

“It’s called creative chaos.”

“My sister’s a nun.”

I sat up, my lips parted. “Really?”

“Yeah. She’s been a novice since last July.”

“Wow. But why?” I let out a stunned laugh. “Does she hope to cancel out your sins?”

Santino stared off toward a group of people, his expression serious. I sobered immediately, realizing this really bothered him. “Not my sins, no.”

I touched his hand, which rested on the blanket. “Santino?”

His eyes found mine and my heart clenched. I wanted to wrap my arms around him, kiss him, hug him.

“Misguided guilt, I suppose,” he said quietly.

I wrecked my brain for the family history of the Bianchis, but all I knew was that Santino’s mom had died when I was very young. I didn’t know why, had never asked. I didn’t know anything about his sister. I wasn’t even sure if I’d ever met her.

“What happened? Does it have something to do with your mother?”

Santino’s body became tenser. I expected him to pull away and say something dismissive. Santino didn’t do emotions. Not deep emotions at least. “My mother died giving birth to my sister Frederica when I was eleven.”

I didn’t even know that Frederica was close to me in age, only one year younger. “I’m so sorry.”

Santino nodded. “Frederica blames herself for it. She denies it but I can tell. My mother suffered a cardiac arrest. She had an undiagnosed heart defect. It could have happened at any other time, but because it happened during labor, Frederica blamed herself.”

“Your poor dad, and you were only a young boy, this must have been such a horrid experience.”

I wondered if Santino had some kind of strange Oedipus complex because he’d lost his mother so early and that was why he always picked older married women.

“But it’s not her fault. Did your dad ever blame her?”

“No,” Santino said firmly. “Dad treated her like a princess.”

“But he always kept working for my parents, how did he manage with two kids?”

“One of his sisters helped us out, and once Frederica was a bit older, I took care of her a lot when Dad wasn’t home. Later when I began to work for the Outfit, my aunt took over most of the time though.”

I took a deep breath and linked my fingers with Santino’s even if I feared he’d pull back. “I’m really sorry for your loss. And I’m sorry that your sister’s suffering because of it. Maybe being a nun will help her realize that it isn’t her fault.”

“She’s not living. She’s only existing. She should enjoy life, not beg for forgiveness for something that isn’t her fault.”

I nodded. After that we sat in silence beside each other, our fingers still entwined. I would have leaned my head against Santino’s shoulder, if I hadn’t feared spooking him. I was content with holding his hand. It was more than I’d dared hoping for. The sense of peace and contentment I felt being close to Santino in such an innocent way showed me that my heart still hadn’t given up, even when my mind had settled for a fling.

Eventually Santino removed his hand and straightened, his expression becoming hard again. Our moment was over.

“We should head home.”

Santino didn’t say a word as we walked through the darkening streets. It was becoming increasingly cold now that the sun was gone.

My phone beeped and I glanced down.

Surprise widened my eyes.

Hey Anna, it’s me Maurice. I’m back in Paris and your brother told me you’re there as well. Why don’t we meet up? I don’t like how our last encounter ended.

“Who’s it from?” Santino asked.

“Maurice,” I said before I could think it through.

“Tell him no. No matter what he wants, the answer is no.”

I frowned at his commanding tone. “Maybe he only wants to chat because you assaulted him last time.”

“He better make sure I don’t assault him again.”

“I’m allowed to see boys. You heard what Mom said.”

“I doubt your dad was involved in that decision.”

“What’s really your problem, Santino? You say you don’t want me but you don’t want me to meet any other boys.”

“I’m not a boy, Anna. The Maurice kid probably won’t mind taking a bite off you even if the cake is promised to another, but I don’t want a fucking bite. I’ll eat the cake.”

“That’s ridiculous.”

“You won’t meet Maurice. End of story.”

I glared but he ignored me and opened the front door of our apartment building while he held my sewing machine under his other arm.

Our ascend was stopped by our neighbor from below. She was a married woman in her early forties, with two kids, and a husband who worked on an oil rig. Like many French moms, she didn’t look like one. She was always impeccably dressed, had a slim figure and a flirty smile that was completely inappropriate for a married woman.

