by Felicia Lynn
I take the stairs two at a time. After seeing the cars out back, I know I have unexpected company. At this hour, I know they’re not here for business in the basement, so they’re mostly likely waiting in my office. It’s not like any visits from my father would ever be planned because Antonio Ruffinelli doesn’t need an appointment to see anyone. If he chooses to grace you with his presence, it wouldn’t be wise to question it. Visits from my father and his men could be good, or it could be really bad. If the terms for a visit from Antonio Ruffinelli aren’t cause for celebration, a man should probably hope it’s a good day to die because the odds of that outcome are high.
Waiting, or more likely guarding, the door of my office is Dino, one of my father’s many men. His only loyalty to me is through the man on the other side of the door, and unless my father and I aren’t seeing eye to eye, he has no problems with me. This time I’m about ten steps ahead of my father and have a good idea of the purpose of this visit. Dino steps aside as I approach the door while pointedly ignoring me and remaining stoic.
I open the door to the room and see the man who’s earned the right to be feared sitting on my oversized leather chair behind my desk. Always a man to be in the power position of every situation, whether it be the head of a dinner table or like now behind my desk. I’d never expect anything less. Sitting, he’s mangling a paperclip, a sure sign of his impatience, and ever so slowly looks up as I enter.
“Son,” he greets, unenthusiastically.
“Good to see you, father. To what do I owe this honor?” I ask, not giving any indications that I’m already aware of what he wants to discuss.
“I’ve come to deliver some information, but since my son is a smart man and well informed of current events affecting the family, I expect you’ve been informed of the details. Let’s save us some time and get to straight to the point. Tell me what you know and how this new situation is being handled,” he advises.
I’m not surprised he’s come to me for the information even though I’m sure more official sources have made him aware, but regardless, I’ll tell him. “I’ve been made aware that Elianna Nicchi is relocating to Boston. She purchased a brownstone in the south end. I don’t know the exact details of her arrival, but I expect it to be soon. The moving truck has come and gone. Her residence has been secured, and as soon as she arrives, she’ll have a shadow team on her every time she steps foot outside. They’ve been warned to keep their distance. I’ve personally checked the home security system and have set up alert notifications to be sent to my phone with any activity. I’m not sure what’s brought the mafia princess to our territory, but regardless, I plan to make sure she’s safe. As far as I know, she has no personal enemies, but the Nicchi family has enough to make her a target,” I report, focusing on the pertinent details of what I know he wants to hear while leaving out the mile-long list of everything else.
“We’ll need to get the word out that while the Nicchi princess resides in our territory, she’s covered, as well as off-limits. I’ll leave you to handle that, Lucas. I feel confident in your abilities to relay the message loud and clear.” I don’t tell him it was already my plan because I’ve known for weeks that Eli was moving to Boston, but until she’s here where I know she can be under my protection, I don’t want to bring any unnecessary attention to her.
“Sergio Vigo has called directly with the information and seeks a favor. Although I understand the need to keep watch over a loved one out of your reach, I’m unsure Vigo’s motives relate similarly. There have been whispers that the Nicchi family is dealing with some . . . what’s the word . . .” He pauses. “Let’s call them leadership issues. He’s asked that we update him with Elianna’s activities, dealings, contacts, and anything out of the ordinary. Although I suspect you and I don’t need to discuss what we will and will not tell Sergio Vigo. For Leo Nicchi, we will protect her as we would one of our own, but until we have a better idea of what’s really happening in that family, we’ll keep the peace and our distance. I have respect for the Nicchi family, but I do not trust Sergio Vigo. With nothing more than whispers of his activities and motives, it’s not enough to warrant Commission involvement until we can be sure it’s necessary.” He pauses again. I know he’s not done with our chat, but his body language tells me we’re changing directions. Unfortunately, if that’s the case, I’m unprepared and have no idea what I’m in for.
He sits forward in the chair, resting his elbows on the desk. Under his wrinkled brow, he pins his eyes to me. I’m sure he’s studying me for nervousness, but I’m not nervous. My dealings are all accounted for and paid up, so it’s something else.
“I know I don’t need to explain to you the consequences of going rogue. I am a man of many things to many associates, Lucas, but to you, I’m also a father. Son, if things need to be said or handled as it pertains to your brother’s death, come to me. Even as my son, if you make attempts to act on information you’ve gathered without the support of the family and backing of The Commission, I can’t interfere when they make an example of you. Do you understand what I’m telling you, Lucas?” he asks point blank.
