“Argue all you wish, but the fact is, Nikolai has you in his sights now. He sees you as a loose end, but while you are with me, he has some degree of reassurance that you won’t interfere with his business. If he sees you without me, he will almost assuredly kill you just in case to prevent you from speaking to anyone of consequence. You do not have to like it, don’t even have to like me, but for your own safety, you will pretend to be my girlfriend. And I will do you the courtesy of being your boyfriend to save your life. Again, you’re welcome.”
As I speak, her jaw drops incrementally as the full scope of the situation truly hits her. I can see the moment it all sinks in and she realizes just how deep the shit she’s in goes. “Fuck. Fuckity-fuck, fucking fucksticks.”
It’s not quite up there with George Carlin’s Definition of Fuck, but her vehemence and machine-gun repetition are almost amusing. She’s shaking her head, eyes scanning the air in front of her unseeingly as she tries to find a way out of this, but there simply isn’t one. She comes to the same conclusion a moment later and gulps.
“This is the only way I don’t die tonight, isn’t it?”
I nod victoriously, though I’m not sure why her conclusion to the same one I’d already reached makes me happy.
She crosses her arms over her chest sullenly, and I can see the resignation wash over her. But then she pastes a fake sunny smile across her face, and acid saccharin drips from her words.
“Well, it looks like we’re dating then, honey. But if you think I’m doing that humiliation thing for you again, you’re fucking crazy. I’m not a Labradoodle.”
Our eyes meet, and though there is all sorts of stupidity tied up in this plan, I can’t help but feel that same pull to her that I did earlier. There’s something about her that draws me in.
Caleb interrupts the moment growing between Kitty and me, clearing his throat. “I’d like to go on record by saying that this is the stupidest thing you’ve ever done, Nathan. And you’ve done some stupid shit.”
The thing is, I’m not sure he’s wrong.
Chapter 7
Kyle
The slip of paper is stuck to my dash next to Anna’s picture. I don’t need it. I could probably duplicate Raul’s chicken scratch writing considering how many hours I’ve spent staring at it over the last week. But I want the reminder right in front of me.
I already knew Anna’s boss, knew that they’d been as close as a father and daughter could be, even though they had no blood relation. No, Michael’s only blood had been his two sons, Nathan and Caleb Stone, both soldiers and both eschewing their father’s formidable company to carve their own ways.
I could respect that had they stayed the course.
But I’ve been looking into Nathan Stone since seeing his name on that slip, researching what’s happening with the family business in Michael’s absence, and trying to find any clues about what happened to Michael and Anna.
What I discovered was that once Michael was dead, Nathan stepped right in and took over. Like he was too good to work at his father’s side but quite content to be the big boss. It reeks of entitlement, a privileged man finally getting his big boy toy to the tune of a billion-dollar business.
It took me three checks of my figures before I accepted the truth. One-year projected profits—over a billion dollars.
People toss around the words billion and billionaire like they’re nothing these days, but if you look back in time, you realize the first American billionaire only became that in 1916. Even when I was born, there were fewer than a hundred billionaires on Forbes’ famous list. Now . . . Nathan Stone plays with it like Monopoly money.
It seems like quite the payoff for losing a father he wasn’t particularly close to in the first place, and in fact, he seems to have actively hated him in his younger days. Nathan’s teen exploits weren’t hard to find online. He’d been in the paper multiple times, usually for winning some award, but there were a few smaller less than flattering police blotter reports too.
Seems he liked to speed around town quite a bit in fancy cars, and then Daddy paid off his tickets. Even doing that for Nathan didn’t curry him any favor, judging by the photos of the two of them together, both Nathan and Michael looking awkward and uncomfortable at any contact.
But after high school, Nathan enlisted in the Army, a surprise considering the golden ticket life he was living. I would’ve expected a fancy Ivy League degree, bought and paid for, of course, or an Academy slot if he wanted to put on a uniform and go play general.
