Chapter 18

CHAPTER

EIGHTEEN

Saverio

A nya and I haven’t spoken about last night, and frankly, I don’t know what to make of it. More accurately, I have no idea where to go from here except forward—get married and tie her to me irrevocably.

My treasure is quiet in the car on the way to the club. Despite my protests, she insisted on coming in with me to catch up on work. I much prefer she stayed in bed. Thanks to me, she didn’t get much sleep. Albeit, here she is, because she’s a perfectionist when it comes to numbers. She won’t admit it, but when the credit and debit columns don’t balance, it drives her nuts.

I glance at her. The skin under her eyes looks darkish and bruised. I want to fucking strangle Rachele. I clench the wheel hard as I imagine wrapping my hands around her scrawny neck. She had no right to tell Anya and spoil the small chance we had at peace, but I guess that’s exactly why my ex-wife did it. She won’t wish me an iota of happiness even though she got the happily-ever-after she always wanted.

The neon letters spelling After Dark over the facade of Luigi’s building shine up ahead through thick mist that rolls in between the skyscrapers. The red and green of the traffic lights appear washed out and fuzzy through the foggy layer that paints the morning sky white. The weather forecast predicts wet snow for later.

At the club, I park in the underground parking lot and escort Anya upstairs. She wears a stylish blue cashmere coat over matching blue pants and a sweater that she paired with burgundy ankle boots, a beret, and gloves, looking gorgeous although fatigue is written all over her features. I want to pull her under my arm and kiss her, but she’s been giving me the cold shoulder since last night.

And honestly? I can’t blame her. She called me out on my shit, and I only admire her more for that. So I keep my distance, respecting the space she demands. For now. Soon, however, I’ll push that wedding band over her finger, and then there’ll be no more hiding from me. No more running, no matter what. I want her next to me and pinned underneath me at every chance I get, and I’ll make her understand that the moment she says yes in front of a church full of witnesses.

When I open the office door, I stop dead on the threshold. Giorgio sits in the visitor’s chair with his ankles crossed on Anya’s desk, peeling an orange.

Motherfucker.

He was supposed to lie low and stay at his father’s house today where a guard or two could keep an eye on him after Luigi grounded him like a naughty child.

“What are you doing here?” I ask, not quite succeeding in hiding the hostility in my tone .

He launches a peel through the air, neatly hitting the trashcan. “Same as you.”

I turn and grip Anya’s hips between my palms, enjoying the feel of her baby belly that presses against me. Her stomach has grown a lot bigger over the last few weeks. A fierce protective urge washes over me when I imagine the small baby curled up like a bean in her womb. We saw him sucking his thumb on the last ultrasound, and my black heart melted into one big puddle. I already love that little person as if he were my own.

Pressing our foreheads together, I keep my voice low. “Would you rather work at home?”

She glances over my shoulder at Giorgio, narrows her eyes, and gives a terse shake of her head.

I swallow down my apprehension and lead her inside by the hand. She’s going to have to stand up for herself against Giorgio and Luigi. Like the rest of the family, they’re part of my life. I can’t avoid contact between them forever.

Giorgio shoves a wedge of orange into his mouth and mumbles something that sounds like, “Morning,” around the piece of fruit.

Ignoring him, Anya goes to her workstation.

Giorgio chews noisily, swallows, and wipes juice from his chin with the back of his hand.

I put her laptop bag on the desk and help her to remove her coat.

“I said morning,” Giorgio says with a spiteful smile and a mocking glint in his bloodshot eyes. “Maybe you didn’t hear me.”

I slap his ankles off her desk and pin him with a look. I’m about to tell him to apologize for speaking to my fiancée like that and to get the fuck out when she says, “I heard you. I’ll answer you when you mean it. ”

“Mean what?” he asks.

She removes her hat and shakes out her curls. “When you greet me either because you’re genuinely pleased to see me or simply to be polite. You’re neither.”

He throws back his head and laughs. “Feisty.”

She hangs her hat next to her coat on the stand and removes her gloves. Then she sits down and opens her laptop, her concentration already elsewhere as if neither Giorgio nor I exist.

“You haven’t answered me,” I say, flinching as I pull off my leather jacket.

The cut over my side and lower back hurts like a bitch today.

“Working,” he says, throwing a wedge in the air and catching it in his mouth.

Right. As if he’s done anything constructive as far as the management of the club goes.

I lower myself into my chair, trying hard not to grunt with the effort. “If you’re not going to be useful, I suggest you go home. Your father won’t be pleased if he finds out you’re here.”

He glares at me, but he doesn’t take me on. He knows damn well he fucked up last night and that, once again, I saved his ass. That’s the vicious circle we’re trapped in. He has the right name and blood, and I have the brains and the balls.

