Deal.
Not wedding, not marriage.
A deal.
That’s all I was to him.
Numbers in an account ledger, a contract to be closed that fell through.
It’s all I still am. A failed business deal.
But that moment, something in me had snapped and I knew I was done.
Done doing as I was told, done trying to make them happy, done being that girl. I was determined to set out on my own, no more of their judging, no more smothering.
Just freedom to create my own life. Mine, not someone else’s.
And I have.
I packed up and left for Europe, with no plans or ideas of what I would do when I got here.
It wasn’t always easy, and at first, I wandered aimlessly, drifting from one tourist spot to another.
But slowly, my trek turned into a journey to find out who “Carly” was.
And when I let my joy, my humor, my sense of adventure free, I found a life more vibrant, free, and fun-loving than I could’ve ever imagined. It’s had tears, but also lots of laughter.
I’ve felt cold wind chill my spine as I shoveled for my dinner and swam in the Mediterranean without a care in the world. I’ve gone to bed with a stomach sloshing with good food and wine, or savoring a simple meal of cheese and bread.
Both are good, and both have made me a better person.
“You okay, Tesoro?” a soft voice asks from beside me.
Jostled from my reverie, I look up from my empty cup to see Strega, the coffee shop owner and the maker of the best espresso I’ve ever had. And I’ve had a lot.
Ever since I settled in Florence two months ago, Strega has taken me under her wing. Right now, she’s patting the wisps of grey hair escaping her bun and giving me an appraising look that misses nothing.
I give her a dimple-filled grin that belies the turmoil roiling in my belly. “I’m okay, just thinking about an unexpected trip I’m taking.”
She purses her lips and wipes down the table next to me. “Trip? I thought you said you were going to stick around Florence for a while, let me fatten you up a bit. You’re too skinny. You need some fettuccine in my famous cream sauce.”
I smile. She’s always trying to feed me, just like an Italian grandmother should.
“I would love nothing more than to stay here and let you feed me pasta until I’m too big to roll down the runway at the airport. But my best friend is making her big debut, so I need to be there.”
“Wait, your trip isn’t just a day trip to the countryside? You’re going home?” Strega’s voice is harsher with shock.
Strega knows more about my family history than probably anyone else does.
Maybe that’s weird, to have shared something so personal with someone I met just two months ago.
But Strega has a way about her that pries open your heart. I’ve seen it time and time again. People come in for a cup of coffee, and hours later, Strega is patting their back as they tearfully spill their guts.
It’s basically verbatim to what happened to me. So she knows that stepping foot on US soil and risking running into my parents is basically my worst nightmare.
“No, I’ll be in NYC, but I won’t see my parents. Emma promised to keep my visit a secret.” I bite my lip, still nervous.
I’m imagining some crazy scene on a sidewalk where I run into Mom and Dad, we all stop, mouths dropping in shock, but Dad recovering first because of course, he would.
Would he blow up at me, yelling scathing insults designed to hurt?
Or would he just grab Mom’s hand and walk past me, ignoring his only daughter?
I’m not sure which would hurt more, their scorn or their attack.
Strega sits down at the table beside me. “Okay, Tesoro. Here’s what you do. You take your trip, celebrate with your friend, and do not under any circumstances contact your parents. No matter what happens. You have worked too hard. Capisce?”
I nod.
But Strega isn’t done. “When you first came to me, you were like a lost child, wind blowing you as you tried to stuff as much experience into every day as possible to make up for what you never had as a girl. Like lasagna with beef, chicken, and sausage all jammed in with cheese in every layer. Lasagna is good—well, mine is, but you know that—but when you overdo it, you lose the specialness. That is what you were doing.”
She smiles, arms spread wide. “But look at you now. Instead of trying to do it all at once, you take every day for what it is. And that is where the real growth happened. You know who you are now and have a foundation that is pure, Carly, not those people who birthed you.”
She fakes spitting on the floor at the mention of my parents, and I love her that much more for being staunchly on my side.