But no, I found his enlistment papers and some public records of his service with commendations for marksmanship, but after a single four-year tour and an honorable discharge . . . nothing.
He became a ghost. For five long years, there is no record of Nathan Stone. Not a single social media post, news article, photo with his spotlight loving father, charitable contribution in his name, police report, or service record. Nothing, absolutely nothing.
And that is suspicious as fuck.
What was he doing for five years? Plotting his father’s murder? Or something more mundane like hiding out in a beachside shack after his service?
I smirk to myself. Nathan is definitely not the beach bum type. But is he the patricide type? I’d love to be wrong, but people have killed for far less than billions of dollars and control of an empire.
And if he killed his father to gain control, did he then kill my Anna to stop her from asking questions? To cover his misdeeds?
Why didn’t you just let it go? Did it really matter that much when Michael was already dead and gone? I ask Anna in my head, knowing that questioning the choices she made is the weakest of moves I could make. But if she’d just left it alone, we’d be curled up on the couch tonight, whispering about the future, instead of the hell we’re in now. Well, I’m in hell. I like to imagine she’s in a better place, surrounded with love and light, even though all my faith in God died the day Anna did.
I sense someone approaching but studiously avoid the piercing gaze of the woman making her way toward me, hoping she’ll just refill my cup and move on, leaving me to continue researching on my laptop and ruminating in my misery.
“I know you know I’m here. The polite thing to do is to make eye contact, say grazie, and smile. Stronzino . . . you are being rude,” she admonishes.
I look up. “Strega, thank you for the coffee.” She just shakes her head and walks away, muttering to herself. I don’t smile since I never do anymore. Not since Anna.
A tiny voice inside my head whispers, You smiled a week ago, right here in this very café . . . for Carly. A slash of guilt cuts through my gut, knowing it’s true. I even laughed two days ago when I followed Carly from Strega’s café to a sidewalk well-known for buskers.
My plan had been to simply observe her to ensure she was staying mum about what she’d seen. I’d been shocked to my core to see her perform, doing wildly acrobatic martial arts moves choreographed to music she played on a Bluetooth speaker. She was talented at playing the crowd, skilled with fighting, and magnetic as people, young and old, stopped to watch her.
I hadn’t been able to take my eyes off her, her lithe body small but powerful, her dark hair pulled up, highlighting her cheekbones, and the fireworks in her eyes obvious even from my perch across the plaza. She’d been having fun, and it was beautiful to behold, like an echo of something I once knew.
It’d started out as a mission to be sure she was keeping her mouth shut, and I’m doing my best to keep it framed that way in my mind. Because though a tiny piece of my heart knows, I’m not ready to admit that I’m sitting in Strega’s café today to keep watch over Carly for personal reasons.
I can’t, won’t betray Anna that way.
But Carly lit a spark inside me I thought was long-dead, and I’m greedy, wanting just one more hit of her warmth. I haven’t been warm inside for so long. Over a year is forever to be adrift without anyone, anything to moor you in place. And like an addict fighting for sobriety, Carl
y has become my new drug of choice.
I warred with myself about approaching her, finally forcing myself away with a reminder of Anna, of everything I lost. But I’m still battling the urge, which is perhaps why I’ve given in and come to the café again. Though I told myself it was for surveillance, I know deep down that it’s for more. It’s for hope, the smallest seed of it, dirty and scratched but glowing with potential in my soul.
I take a sip of coffee, relishing the caffeine nectar even if I wish it didn’t come with expectations of common civil courtesy. The door opens, and before I even look up, I can feel that it’s Carly. My stomach gives birth to butterflies, and an instant later, ugly guilt. This is wrong. She is not Anna, and I will not besmirch the love we had by chasing light from someone else. It’s a dishonor to her, to what we shared.
Struck by shame, I scrunch down in my chair, hoping that by some trick of magic, I can make my huge frame disappear ever so slightly.