Since we’d moved in, she’d set her sights on Santino, and he’d immediately introduced me as his sister which had only fired up her interest.

“Santino,” she said in her heavy accent. “I need your help.”

And we both knew with what she needed help. Your husband being gone for six months at a time probably made you particularly horny.

Santino didn’t miss a beat as he leaned against the wall and gave her a slow, dirty smile.

Jealousy burned through me.

It was almost as if he was trying to cancel out our meaningful conversation with a meaningless fuck. I hated this, hated that he’d rather bang some French wench than give us a try.

You’re going to marry.

We could have something special for a little while. That was better than never having something special. And even if it was only sex.

“Maybe you can come over later and help me with my window?”

“Of course,” Santino said, and the way he said it and from the look in his eyes, I knew he was sexing her up. “Just let me take my little sister and her sewing machine up to the apartment.”

I stalked up to the next floor and went into our apartment. Santino followed shortly after.

“If you think I’ll go to bed, while you go down fixing Mrs. French-Wench with dick, you’re crazy.”

“French-Wench?”

I stared.

“It’s late. Even my duties are over at some point. I’ll tuck you in and then I’m free to do what I want.”

“Fine,” I said with a slim smile. I stormed into my room and threw the door shut, not caring how childish that made me look. After the moment we’d shared in the park, Santino’s flirting with that woman hurt even more.

I texted Maurice the second I was alone in my room.

Do you have time to meet me now?

Sure. How about we meet at the Seine?

Deal. Give me thirty minutes.

I grabbed my nightgown and left my room. Santino leaned against the kitchen counter, drinking an espresso, probably for a little extra energy so he’d satisfy the French-Wench. He watched me as I headed into the bathroom to “get ready for bed.” I turned on the water, but instead of starting my nighttime routine, I refreshed my makeup to look presentable for my meeting with Maurice. If Santino had fun with French-Wench, I’d enjoy the rest of the night with Maurice. I was done waiting for Santino to give in. I didn’t know how much time I had in Paris, but what I knew was that my freedom had an expiration date, and I’d make the most of it until then, with or without Santino’s help.

I listened to the front door open and click shut, then the sound of the lock. I couldn’t believe his audacity.

Maybe he’d promised Dad to keep me away from all fun, but I wouldn’t let myself be locked in. I waited a bit more before I opened the door a gap and peeked out. Santino was definitely gone.

He probably thought a locked front door would stop me. With a brother like Leonas, lock-picking was an easy feat.

Armed with a hairpin, I started working on the lock. After a bit of fumbling, the lock eventually clicked. Again I carefully opened the door and peeked out, then listened for voices from downstairs. The hallway was silent, so Santino was already inside French-Wench’s apartment.

I practically rushed past her door on my way downstairs. I didn’t want to be caught, and I couldn’t bear the thought of overhearing them getting it on. I wasn’t sure why the thought of hearing them was too much for me when I’d already seen Santino bang Mrs. Alfera and Mrs. Clark. Maybe because I felt like we’d been getting closer over the last few weeks, especially today.

I took a taxi to Notre Dame and paid cash, in case Santino was tracking my credit card. I recognized Maurice at once. He leaned against the stone wall at the bank of the Seine. He was dressed in dark chinos and a white T-shirt, and held a bottle of wine in his hand.

I smiled and greeted him with the usual number of three kisses. The “Faire la bise” how the French called it.

“You look beautiful,” Maurice said.

“Thanks.”

He glanced behind me with an ironic smile. “Where’s your bodyguard?”

“Busy with a lonely, married French woman.”

He laughed. “He’ll be busy for a while then, huh?”

I laughed too because it would have been weird if I’d acted annoyed. To my ears, it sounded horribly fake but Maurice didn’t seem to notice.

“I’ll keep you busy,” he said with a slow smile, lifting the bottle with Viognier, one of my favorite wines.

“I’m counting on it.”