“You’re right. I am so much more . . . me! And I won’t do anything to jeopardize who I am now. I like who I am, a badass bitch who controls her own destiny,” I say sassily.
Strega laughs but gently pops my hand as she chastises, “Bad girl, don’t use filthy language like that. Men don’t want a dirty-mouthed girl.”
I smirk. “Oh, Strega, you have no idea. Men love a girl who’ll say dirty things.” I waggle my eyebrows teasingly.
She harrumphs, as if she’s never said a few juicy things in Italian in range of my hearing. “Well, not any suitor worth your time. But at this point, perhaps it would do you well to date at all.”
“Not this again,” I say, rolling my eyes. “You know I just haven’t been ready.”
“Well, time it is a’passing, whether you are ready or not. Don’t let one poor Richard ruin your future.” She nods like she’s imparting great wisdom.
“His name was Robert, not Richard,” I correct. “And it wasn’t his bank account that made me end it.”
Her smile is sly, and she grins. “I know. And perhaps I do not have a dirty mouth like some people, but I do know that Richard comes with a rather specific nickname in the US. As I said, do not let a Richard like Robert ruin your future.”
I laugh. She’s just irresistible. “Well-played, Strega. Fine, fine, I won’t let a dick like Robert have any effect on my life, dating or otherwise. But it’s not like men are just crawling out of the woodwork for me.”
She makes a dismissive sound. “You are in Italy. There is love everywhere, all around you, if you only open your eyes. And we know real love, not all that screeching and playacting like those idiots, the French.”
I nod my agreement, knowing that though I still have doubts in her wisdom, it will do no good to argue with her. She’s right about many things, so she assumes she is correct about everything. I wish it were so about my heart, but I think I’m destined to be alone, at least for now. And I’m mostly okay with that. Though a girl could use some Richard now and again, I think with a laugh I hold in.
“I will, Strega. I promise. If only I could keep my eyes open,” I say, looking pointedly at my empty cup.
She takes the hint and gets up to refill my coffee. “Decaf for you this time. It is late and I don’t want you jittery during your performance.”
“Thanks, I think.”
“Bah, you will thank me truly when you don’t fall on your head on one of your crazy kicking things.” She flicks her fingers like they’re kicking legs. And with that dismissal, she resumes flitting around the room to care for her other customers.
I take a sip of my decaf coffee, which tastes like the bitter elixir I love, but without the caffeine, what’s the point? I decide to head over to Ponte Vecchio and get up, heading to the door.
I look back, waving to Strega and not watching where I’m going. I slam into something rock-hard and solid, and I lose my balance, falling to my ass on the floor.
A large shadow looms over me. Like a cartoon, my eyes scan from booted feet, up black denim-clad legs that go on for miles, to a broad barrel chest, and finally, a scruffy jaw that’s flexing in anger at my accidental bump. I meet the man’s eyes, cold and dark beneath floppy blond hair.
“Holy shit!” I declare, more in reaction to the man’s appearance than the fact that I found myself suddenly on the floor. “I’m so sorry. I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
Kyle
I pull over to the curb, double parking like just about everyone does here. As long as you don’t block someone in or stay there for more than a half-hour, nobody says anything. That should be plenty of time since I’m meeting with my informant in just ten minutes.
I take a steadying breath, reaching out a thick finger to the picture taped to the dash in front of me. I trace her beautiful smile, remembering what it felt like to touch her skin and wishing I’d been able to change her fate. If only I’d known the predator lurking in her midst, the dark intentions he’d had for her.
My sweet, innocent love didn’t deserve her fate. Though she was the one who took her last breaths and whose heart stopped beating, mine did too that day. My heart shattered to jagged pieces and I haven’t had an easy breath since that moment.
The only thing I feel now is dead inside, numb. I know there’s an ocean of pain buried deep, but I refuse to let it bubble to the surface. Not while there is still vengeance to be had, retribution to be dealt, and revenge to serve.
