Chasing the CEO (The CEO duet Book 1)

by Cecilia Campos

  LUCA GRABS ME BY THE shoulders and presses his body against mine in a grateful hug. It makes me a bit uncomfortable. I’m not used to being hugged, least of all, by a man. I try to accept his gratefulness, because I realize what I just did, he never could have done himself—using a gun against his own brother. Luckily, I didn’t have to pull the trigger and the threat was sufficient to convince Matteo it was over. That he’s no longer in charge of Luca and his family. Swearing in Italian, he bolted, tail between his legs.

  I do realize a man like Matteo will never let such a thing pass. Not only is he offended by the rejection of his own brother, he also can’t stand having no control of this situation. To him, it is a loss of face. The almighty Matteo Palermo, the right-hand man of the top mafia boss in Sicily, being treated like that by his own brother? Nothing good can come from that. But what can I do about it? For now, I have done everything that was in my power.

  Arriving at Luca’s home, we walk through the house and into the garden through the back. It’s a beautiful sunny spring day and Luca promised me a decent Italian meal his Dutch wife will be preparing. She’s a beautiful, blonde Dutch woman, who apparently masters the Italian cuisine. The perfect combination. I see the table in the garden is set for dinner and conclude we’ll be dining outside in the fresh spring air.

  Suddenly, a little girl appears, who comes running at Luca. Her wild, dark curls bounce around her face as she crashes into her father with the speed of light and hugs him tightly.

  “Papà!” He lifts her in his arms, laughing.

  “Cara mia,” he replies, hugging her back just as tightly.

  What a beautiful sight. In my world, love and affection are rare things to come by. I’m a stranger to them. It almost hurts my eyes and makes me realize how fucked up my life is.

  My burner phone vibrates in my pocket. I walk away so I can answer in peace.

  “Talk to me,” I say. It’s the district attorney. Fortunately, he does speak English. By now, he must have received the parcel.

  “What do you want?” His voice is shaky. I would be scared too, if I were him.

  “You know what we want. You will make sure that Matteo stays away from Luca and his family this coming week. I don’t care how, but make sure you keep Matteo occupied. Extra raids in his factories, prosecuting his men, do what you have to do to make him realize that they ought to lay low because they are being watched.”

  “Only this coming week?”

  “Yes. After that, this won’t be your problem anymore, because the family will move abroad and then I will provide the necessary protection.” I deliberately choose the word abroad instead of Holland. Why would I give him that information? The less people know, the better.

  “If I do this for you, you will leave me alone?”

  “I will make sure that the evidence of your maleficent activities will be destroyed.”

  “How will I know you will keep your end of the deal?”

  “That’s an occupational hazard for you. I can only give you my word.”

  Relieved, I hang up the phone. That’s that. Tomorrow, I have to get back to the States, but I didn’t want to leave this family entirely unprotected. Although, I don’t think Matteo would actually hurt them. They are brothers after all, and the family bond is sacred within this culture. But you never know. If the district attorney can provide some distraction, Matteo will not have time to pull anything with regard to his brother.

  I feel relieved I’ve been able to help these people, but I also feel discouraged. That feeling seems to have been growing stronger lately. On the one hand, I’m immensely grateful for the fact Francesco pulled me off the streets years ago and took me into his family. At the same time, I’m not happy. My life with Francesco has a price. His world is a dark one. Being his right-hand man, I am, amongst other things, responsible for the safety of the girls and of Francesco himself. They call me the collector of secrets. Do you have a secret? Then I know what it is, and I will use it against you whenever we see fit. You are in our power. If your secrets aren’t worth anything, because you have nothing to lose, then we will use force to make you cooperate.

