365 Days

by Blanka Lipinska

  I froze, hearing him say that. I’d completely forgotten about what Domenico had said to me before I left Sicily.

  “Do you have a transmitter implanted under your skin?” I asked as calmly as I was able to be, under the circumstances.

  Massimo made himself more comfortable in his seat, playing for time. His expression told me he knew what I was getting at.

  “I do,” he said simply, biting on his lip.

  “Can you show it to me?”

  Massimo took off his shirt and drew nearer. He stuck out his left hand, grabbed my fingers and placed them on the correct spot on his skin. I jerked away, as if it burned, before touching my left bicep.

  “You’re getting hysterical, Laura,” Massimo said, putting the shirt back on. “That night I—”

  I didn’t let him finish.

  “I’ll kill you, Massimo. I’m serious,” I growled. “How could you lie to me about something like that?” I glared at him, waiting for him to say something smart in response, while my head was spinning with thoughts. What if…

  “I’m sorry. I just thought that the easiest way to keep you with me would be if I got you pregnant.”

  I knew he was being sincere, but normally it was women who played that trick on rich men, not the other way around.

  I got up, grabbed my bag, and went to the door. The Man in Black jumped to his feet and followed me, but I waved him away and left. I took the elevator down to the garage, trying to calm my nerves, and drove to the mall not far from my new apartment. Having found a pharmacy, I bought a test and drove back home. When I got back, Massimo was sitting in the same spot. I dropped my things to the coffee table and said resolutely, “You’ve barged into my life, kidnapped me, stolen a year of my life, threatening to kill my loved ones, but it wasn’t enough for you. You just had to try and fuck things up even worse by singlehandedly deciding to get me pregnant. Now, don Massimo, I’ll tell you how it’s going to be.” My voice was loud and confident. “If it turns out I’m pregnant, you will leave this place, and I’ll never be yours.”

  The Man in Black rose, inhaling loudly.

  “I’m not finished,” I said quickly, turning my back on him and walking to the window. “You’ll see your child, but you’ll never see me. The kid will never take over after you and live in Sicily. Is that clear? I’ll have it and raise it, even though I don’t want to. I always say that a family should be at least three people—two parents and a child. But I won’t allow your behavior to destroy the life of a human being that is not even born yet. Do you understand?”

  “What if you’re not pregnant?” Massimo asked, taking a step toward me, stopping just a few inches away.

  “Then you’ll have some atoning to do,” I said, turning away.

  On my way to the bathroom, I took the test from the glass tabletop and shut the door behind me. I did what was necessary and placed the plastic test on the rim of the sink, crouching with my back to the wall and waiting for the result to show. I stayed there for much longer than necessary. My heart was pounding so hard I could see the blood pulsating in my veins through my skin. I was afraid I was going to throw up.

  “Laura.” Massimo knocked on the door. “Is everything all right?”

  “Give me a moment!” I called out, standing and glancing at the sink. “Jesus Christ…” I whispered.

  CHAPTER 14

  When I left the bathroom, the Man in Black was waiting for me on the bed, his face contorted in an expression I had never seen before. It was fear, worry, anxiousness, and most of all unease. Seeing me, he jumped to his feet. I stopped him, reaching out with a hand clutching the test. It was negative. I let it go, and it cluttered to the floor. I went to the kitchen, took a bottle of wine from the fridge, poured myself a glass, and downed it, wincing. Turning my head, I shot a glance at Massimo, standing with his shoulder to the wall.

  “Don’t do this ever again. If we decide to become parents, it has to be either our mutual decision or an accident. Do you understand?”

  Massimo closed the distance between us and hid his face in my hair.

  “I’m sorry, baby,” he whispered. “I’m sorry about that kid. It would have been a beautiful child.”

  He stepped away, laughing, as if knowing I’d hit him anytime. He snatched my arms as I swung at him, teasing me.

  “If it were a boy but inherited your character, he’d be capo di tutti capi before he was thirty. Even I didn’t manage that!”