She scans the room, her eyes narrowing dangerously when she spots me.
I’d expected her to be afraid of me after what she saw in that alley. Most people are scared of me just based on appearance, and adding in that she saw me choke Raul out, I’d think she’d startle and run. What I didn’t expect was for her stomp her way over like a pissed-off Chihuahua, teeth bared and fists clenched.
“Are you done yet?” she demands, seething with anger.
Carly
Need coffee. Now.
It’s been a long day. I did a scout trip over to one of the fountain areas to see if it might be a better draw for my performances and get me a little more bank for my time. It’d been an epic failure financially. Sure, I’d made several folks smile, and a whole school group on a field trip had stopped and watched me for almost ten minutes, which is a definite win because I love showing folks that dynamite can come in small packages.
But overall, I’d worked my ass off for almost three hours and only had twenty euros to show for it.
So now, instead of taking a much-needed early bedtime tonight, I’m headed over to my usual spot to work again. I’ve got another three hours of performance ahead of me, but I’ll make ten times the money, which is motivation enough.
Well, it will be after I get some coffee and a sandwich.
At Strega’s, I automatically look around to see if he’s here. The beast from the alley.
I’ve seen him at least twice since then, though he’s trying to hide. But he’s big enough that that’s not really possible. He sticks out like a sore thumb, so huge and brooding that people on the sidewalks give him wide berth, and in crowds, people tend to scoot away from him.
Or at least they did when he showed up to watch me perform.
I’m not stupid. I’d known it wasn’t a coincidence. At first, I’d thought he’d changed his mind and tracked me down to hurt or kill me as a way of ensuring I’d keep my mouth shut. But he’d stayed back and merely watched. I even caught a small laugh and a few claps, which maybe he’d only been doing to fit in, but I prefer to think they were genuine reactions to my show.
Now, when I see him sitting at Strega’s, at my café, like it’s no big deal, I’m done tiptoeing around this. If he’s going to hurt me, he can damn well try, and I’m going to make sure he has to earn it. If he’s not, then I’m through with his stalking around, both of us pretending I don’t see his big ass in a city where he towers over practically everyone.
I stand as tall as my 5’2” frame will let me and head over, making sure my face shows that I’m ready for whatever confrontation he wants to throw my way. I’m not stupid enough to think that my black belt means I can take on a behemoth like him and win, but I’m not some silly girl who screams and runs at every threat. I face shit head on and deal with it.
At least now I do.
I learned the hard way what letting things go will get you, and it’s nothing good, for damn sure.
“Are you done yet?” I bark out, trying to sound tough but somehow managing to sound more like a helium-huffing Miss Piggy.
His lips twitch and I think he’s trying to hold back a small laugh. And that makes me even angrier.
“I said, are you done following me around like a stalker? I told you I’d keep my mouth shut, and I will. Especially since I saw that guy you knocked out walking around the neighborhood, and he seemed fine enough. So if he’s not chasing you down, I’m not gonna worry about it. So are we done here?” It’s a verbal dump of information, rapid and clipped, as I challenge him, but I don’t care. I’m going to say my damn piece.
I think he’s going to argue, act like I’m mistaken about seeing him, but he doesn’t deny that he’s been following me.
Instead, his eyes flick to the chair across from him at the table. I don’t think he means it as an invitation, but I take it as one anyway.
I turn the chair around backward and straddle it, glad it’s a narrow seat so my little legs still reach the ground. I just want more between us, need to be able to make a fast escape if it’s warranted. And having my toes dangling off the ground like a little kid is not in those plans.
This is stupid, Carly. So fucking stupid. Should’ve run while you had the chance because this is a game you’re not prepared to play.
The voice in my head isn’t wrong. I like to think I’m strong, independent, maybe even a tiny bit badass, but the monster in front of me is like nothing I’ve ever seen.