  Is it sorrow that I feel? Yes. At the same time, I’m angry. Angry about my life that is a series of events that I didn’t have a say in at all. The only thing I could do was accept it and make the best of it. But love—the love of a father and a mother; I haven’t felt that in a long, long time. That’s why it hurts me to spend these days with this family. The love they feel for each other is so obvious. Luca is giving up his entire life to move to an unfamiliar country, only for his wife and child. I wish them the very best, but at the same time, it hurts my heart to be confronted with that.

  Full of admiration, I sit down on the steps that lead into the garden and look at the happy little family. All of a sudden, the little girl is standing right in front of me. She takes my hand and puts a little flower on my palm, saying, ‘Non essere triste.’

  I look at the flower. It looks like a star. Pretty, but very vulnerable. I look up at Luca questioningly. “She’s telling you not to be sad. She wants to comfort you. Her mother plants those flowers in the borders every year. When she finds out Nina has been plucking them again, she will be punished. But apparently, she is willing to take that risk for you.”

  How does this child know I’m sad? Is it so obvious? I thought, over these past few years, I had gotten quite good at hiding my feelings. Apparently, not for this little girl.

  She looks at me with sparkling green eyes, full of compassion. I brush her hair back to stick the little flower behind her ear. ‘Grazie’ is the only Italian word I know, and it’s very suitable right now. She opens her arms, hugs me hard, and then gives me little kisses on my cheeks. She smells like vanilla and grass. This little girl is so full of compassion and affection. I hope she’s not that friendly to every stranger she meets, because that would be very dangerous. But for now, I’m just enjoying her attention and her warmth. I have never been hugged that way in my life. At least not that I can remember. My arms slip around her.

  “Perché sei triste?” Her voice is insecure and high-pitched, and she lets go of me. I look back at her father, hoping he will translate again for me.

  “She’s asking why you are sad.”

  That’s a good question. Do I have an answer to that at all? How can I express something as complicated as what I’m feeling right now in words a ten-year-old would be able to understand?

  “I don’t know what I should do with my life,” I reply in English.

  She looks at her father while he translates for her. Then she looks at me. I can see many things in her expression. Her face is very expressive. I can see what’s she thinking and feeling. The first thing I see is surprise. Then I see disbelief. Then, a presumptuous grin appears on her face. She looks as though she’s found a solution to my problem. The last thing I see on her face is pride. She is proud of herself for the fact she’s going to help me.

  A cascade of Italian words comes out of her mouth next. She gestures to make her intentions clear to her dad. They are having a long conversation, with him asking her questions and her responding.

  “What’s happening?” I interrupt at one point.

  He sighs deeply and explains, “She’s got some advice for you, but she wants to tell you in English herself. I told her that I would translate it for her, but she is stubborn. Let’s just give it a try.”

  “Okay.” The good intentions of this girl amuse and move me at the same time. She’s a little angel. I’m very curious to know what she has to say.

  Word for word, she repeats what her father says, in broken English, “There. Is. Nothing. That. You. Can’t. Accomplish. Nothing.”

  “Nothing?” I repeat.

  “Niente,” she confirms, then adds, “Nothing. Nada. Niente.”

  “There is nothing I can’t accomplish. Nothing. Nada. Niente,” I repeat.

  THE END

  THIS IS NOT REALLY the end. Nina and Sebastian have many more a
dventures yet to come. You can look forward to the second and last part of The CEO duet—Catching the CEO and find out what will happen. Keep reading for a little taste.

  Catching the CEO

  Prologue

  Nina

  MY BRAND-NEW NIKE RUNNING shoes feel good as they touch the gray tiles of the sidewalk with every step. My ears are treated to a fantastic Don Diablo song. Just the right BPM puts me in the perfect mood. Running is not easy for me. Actually, I don’t like it at all.

  What I do like is pasta. Spaghetti, ravioli, cannelloni, and lasagna. So, I have to have some physical exercise at any rate. Running is an easy choice. You can do it any time of day. You just put on your running gear and shoes and off you go. I have been doing it for two years, and it works. It helps me find peace of mind.