Although I thought the subtle digging I’d been doing was off the radar, I now realize I was wrong. What doesn’t my father know? I can guarantee he’s known Elianna Nicchi was moving to Boston and everything I’ve worked out to prepare for her arrival if he’s somehow managed to work out that I’m hunting for the fucker who took out Matteo. I need answers.
“Father, my apologies for going behind your back. I would’ve come to you before I handled anything. You know as well as I do that Matteo didn’t commit suicide, but the lies will catch up to them, and I intend to make them pay. There’s not a creditor in the east what would’ve sought to act on any unpaid debt without a conversation with us and possibly Sergio Vigo, but no matter what, we would’ve fucking known. No one in their right mind would want an enemy in the Ruffinelli family,” I explain.
“Lucas, you’re held to a different standard, being groomed to someday fill my shoes. I won’t let you throw that away, son.” He looks at me with empathetic seriousness. I’m sure he realizes what he’s asking of me, but my answer is the same as always.
“While I appreciate having you in my life, Father, filling your shoes was never part of the plan for me. I love this family, and I can promise no one will ever be as loyal to you than I am, but I’m not committing myself to that kind of future. Not now. Probably not ever. You keep filling your own shoes for now. I’ll be at your side in my own.” I’m hopeful he understands my point of view and doesn’t see my lack of enthusiasm as a weakness or a shortage in loyalty.
With a nod, he stands and starts moving toward the door. He doesn’t speak until he’s at the threshold and the door is opened. He looks back over his shoulder, making sure he has my attention. “You know how to reach me. If you need to discuss the information you’ve found, day or night, call me. We’ll meet. If anyone has ever questioned my dedication to helping my son accomplish the things that matter most in his life, I’d be honored for the chance to prove myself.” Our conversation is no longer private. Anyone within proximity has heard what he said, but he doesn’t seem to care. This sentimental father – son moment is a first for us, and I can honestly admit the man has truly humbled me.
“And Lucas, about the first thing we discussed. I understand you’re taking the lead on this, but if you need resources and support, I’ll have you covered. Just say the word.”
I don’t even think I can handle what’s being thrown at me right now. What is going on with my father?
“Yes, sir,” I mumble. “I appreciate the support. I’ll be in touch soon with updates.” With that, he turns and leaves.
I walk to my desk and plop down into the recently vacated chair with a sigh of . . . what the fuck do I even call this? Shock? Relief? Confusion? Dammit. It’s all those and more. My head is literally spinning with all that I have up in the air at the moment.
My brother. I know without a shadow of a d
oubt what didn’t happen, but I don’t know what did or why. My father. Yeah. He’s hell-bent on me taking his place when the time comes, and I’m not exactly sure why. It seems like so much more than prepping for his retirement. Then there’s Indigo and the private business I run in the basement that we creatively call The Basement.
Bringing Elianna into the mix makes the rest seem like a walk in the park. Not that I don’t want her here, but having her in Boston causes a whole set of new complications. How do I convince myself she’s off-limits? Ten minutes of holding her in my arms and I’m doubtful a recovery exists for what that’s done to my head. It didn’t take me long to understand my little brother’s attachment issues. He’s always firmly defended his relationship with Eli. He never expected anything more than a friendship, but I struggle to understand how he wouldn’t have wanted more.
I’ve always thought she was gorgeous, but feeling her break down in my arms showed me there’s so much more, and for that reason alone, I’ll never be able to trust myself with her. At the same time, Eli isn’t mine. She never has been. She can’t ever be.
I have a job to do where she’s concerned, and I don’t expect that to be easy. I’m not entirely convinced she’s safe, but I have no data to back that up except for Matteo. He was supposed to be safe, and he wasn’t. I fucked up with Matteo. That’s on me, and I regret it every single day, but I can’t let my guard down with Elianna. The only way to keep her from being a diversion is to stay the fuck away from her, but it’s impossible to really protect her if I have to solely rely on others to do my work.
Also, it would be helpful if she were cooperative, which means I probably need to let her know we’re going to be working with each other. She needs to know we have eyes on her, so she doesn’t get spooked if she notices her tails. Most importantly of all, if she does have any issues, concerns, or whatever else, I want to be the first phone call. Who else would she call anyway? It’s not like she has any better options than me. I’m her only connection to Boston as far as I can tell, which opens a whole separate set of questions.