I kiss my fingertip and press it to the picture, my print a visible mark on the shiny surface and a symbol that I will always love her. But there is work to be done.
I scan the street in front of me and use the mirrors to scope out behind me. Seeing nothing amiss, I get out of the car and head toward the coffee shop across the street.
Be discreet, the message from Raul had said. Dress plainly and sit in the corner table by the window at Strega’s at 6 PM. I will meet you there.
I’ve never been to this café, though it looks like one of thousands scattered across Italy with small sidewalk tables out front under a green awning. Through the windows, I can see warm lights and an older woman, round and grey, working her way among the few customer-filled tables.
With one last look up and down the street, I make my way to the door. A shiver of vulnerability races down my spine, and I wonder if there are eyes on me despite my surveillance of the street.
I rush inside for cover just in case. I didn’t make it this far by ignoring my instincts.
I’m barely two steps in the door when there’s a slam to my chest. I have a split-second reaction of fury, thinking someone has set me up and I’ve walked right into a trap. But in the next instant, I realize a small woman has run into me and basically bounced off my body, landing haphazardly at my feet.
She’s sprawled out, legs askew and purse contents scattered. But as much of a mess as she appears, her words are more surprising. Even here, a tourist-heavy part of Italy, New York-accented English is rare.
“Holy shit! I’m so sorry! I wasn’t watching where I was going.”
I still give her no more than a cursory scan, considering whether she might be a threat, not with her diminutive size but perhaps as a spy herself. One can’t be too careful, something I learned the hardest way of all when I lost her.
I quickly but carefully brush my T-shirt off and then along my shoulders, feeling for any trace or bugs. But there is nothing, and something in the woman’s narrowing eyes makes me ashamed that my first thought was to check myself and not her.
“You okay?” I ask.
“Uh, yeah. Sorry again.” She reaches out to gather her things, and I squat down to help, keeping an eye on her even as I hand her the tube of lipgloss, wallet, and tampons. Yeah, not just one, but two that have rolled a bit further away.
She blushes furiously, scrabbling forward to grab the goods from my hands. I’m not sure why, but I try to put her at ease. “Nothing to be embarrassed about. Just shows you’re prepared. Like a Girl Scout.”
She snorts, the sound wild and unladylike. “I’m the furthest thing from a Girl Scout you’re ever going to find. That’s for damn sure.”
Her answer isn’t what I expect.
Even in this moment, I recognize that she’s got an expensive but scuffed and worn Louis Vuitton wallet stuffed in a standard canvas sack street market bag. The sunglasses perched on her head are designer too, but her highlights are woefully grown out. And though the words she says are crass, there’s an air of education about her.
She’s a study in contradictions, and that makes me nervous, unsure about her intentions.
Even so, I offer a hand to help her stand, which she takes after the slightest hesitation. Pulling her to her feet, I realize just how small she is, barely coming to my chest, though at 6’6”, that’s not unusual for me.
She looks up at me through the fringe of her bangs, her eyes wide like she’s looking at a Jack and the Beanstalk giant come to life. It’s a look I’ve seen most of my adult life.
But it’s when she looks at me that I notice how large her eyes are, like they’re almost too large for her face but making them all the more enchanting because of it, the spattering of freckles across her nose, fairy dust on silk, and the full lushness of her lips.
Time freezes, stretching and pulling us together though we’re already standing almost body to body. I’m shocked, a feeling of warmth coming to life inside me, running out in rivers through my being. I’ve been dead inside so long, I forgot what being alive felt like.
It’s overwhelming, painful, in a way.
It's followed by shame. I cannot be attracted to this little thing in front of me. I would not dishonor her that way. I promised her forever, and though we might not have said vows, I meant them long before I gave her a ring.
I step back, breaking the current of electricity.
“Sorry,” I say gruffly before inexplicably adding, “Have a nice night.”