  “I. Am. A machine. I. Am. A machine. I. Am. A machine.” As long as I keep repeating this in my head, I ought to be able to keep running and burn the necessary calories. Suddenly, I feel the laces of my right shoe have come loose. Out of breath, I stop and bend over to tie them.

  Drops of sweat fall on my hands. Why is it so fucking hot today? It’s only the end of April, but the temperature suggests otherwise. The hot air makes my lungs feel like they are melting and fusing together. With my hands on my knees, I try to suck an essential amount of oxygen in. The air feels heavy. It’s so hot, the fata morganas on the streets appear to grow bigger and bigger, and my breathable sports bra is glued to my body. As far as I’m concerned, they can fire the idiot who invented ‘breathable fabric’ because nothing is breathing at the moment—neither my clothes nor me.

  Where the heck am I? Maybe it wasn’t such a good idea after all to go running by myself. As a trucker girl, you would expect me to have a decent sense of direction. Not me. I would get lost visiting my grandmother, where I lived for two years, for crying out loud! I even get lost inside buildings, like hotels, and at airports. Or leaving a shop and not knowing if I came in from the left or right.

  I should head back home. There’s a large tree on the corner of the street right over there. Maybe if I stand nice and cool in its shadow, I could look up the address on Google Maps, and let the device tell me which way to go.

  Lizard eyeballs in onion gravy ... What was the address again? Think, Nina. Keep your cool, even if it’s hot. You can do this. You’d think I would be able to remember my own address by now. But honestly, I hardly ever get out the door by myself; I’m usually with Cowboy or one of the girls. And I order my groceries online, so they are delivered to my doorstep and I don’t have to carry them myself.

  Think, Nina. What was the address? Something with the elements in it. Like Fire Street, Wind Street, or was it Earth Street ... No, Nina I think that used to be a band back in the seventies—Earth, Wind, and Fire. That is so typical of me to forget the address. Unbelievable!

  Confused, I glance around for something familiar. Our apartment is one of the highest here in the Georgetown area of Washington, D.C. Well, it’s not really that high, actually. Against any expectations you might have, Washington is no New York. There are no enormously high office buildings here. Georgetown has a surprisingly European look to it, with cute colonial houses and channels along some of its streets. Very different from the New York we all know from TV. Sure enough, Cowboy’s apartment is not as big and tall as the buildings in New York, but it is one of the highest here and has a view of the Potomac. I think that’s a river ... maybe. A large pool of water anyway. Why on earth can I remember the name of that stupid river, but not the name of our street?

  Maybe I could find the name by just relaxing a bit and looking around. Nope. Nothing remotely familiar. Shall I call Cowboy? I’m not sure if I have the guts for that. We discussed the running on my own. Well, he talked, I listened. Not that we had a two-sided conversation, and an agreement was never reached. He just told me I wasn’t allowed to go out on my own. He didn’t think that would be safe. Back then, I thought his obsessive concern was adorable and I simply didn’t see any reason to contradict him. I thought I would go out if I felt like it anyway. I just didn’t feel like using the treadmill in the training room of the apartment today.

  Come on, Nina, you’re a grown woman. Surely you won’t let a man forbid you to go outside?

  I decide to swallow my pride and my fear of his reaction and call Cowboy. The phone rings and rings and rings. There is no answer. As soon as the voicemail comes on, I quickly leave him a message. “Cowboy, I was running, but I got a bit lost and I forgot our address. Can you call me back as soon as possible? Kiss!”

  Kiss ... I thought we’d just established you’re a grown woman, Nina?

  Back to some more running then, maybe I’ll find the way back by myself. I could not have run more than ten minutes. Some quick math tells me that would be a little over one mile. Seems doable to me. What if I just start heading back in the direction I came from? Might as well. At the crosswalk, I have to wait a little while to cross. Next to me, in front of the traffic light, is a black Chevrolet Chevy van. I hear the driver put his foot down on the gas. Weird. Why would you do that in front of a traffic light? The black windows obscure the idiot from my view.