Sometimes, I wish we could go back to how it used to be when we were young and power didn’t matter, when he was just the favorite target of our school bullies and I the kid who protected him. Things were simpler then. But we were always going to grow into what and who we are today. Luigi will always blame Giorgio for not being like me while resenting me for being a better underboss than his son. I was just too stupid to see it back then .

I have a feeling I’m going to have to split paths with the Bianchis, and Luigi isn’t a man who lets anyone walk away. I know too much. If I’m not on their side, I’ll be a risk. Plus, there’s the matter of After Dark that brings in the bulk of my wealth. I’ll soon have a family to provide for, a wife and a kid I have to protect. The only way of cutting the ties may be the good old traditional way—with a knife. But then there’s Raphael and Michele who pledged their alliance to Luigi to consider. If I take on Luigi and Giorgio, I’ll have to take on the whole damn mafia on the east side of the city as well as all the Mexican cartels Raphael deals with. It’s a catch-twenty-two situation.

A knock falls on the door, pulling me from my thoughts.

One of the bouncers opens the door and sticks his head around the door frame. “There’s a cop outside who wants to see you, Saverio.”

Anya looks up quickly.

“Says his name is Jordan,” the bouncer continues in his smoke-roughened voice.

I open my mouth to tell him no, but before I can get a word out, Giorgio says, “Send him up.”

The bouncer bobs his head and disappears.

“Are you out of your mind?” I bite out.

“What?” Giorgio asks, all pretended innocence as he raises his palms and pulls his shoulders up to his ears. “We’ll look guilty if we send him away.”

Fucking idiot.

The bouncer knocks again and opens the door for Jordan to enter.

The detective saunters into the room, taking in the space with a smirk on his face before he says, “De Luca, how very accommodating of you to make time for me. Mr. Bianchi, it’s good to see you again.” He nods at Anya. “Ms. Brennan, right? We haven’t been formally introduced.”

I don’t invite him to sit. “What can I do for you?”

He plonks down in the chair facing my desk. “There’s been a homicide last night.”

From the corner of my eye, I see Anya stiffen, but I keep my gaze squarely on the detective while maintaining my practiced poker face. “Unfortunate. But not unusual. There’s one every day in New York City.”

“True.” He drums his fingers on my desk. “What makes this one special is that you had the perfect motive.”

I raise a brow. “Are you accusing me of something?”

He flashes me a row of straight white teeth. “Aren’t you going to ask who the unlucky victim was?”

“No,” I drawl. “You’re here to tell me. Or did you just miss me?”

A chuckle rumbles in his chest. “Justice Kearney was found dead in his house last night. Someone burned it to the ground. The autopsy shows he died of multiple stab wounds before the fire.”

Behind Jordan, Anya’s face pales, but I resist the urge to look at her or to comfort her. Instead, I don’t break eye contact with the detective.

Giorgio whistles. “That’s shit luck.”

Our stare-off continues as Jordan says, “He was the father of your fiancée’s child, wasn’t he?”

“So?” I say.

“A bunch of witnesses saw and heard you threaten him in a restaurant not so long ago.”

“For not owning up to his actions as far as Anya is concerned. That’s hardly a motive for murder, Detective.”

He swivels his chair to face Anya. “Mr. De Luca insisted that Justice Kearney renounce his paternal rights, did he not? ”

“To protect me,” Anya says without missing a beat. “I was worried that Justice Kearney would make claims on my child later.”

“As would’ve been his right,” the detective says, posing the statement like a question.

“He made it clear he didn’t want to be implicated in the costs or the responsibility of raising my child,” she says. “I accepted his decision, but I didn’t want him to turn around and disrupt my child’s life after.”

Jordan nods with a thoughtful expression, but he’s a bad actor. Anyone can see through his false sincerity. “Two people connected to you are dead since you started a relationship with Mr. De Luca.”

I clench my hand in a fist under the desk, wishing I could rip out his tongue for submitting Anya to this stress, which isn’t good for her or the baby, but she doesn’t waver in her answer.

“That’s purely coincidence.” She lifts her chin and meets his gaze head-on as she gives him the truth. “The murders have nothing to do with me.”

Because I didn’t meet her until after Lewis was dead, and Kearney wasn’t supposed to die last night.

“Mm,” Jordan says with a slight smile before turning sideways so that he has both Anya and me in his vision. “Where were you last night, Mr. De Luca?”

“Here at the club,” I say. “We had our engagement party.”

He glances at the rock of a diamond on Anya’s ring finger. “What about after the party?”

I smile. “I was at home in bed with my fiancée.”

“Is that correct, Ms. Brennan?” Jordan asks.

“Yes,” she says in an unfaltering voice. “Saverio was at home with me.”

“All night?” Jordan presses .

“Yes,” she says again, making me proud of how calm she is. “Until we came in to work together this morning.”