Still, if he’d wanted to hurt me, he’s had ample opportunities and ones much better than sitting in the middle of Strega’s. I’m not one of those girls who thinks that because she had one godawful boyfriend, her radar is off. Especially since I didn’t pick Robert—my dad did. Nope, my guy-dar is still doing okay, so I’m trusting my instincts here because I’m inclined to poke the bear and see what happens.
“What’d you think of the show?” I ask, genuinely curious but also to let him know that I saw him there. It’s a calculated first move, less angrily impulsive and more strategic.
He grunts, not answering for a beat too long but finally sharing, “It was good.”
It’s the smallest morsel of conversation, barely a compliment, but it feels huge. Like he just gave in on something internal that was holding him back. I’m not sure what it is, but I can feel it all the same. But poking is one thing. Scaring him off is another. Though the idea of my scaring him is laughable, I play it safe.
“Thank you.”
Silence reigns between us, his eyes ping-ponging from me to his coffee to the laptop. If I didn’t know better, I’d think I make him nervous.
Needing to fill the space, I ramble on. “I started karate when I was eight and did it all the way through high school. It gave me something to do to channel all my energy and pissed my parents off more than a little that I was this messy, sweaty beast of a girl, not the demure princess they wanted me to be.”
I can feel the smile stretching my face as I think back to the multitude of times my mother would beg me to do dance instead, saying how it would be so much more useful to know how to do a foxtrot or a waltz or a tango. And of course, all young ladies did ballet. It taught ‘poise’.
Honestly, I took glee in her confusion over how I could be so coordinated on a mat but so klutzy on a wood floor. Never mind that even then, the clumsiness had been exaggerated, my own small rebellion to get me kicked out of ballet class and back to the karate I loved. But Mother had never known that.
“I did a choreographed piece a few times and loved it, so when I needed cashflow to subsidize my Euro-vacay, I tried doing the numbers on the sidewalk. Now, I perform several nights a week and love it because it’s mine, you know? Plus, I get days to sightsee and hit up all the tourist traps, and I keep in good shape. Best of all worlds. Routine but no strings, independent but still get to connect with the audience. Plus Europe, of course!” I finish with a gleeful proclamation.
He blinks at the onslaught of words I just flung his way, and I can’t decide if he’s really wishing I would shut up or if he wants me to k
eep talking. He tilts his head, speaking in a low voice.
“I can’t decide about you. You saw me damn near kill a man, and you understandably freaked. But now you sit here, talking like we’re old friends. What’s your play?”
I blanch, surprised that he’s being so blunt. “No play. Just making conversation. Adding a touch of humanity to the boogeyman who’s stalking me through the streets of Italy, you know?”
“That what you think I am? The boogeyman?” His chuckle is dark with violent promises. “Little girl, I’m way worse than that, worse than anything you could imagine,” he says, like he’s trying to warn me off.
But there’s something in his eyes, like he needs me to get up and leave, but all the while, he wants me to stay. Like it’s a test.
So I tackle the test head-on.
“Is that supposed to scare me? Because if you were going to kill me, you already would have. So you can chill with the Big Bad Wolf routine, Stretch. Let’s start somewhere easier. What’s your name? Otherwise, I’ll gonna have to stick with Boogeyman, and you seem a bit averse to that.”
He wants to test me? I’ll test him right back. See how monstrous he really is. It’s just his name, but it symbolizes so much more and we both know it.
I wait patiently to see if he gives in.
He gets up, silently stuffing his laptop into a bag and tossing it over his shoulder. He doesn’t say a word as he walks away, making me the winner of this game of chicken. But how come it feels like a loss?
I’m sitting alone at the table, and Strega finally makes her way over, filling my cup. “Kyle is such a nice boy. Needs better manners, but he is kind. You could do worse than a giant of a man like that.”
I grin at Strega’s one-track mind that’s always trying to partner me off, and I learned his name another way, though I do wish he’d told me himself. I let the name roll off my tongue to taste it.
Power Play: A Romance Collection Page 8