  I stopped fighting. “You’re bleeding again,” I said, unbuttoning his shirt. “We’re going to a doctor right now. And that stupid conversation is finished. My son will never be part of the mob.”

  Massimo pressed himself against me, heedless of the red stains he was leaving on my clothes. With a wide smile, he looked me in the eyes and kissed me.

  “So,” he said, breaking off the kiss, “we’re going to have a son?”

  “Stop it, you! That was purely theoretical. Get changed. We’re going to the clinic.”

  I dressed his wounds again and went to the closet, stepping out of the dirty clothes and putting on blue jeans, a white shirt, and my favorite Isabel Marant sneakers. When I was finished, Massimo appeared in the doorway and opened one of the four huge closets. It was filled with his things.

  “When did you manage to unpack?”

  “Yesterday. I had some time to do it. Besides, I had some help.”

  He put on worn dark blue jeans and a black sweater, finishing his look with a pair of casual loafers. I had never seen him wear clothes like that. He looked like an ordinary, young, well-dressed man now. He looked mind-blowing. He reached for a suitcase inside the closet and took out a small box.

  “You forgot something,” he said, clasping the watch over my wrist. It was the same one he had given me when we were driving to the airport on Sicily.

  “Is this a transmitter, too?” I asked with a chuckle.

  “No. That’s just a watch, Laura. One transmitter is enough. Let’s not get back to that subject again.” He sent me a warning look.

  “Let’s go before your stigmata opens up again,” I ordered, grabbing the keys to the BMW.

  “You drank. You shouldn’t drive,” he said, putting them back on the table.

  “Well, okay, but you can. Unless you can’t. Drive, I mean.”

  Massimo stopped, sporting a sly smirk and raising an eyebrow.

  “I’ve raced a bit in my time. I know my way around a transmission. But we aren’t taking your car. Too big for my liking.”

  “I’ll call us a cab, then.”

  I pulled out my phone, dialing a number, but the Man in Black plucked it out of my hand, pressing the speaker button. He approached the cupboard next to the door and opened the lowest drawer, pulling out two envelopes.

  “You haven’t looked in here, have you?” he asked ironically, opening the first one. “We have other means of transport in the garage. I like those others better. Come on.”

  We went down underground, and Massimo pressed a button on the remote he was holding. Car lights blinked in one of the parking spaces. We walked that way and stopped by a black Ferrari Italia. I froze, ogling the low, sporty, incredible supercar.

  “Are any more of those cars yours”? I asked, watching as he got in.

  “Whichever you want, baby girl. Hop in.” Inside, the car looked like some kind of spaceship: multicolored buttons and knobs, and a steering wheel flattened on the bottom. To me, it didn’t make any sense. “How do you drive this thing without reading a manual? Could you get anything showier than this?”

  The Man in Black pressed the ignition button and the car roared.

  “There were some other options, but a Pagani Zonda was too ostentatious. Besides, Polish roads aren’t flat enough for its suspension.” He raised his eyebrows in amusement and stepped on the accelerator.

  We drove out of the underground garage, and after the first couple of hundred feet I was sure he knew what he was doing. We passed intersection after intersection and I navigated
, showing him the way to a private hospital in the wealthy Wilanów district. I had picked that specific place, as I knew a few doctors there. I had met them on one of the medical conferences I had organized. We clicked. They were party people, liked to eat and drink expensive cocktails, but most of all, they appreciated my discretion. I called one of them, a surgeon, telling him I needed a favor. Two young women sat behind the reception desk. I walked over to one of them, introduced myself, and asked her to point us to Dr. Ome’s office. She practically ignored me, her eyes shooting glances at the handsome Italian accompanying me. I hadn’t seen women reacting to Massimo like that before. In Italy, a darker complexion and black eyes were nothing special, but here it was something rare—exotic and novel. I repeated my request, and the receptionist gave us directions, blushing.

  “The doctor is waiting for you,” she muttered, trying to focus.

  In the elevator, Massimo brushed my ear with his lips.

  “I like it when you speak Polish,” he whispered. “I’m just pissed that I don’t understand a word. But that’s okay. Our son will speak three languages.”