  Then he does it again and I can hear the van’s motor rumble in protest. What a dufus. Better not pay any attention to it. As soon as my light for pedestrians turns green, I quickly cross the street.

  Okay, this all seems familiar at some level. I continue with big strides. At the end of the street, there is another crossing. From the corner of my eye, I see the black Chevy van approaching. I have to wait until it has passes me before I cross. As I do so, I hear the loud sound of a car horn. It’s the van, nearly giving me a heart attack! There was no need for the driver to honk, the situation was in no way even remotely dangerous. I believe the person behind the wheel only wants to draw my attention. I let the air fly from my lungs in relief when the car turns right at the end of the street. Good riddance, I think to myself.

  Now that I’m walking again, I check my phone, but there’s no message from Cowboy. It is so unlike him to neglect returning my call. Oh well, must be very busy. And it’s not all about me anyway, right? Looking up, I recognize some shops. That means I’m still going in the right direction.

  A couple of blocks further down the road, I hear the same honking. I look around, trying to find the source. Not the stupid black van again?

  Rabbit’s ears with mosquito cream... What the hell does that guy want from me?

  At least, I assume it’s a guy, but I still don’t know that for sure, since the driver is still not visible to me. It is starting to get a little creepy now. The van matches my pace right next to me as I follow the walkway to the right. He drives so slowly, other drivers are passing him now, clearly frustrated.

  Hoping to shake him off, I pick up my pace and cross through the park, where he cannot follow me. Ha! I scurry behind a tree and see the van drive off. Relief rushes through me again when I continue walking, realizing our apartment is right here around the corner. The street sign says Water Street. See, I knew it was something like that! I take the keys out of my pouch to open the door of the main entrance. Suddenly, there is that freaking honking again and I see the black van, parking right in front of the entrance.

  Oh. My. Fucking. God. This can’t be happening?

  With panic rushing from my toes to my stomach, I realize this lunatic has followed me home. Stay calm, Nina. He can’t possibly get in without a key. Nevertheless, I push the elevator button, willing it to arrive quickly. I cannot wait to be home and far away from that idiot. The elevator announces itself with a soft ping. I get in and press the button for the top floor. While the doors slide shut slowly, I can hear the door of the main entrance open and someone calling, “Hold that elevator!”

  Hold that elevator? I actually get an image of myself stretching my arms and trying to hug the elevator. Who on earth came up with that expression anyway?

  Nina, get real. Who the hell cares? You are in danger and you need to get into
your apartment as quickly as possible!

  Panic feels like a solid demon in my throat by that time. I have no intention at all to “hold” this elevator. Least of all, for that lunatic in the black van.

  When I reach my floor, I hurry down the hallway to the door of the apartment. There are too many keys on my chain. Which key is the right one? I pick one at random and put it in the key hole. The door won’t open.

  Shit on a pile of crap with a pretty ribbon. Which key? Stay calm, Nina. You can do this!

  I try another key. At that moment, I hear the ping again, then the elevator doors slide open and a man steps out of the elevator. A man with a black balaclava! It is fucking eighty-six degrees outside, so I’m guessing that balaclava is not meant to keep the cold from his face. This can’t be good. Nope. My hands shake as I put the next key in the key hole. It works and the door opens. I slam the door behind me as quickly as I can. Not quickly enough. A foot is placed in the door opening. Everything seems to happen in slow motion. With all my strength, I try to shut the door, but I’m not strong enough. Suddenly, the man is right in front of me.

  I HOPE YOU ENJOYED this little taste of Part Two.

  Talk to you soon!

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  Who is Cecilia Campos?

  WHEN I’M NOT WRITING, I try to keep my hair—which is just as wild as my character—under control. My biggest problem in life is that my husband cannot keep his hands off of me. Oh, wait, that’s my dream, not my problem.