Jordan nails her with a killer look that’ll make most men stutter. “At what time did you get home?”

“Not long after midnight.”

“And you arrived here at…?”

“Nine,” she says.

“Could he have slipped out of the house between midnight and the early morning?”

“No.” Her voice is strong and level. “We had sex three times during the night. Besides, I’m a light sleeper, especially since being pregnant. I would’ve known if he’d gotten out of bed.”

“Yes,” Jordan says, the corners of his eyes tightening with an unfriendly smile. “My wife slept very badly through all three of her pregnancies.” He turns to Giorgio. “What about you, Mr. Bianchi? Can anyone vouch for your whereabouts last night?”

“Sure.” Giorgio shrugs. “I hooked up with one of the strippers after the engagement party. I spent the night at her place.”

“I’ll need a name and a contact number to verify that,” Jordan says, getting to his feet.

Giorgio grins. “My lawyer will be in touch with the details.”

Jordan’s flat smile stretches. “Gentlemen.” He straightens his jacket. “Ms. Brennan.” He shoots a last glance at the photos on the wall of the famous movie stars and celebrities who’ve been patrons of the club through the years before walking to the door. “Thanks for your time.”

The moment he’s gone, Anya’s proud posture sags. Her shoulders slump as she places a trembling hand on her throat as if she finds it difficult to breathe .

I get up and go to her, needing to soothe her. Pride for her brilliant performance warms my chest.

Kneading her tense shoulders, I say, “You did great.”

She wheels her chair away, rejecting my touch and my offer of comfort, and stands. “I need to use the bathroom.”

I ball my hands into fists, forcing myself not to grab her by the arms and drag her back to me. Instead, I watch with mounting anger, frustration, and worry as she walks from the room.

Feeling Giorgio’s gaze on me, I turn to him and bark out, “What?”

He rides on the back feet of his chair and observes me with a sardonic smile on his lips. “She’s not marrying you because she suddenly fell deeply and madly in love with you.”

“What are you saying?” I snap.

“You lied to us. Loyal to you my ass.” He snickers. “She’s as little loyal to you as Rach is. You’re marrying her to protect her from my father because you want to keep her. Why didn’t you tell us she was pregnant? I’ll tell you why. Because you didn’t want us to know why you wanted to keep her.”

I’m in his face in a second. “Don’t pretend to understand how things work between Anya and me.”

He doesn’t cower. “I don’t because it’s fucked up. What I do understand though is that she doesn’t love you.”

I grab the front of his shirt in a fist. “You don’t know her.”

He watches me with a bold gaze. “I know what she told Rach.”

I let him go, dropping him like a red-hot stone. “What are you talking about?”

“They had a chat at the party last night. Anya said straight out she’s only using you. ”

I stumble back a step, taking that piece of information like a knockout punch in the gut. Because I care. And after what she said and did for me last night, waiting up worrying and stitching my cut, I thought she cared too.

“Don’t worry, Sav. Your secret is safe with me. I won’t tell my father our bookkeeper is still a liability because I don’t give a fuck why you’re keeping her. I don’t care if you want her because she gets your dick in a knot or because you want to play daddy for her baby. I agree with you. She saved both our asses. Again. We need her.” He pushes to his feet, bumping my chest like a rooster in a cock fight. “Just watch your back, because she’ll plant a knife into it at the first chance she gets, and when she tries, I’ll finish her no matter for what fucked-up reasons you want her.”

I knock my body against his, sending him back two steps. “You stay the fuck away from her. Any man who touches her is dead. I don’t give a damn who he is.”

He brushes down his jacket and walks around me. “Just keep your eyes open, Sav.”

With that, he’s gone.

I stand there for a moment, bristling with fury that pushes up inside me until it demands an outlet or consumes me whole.

Slamming a fist against the wall, I say, “Fuck!”

The pain that explodes in my knuckles is grounding. I welcome it, using the bite that zips through my bones to find my control.

Anya walks into the office, barely looking at me as she goes to her desk.

I shake out my fingers and take my jacket from the back of my chair. “I’m going out to see someone. Stay here.” I wince as I shove my left arm into the sleeve of the jacket. Fuck. That hurts. “I’ll be back before lunch. ”

She meets my gaze with questions burning in hers, but she doesn’t give voice to them.

I cross the distance with determined steps and plant a kiss on the top of her head, inhaling that scent of summer and flowers that feels like home, like a few happy moments buried in the hollow of a tree trunk when chipped glass and the cracked plastic of toy rings were my treasures.

Now, it’s her.

She freezes as if my touch is revolting.

No matter.

I linger, dragging her essence into my lungs.

She exhales audibly when I pull away.

I get it.

She’s angry with me.

Disappointed.

She feels betrayed.

Hell, so do I.

But she’ll get over it just as I will get over what Giorgio just shared.