The last words are awkward as fuck to my ears, more syllables than I’ve spoken to a stranger in ages, and I don’t remember the last time I wished someone a nice day or night.
But as I put space between us, I see confusion rushing through her eyes too as she breathily murmurs, “You too.”
From across the room, I hear a loud voice call out, “Carly! Do not think of skittering out of here without something to tide you over tonight. Silly girl.”
The voice tapers off to a stage-whisper as the grey-haired woman I saw earlier continues to herself, “Thinks she can work all night doing her acrobatics with only coffee for sustenance. Thinks I know nothing, but Strega knows all. She should listen to me.”
The woman in front of me cringes, her shoulders jumping to her ears and the pink tint covering her cheeks again. “Strega! I promise I won’t starve if you don’t feed me. I’m not some stray cat.” She rolls her eyes like we’re sharing a private joke, but she turns, going over to the counter dutifully while an important fact burns itself into my mind.
Carly.
The name rolls across my tongue silently. But as I walk to the table by the window, I let any thoughts of the small, attractive nymph go, needing to focus. Raul should be here any second.
I glance up and down the street outside, shrinking closer to the wall out of habit. I do not like the openness of this position, noting every vantage point on the surrounding rooftops. Though sniper fire doesn’t seem to be the standard MO of whomever I’m pursuing, I’m well aware that desperate times can call for desperate measures.
After all, I am a desperate man.
Finally, the door opens and a familiar face appears, Raul coming over to sit across from me. He doesn’t seem as uncomfortable as I would be sitting against the glass, a clear shot a boot camp soldier could make with a toy gun. He’s not stupid, so I decide he must feel safe here, in this café, this town, this country. A lucky man if he believes that to be true.
“What do you have—” I begin to ask, but he sets a piece of paper on the table between us, sliding it my way. Glancing down, I see it’s a check made out for the amount I paid to hire him.
“What’s this?” I say in confusion, angry flashes of light already sparkling in the periphery of my vision.
“Deal�
�s off. I did some digging, found out enough to know that you need to let this go. It’s too big, too bad. If you stay on this mission, you’ll wind up just as dead as she is. And while you might be willing to go that far, I’m not. Deal’s off.” His words are fast but firm.
And before I can argue, he’s up and walking away from me.
I jump up too, following him out the door. He said what he found scared him off, and I need to know what he discovered. Bad enough to give him second thoughts is probably exactly what I need and a sure sign I’m on the right path.
I chase after him, calling out, “Wait. Fucking tell me—” But he only moves a little faster. With my giant strides, I catch up, shoving him into an alleyway between two buildings. It’s a tight fit with my size, and I hold him against the crumbling brick wall, my hand at his throat. I’m not choking him, but I’m damn sure encouraging him to be still and cooperate.
He struggles, his fingers digging into my forearm futilely. “No, fuck, Kyle! You’re gonna get yourself killed and me along with you. Let it go, man. Let her go!”
I press a little tighter, lifting him up onto his tiptoes. “What did you find?”
He stutters a bit but finally starts talking. “Her boss. She was asking questions. She was the only one who knew him like that.”
I pound his back to the wall, refusing to accept what he’s saying. “It wasn’t like that. She was mine.”
He nods, his chin digging into my hand, but I don’t let go. “I know, but she—”
My vision goes red. How dare he insinuate something so grossly wrong about her. She would’ve never betrayed me that way. Though she did love her boss, it was more of a father-daughter relationship than anything else.
“Let it go. She’s dead. Anna’s dead,” he pleads.
But the words, especially her name on his dirty lips, flips a switch in my head, in my heart. And before I know it, I’m shaking him like a ragdoll, the pressure at his neck getting firmer and tighter until he slumps.
I drop him to the ground at my feet, hoping I haven’t killed him. I don’t need that hassle. “Fuck!”
I follow him down, searching his pockets and grabbing his phone to look for clues to what he might’ve found out and not wanted to tell me. I find a folded piece of paper with a name on it.
Power Play: A Romance Collection Page 4