  I didn’t even manage a riposte, as the elevator doors opened and we got out.

  Dr. Ome was a rather plain-looking middle-aged man. This seemed to make Massimo happy.

  “Welcome, Laura.” The surgeon shook my hand. “How are you?”

  I greeted him and introduced Massimo, telling the doctor we would be talking in English.

  “This is my—”

  “Fiancé,” the Man in Black finished for me. “Massimo Torricelli. Thank you for having us.”

  “Paweł Ome. Call me Paweł. It’s a pleasure to meet you. What brings you to me?”

  Torricelli, I repeated silently. During those long weeks I hadn’t learned Massimo’s last name.

  The Man in Black took off his sweater, and the doctor grew completely quiet.

  “A hunting accident,” Massimo said, seeing the reaction. “A bit too much Chianti,” he added, feigning amusement.

  “Believe me, I get it. Once, after a party, we decided to catch a train. Literally.”

  Recounting the story, Dr. Ome applied an anesthetic and stitched the wounds back up, writing a prescription for some ointment and an antibiotic, warning Massimo not to stress them too much.

  We left the hospital and got into the car.

  “Lunch?” Massimo asked, brushing a strand of hair from my forehead. “I can’t get used to that color. I love it and it suits you well, but you’re just so…” He thought for a while. “Different.”

  “I like it for now. Besides, it’s only colored. I’ll change it when I get bored with it. Let’s go. I know a great Italian place.”

  Massimo smiled and tapped an address in the GPS.

  “I have Italian food in Italy. Here, I’d like to try something Polish. Buckle up.”

  We drove across the city, passing narrow streets, and I was glad the Ferrari’s windows were tinted—seeing the car, people turned their heads, trying to peer inside.

  The supercar was a great match for Massimo: complicated, dangerous, hard to control, and very sexy.

  We stopped downtown, at one of the best restaurants in town.

  We went inside and were greeted by the manager. Massimo told him something discreetly, and the man disappeared before directing us to a table. A while later, an older man with a clean-shaven head appeared. He wore a dark gray suit with crimson lining—clearly hand tailored—and a dark shirt with the top button undone. On his feet was a pair of breathtakingly beautiful shoes.

  “Massimo, my friend!” he called out, giving the Man in Black, who barely managed to get up, a great hug.

  No stress on the wounds! I scolded the Italian in my head.

  “It’s good to finally see you in my country.”

  The men exchanged pleasantries, only recalling that I was there, too, after a while.

  “Carlo, please meet my fiancée, Laura.”

  The man kissed my hand and said, “Karol. It’s a pleasure to meet you. You can call me Carlo, like he does.”

  I was a bit surprised that Massimo was friends with a restaurant owner in Warsaw, despite not having been here before.

  “You probably won’t find my question too unexpected, but how did you guys meet?” I asked.

  Karol shot Massimo a quick glance, and the Italian replied, his eyes growing familiarly cold all of a sudden.

  “Work. We do business together. Carlo’s people drove you from the airport and protected you while I was gone.”

  “Have you ordered anything yet? If not, please, allow me to pick something for you,” the host said, sitting at our table.

  After several dishes and a couple of bottles of wine, I felt full and completely out of place—the two men started talking business. From what they said, I deduced that Carlo was half Polish and half Russian. He invested in restaurants and owned a big logistics company dealing with international shipping.

  The sound of Carlo’s phone interrupted their extremely boring conversation. The host excused himself and left. Massimo focused his eyes on me and reached out, taking my hand.

  “I know you’re bored, but this will become a part of your life. You will have to participate in some meetings. You’ll be excluded from others. I need to discuss some things with Carlo.” He lowered his voice, inclining his head my way. “But then we’ll return home, and I will fuck you on each floor of the apartment,” he said seriously, narrowing his eyes.

  I felt hot suddenly. I loved rough sex, and the threat of it was something I treated more like a promise worth waiting for.

  I pulled my hand out of his grip and took a sip from the glass, leaning back in my chair. “I’ll consider it.”