I walk with long strides from the room and down the corridor, almost crashing into Dante who bounces up the steps.

“Where’s Giorgio?” I ask.

He throws a thumb over his shoulder. “Just left.”

“Keep an eye on Anya. Don’t let anyone near her. I’ll be back in an hour.”

He stops and follows my progress quietly, worry etched on his forehead.

Trusting him to keep Anya safe, I get into the city car I use nowadays to drive Anya around. I don’t use the Corvette any longer. She’s too far pregnant for the small space in the sports car. I had reinforced roll bars installed to prevent the roof from being flattened in case the car rolls in an accident, but the city car is one of the safest models on the market with a hardtop that can withstand a considerable shock. The near-indestructible Volvo I ordered for her will be delivered just after Christmas.

I drive to SoHo and park near the upmarket loft that Archibald James II calls a gallery. I know where he lives because I drove past here a few hundred times when Rachele moved in with him a short week after kicking me out of our house. I fantasized about bombing his place a million times.

A woman exits the building just as I arrive at the entrance. I slip in before the door closes and take the stairs to the top floor. As there’s no bell, intercom, or camera, which is a stupid and careless statement some artists moving in James’s circles are trying to make, I bang loud enough on the door for the whole neighborhood to hear.

Rachele opens it a moment later, looking the worse for wear in a red silk robe that hangs open over a matching negligee with her hair tangled around her face and her make-up smudged. When we lived together, she never allowed me to see her in any state other than perfect. She wouldn’t let me in the bathroom or dressing room while she got ready. She got out of bed with her hair tamed into a braid and a sleep mask on her forehead that hid half of her face.

Sighing, she ties the belt of the robe around her waist and walks barefoot to a kitchenette in the far corner of the open-plan room, letting me see myself in.

“What do you want?” she asks, filling a glass with water from the tap.

I close the door. “Where is he?”

She takes a bottle of painkillers from a disarray of magazines, unopened mail, dirty wine glasses, and empty peanut packets on the counter and shakes two pills onto her palm. “Doing meditation in the park with his Taoist group.”

Good. That means I don’t have to throw him out of his own place with a humiliating kick on the ass so I can have this conversation with Rachele.

She leans her backside on the sink, facing me as she puts the pills in her mouth and gulps down the water.

“Long night?” I ask. “Or did you have too much champagne at my engagement party?”

She puts the glass on the counter next to an ashtray that holds a few burnt-out joints with red lipstick marks on the butts and plants her hands on the sink behind her. “What do you want, Sav?”

“You know why I’m here.”

“Oh.” She bats her eyelashes. “Did I upset your little Anya? Why, Sav. You didn’t tell her. How naughty of you.”

I close the distance, stopping on the other side of the counter. “I asked you not to be a bitch to Anya. We had an agreement, and I kept my end of the bargain.”

“Did you?” she asks with a small smile.

“Did I break your lover’s fingers?”

“What do you want from me, Sav?”

“I already told you what I wanted. As you can’t be anything other than a bitch, I’m going to put this in a different way for you.” Leaning in, I say in a menacing tone, “Stay away from Anya. Don’t come near her. Don’t talk to her, and don’t as much as look her way. Am I clear?”

“Jesus.” She laughs, but it’s nervous. “You need to get a handle on your possessiveness. Don’t make the same mistake you made with me. Don’t keep her on a leash like a lapdog.”

“No one kept you on a leash. You always liked to stray. ”

“Fuck you,” she says through clenched teeth.

I put emphasis on every word. “Stay away from my fiancée.”

“Or what?” she taunts.

“Don’t make me embarrass you by getting a restraining order.”

Her dark eyes flare with indignation.

Yeah. That’ll be quite the scandal. Her pride will take a serious knock.

“Get out,” she yells, pointing at the door. “Get the fuck out of my apartment.”

“With pleasure.” I walk backward, taking in the woman I once loved. Now? I only feel relief that it’s over. “I’m glad we understand each other.”

Uttering a frustrated cry, she grabs the glass from the counter and hurls it at me. Luckily for me, her aim is shit. It shatters against the wall, breaking into pieces on the snazzy varnished concrete floor.

I turn around and walk to the door, crunching glass under my heels. When I grip the handle, she says in a rush, “I’m pregnant.”

Good for her. I push down the handle.

“I’m expecting Archie’s baby,” she adds, the words like barbed wire, but their hooks have no effect on me.

I look over my shoulder. “Congratulations. I’m happy for you.” I mean that, and for the first time in my life, I can say it to her without bleeding red from the black hole I call my heart. I motion at the glasses with wine sediment in the bottom and lipstick stains on the rims. “Perhaps you should lay off the alcohol and the weed.”

Her angry scream follows me through the door as I close that chapter of my life once and for all.