  “I wasn’t asking for your permission, Laura. I was informing you of what I’ll do.”

  His expression told me he wasn’t joking, but that was just one of the things I loved so much about him. He sat back, calm and composed, but inside he was burning. I knew that the more agitated he grew, the better the sex would be.

  “I don’t think I’m in the mood today,” I said nonchalantly, shrugging slightly.

  His eyes drilled holes in me with such intensity I could feel his gaze on me. He didn’t speak, but smirked with self-assurance, as if he was asking if I was sure of what I had said.

  Carlo’s voice broke the silence.

  “Do you remember Monika, Massimo?”

  “Of course. How could I forget your lovely wife?”

  The Man in Black stood up to kiss the woman on both cheeks, gesturing toward me.

  “Monika, please meet my fiancée, Laura.” The woman shook my hand vigorously.

  “Hey, nice to see Massimo in the company of a woman for a change, instead of Mario. I know he’s his main man, or consigliere, or whatever they call themselves, but I can’t exactly tell Mario I love his shoes, can I?”

  Despite the difference in age, I knew Monika and I would get along. She was a tall brunette with a delicate face. It was hard to tell how old she was—she had either alien DNA in her or a really good plastic surgeon.

  “Nice to meet you. I’m Laura. And I was just about to say the same thing about your shoes. Aren’t those the latest Givenchy boots?” I asked, pointing to her shoes.

  Monika looked at me with a knowing grin.

  “Ah, I can see we already have something in common. I don’t know how interested you are in their conversation, but I’d suggest a trip to the bar with me. It’s going to be fun, I promise.”

  She laughed, revealing a set of snow-white teeth, and pointed to a spot on the other side of the room.

  “I’ve been waiting for someone to save me for an hour now,” I replied, getting up.

  Massimo didn’t get a word of what we were saying. He shot me a look, seeing me stand.

  “Going somewhere?”

  “Yes. Monika and I are going to talk about something a lot more important than making money. Shoes, namely,” I said, sticking out my tongue.

  “Well, have
fun. We don’t have much time. As you recall, we have some things to take care of later.”

  I stood rooted to the spot, staring at Massimo with puzzlement. Things? His eyes grew darker, his pupils dilating. Oh, those things.

  “As I said, don Massimo, I’ll think about it.”

  When I started to leave the table, he gripped my wrist and shot up to his feet, pulling me toward him and pushing me against the wall. He kissed me passionately, behaving like there was no one else in the room, or at least as if he didn’t care.

  “Think quick, baby girl,” he breathed, tearing himself away from me.

  I stood for a short while, studying him. He was someone else when there were people around—he wore a mask that he took off only when we were alone.

  Massimo sat back at the table and returned to his conversation with Carlo, while I headed to the bar to talk to Monika. The restaurant, despite serving Polish cuisine only, was not one of those rustic wooden shacks with folk decor. It took up the entire first floor of an old tenement building. High ceilings and wide columns holding up the roof gave the room an unmistakably prewar feel. There was a black grand piano in the middle of the room, played by an old, elegant man. Everything aside from the instrument itself was white: the tablecloths, the walls, and the bar. It all created a cohesive whole.

  “Long Island,” Monika ordered, perched on a bar stool. “Want the same?”

  “Oh no. Long Island would be a bit too much. I had a rough night. A glass of Prosecco for me.”

  For a long while our main topic of conversation was her awesome boots and my sneakers. She spoke of this year’s fashion week in New York, the support she offered to young Polish designers, and how hard it is to find good clothes in this country. But it clearly wasn’t her reason for pulling me aside.

  “So you do exist,” she said at one point, changing the subject and looking at me with disbelief.

  For a while I wondered what she was talking about, but finally I recalled the portraits in Massimo’s mansion.

  “I know, it’s hard to believe, but it seems so. The only difference is I have blond hair now.”

  “When did he find you? And where? Tell me something. We’re dying of curiosity here. Well, Karol not so much, but I’m positively bursting with it.”