What the hell is really bringing Elianna to Boston, and what is she running from in New York? Is this just a coincidence she’s moving to the city pretty much under our thumb? Because I’m struggling not to convince myself that I haven’t affected her the same way she has me. Not knowing the vital details is causing unnecessary pressure. It’s hard to fight the unknowns, but I can’t exactly just call her up and start asking for answers since I haven’t seen or heard from her since Matteo’s service.
Irony is a bitch. On a day when everything felt so fucking wrong, consoling her while she was wrapped in my arms couldn’t have felt more right. How can that ever be justified?
My phone pings with a message alert, so I pick it up to look at the screen.
LUIS: She’s here.
Well, looks like my day will not be going as I planned.
5
- Fighter -
Elianna
Home. Finding a new normal is going to be easier said than done, but I’m trying to be optimistic. I’ve been here at the new place for four hours and have unpacked and set up a good portion of the brownstone already, but it’s not like I had a ton of boxes to begin with. For the most part, the major furnishings and accessories were bought new. Even still, the kitchen is completely unpacked and organized, as well as the library, my bedroom, and both bathrooms. There’s not too much left, but I may have to pace myself because when it’s all set up and finished, I’m not really sure what else I’ll do to fill my time.
I think it just finally hit me that I have absolutely zero friends here. Not only that, but I really am unprepared for life in this new city. I have no idea where the good coffee shops are. Also, after spending the past three months doing yoga almost daily and hating every single second of it, I’m suddenly desperate for a good sweat session. I have absolutely nothing edible in the house except for dog food and treats, so groceries are a dire necessity at this point, but my biggest WTF now moment is my bar dilemma. Is it socially acceptable to grab a couple of drinks solo in the local pub if you don’t have any friends or am I just going to look like a desperate woman on the prowl? Shit, this could be more serious than my lack of nutritional sustenance. Well, the good news is a glass of wine while enjoying a hot bath is still classy and encouraged for relaxation, so I guess that will suffice for now. I’m sure it’ll all come together in time. Hell, all I have right now is Gatsby and time anyway.
I’m not really sure what to do yet. I don’t really need a job to support myself, but I’d really like to have something meaningful to do with my time. I’ve considered career options in the past since I admit it really sucks being dependent on my inheritance to survive. Not that there isn’t more than enough to support me for a lifetime, but it just feels morally wrong to me. Every time I sit down to pay bills, my conscience gets the best of me.
I’d like to think the money left to me was earned fairly, but since I’m sometimes too smart for my own good, I suspect that’s unlikely. I keep hoping that my investment management company will mismanage it somehow so it all goes away, but unless the team has a death wish, it probably won’t never happen. Every single month, the dirty money account seems to grow leaps and bounds. There must be a way to repurpose those funds for good.
If life must include the good and the bad, I’m going to find a way to make the bad pay something for the good. I’ve been thinking about it for a while, but I’ve never been more motivated than now. Since I’m already working on cleaning the slate, this is moving to the top of my list. I need to start researching worthy charities and figure out how to get involved. Well, right after I get food in the house and find the nearest coffee shop, that is.
The doorbell rings unexpectedly. Is this normal for people to randomly ring a stranger’s door for things? I’m not unopposed or annoyed by it. Honestly, I welcome the company. This would just never happen in New York. I just met three little boys with their mothers a couple of hours ago. They were selling popcorn as a fundraiser for their troop’s upcoming service project and camp. I probably went overboard with my order, but since I’m not a fan of popcorn, they had an option to send the donations to soldiers serving abroad. It was a great cause, and the boys were so excited. It actually made my day a little better too.
I walk to the door with an excited Gatsby at my side, and I bend down to scoop him up, laughing as I try to avoid his puppy smooches. Realizing after the fact it was a gigantic mistake not use that convenient little peephole when I see the person on my doorstep grinning smugly back at me. What. The. Fuck. Now.
“Hello, Elianna. I was in the neighborhood and thought I’d stop by and welcome you.” With a large crystal vase full of artfully arranged flowers and stems in hand, it appears he’s serious. Um . . . no, this cannot be happening. I was aware he lived here in Boston, but it’s a big enough city. I figured if I didn’t seek him out, he probably wouldn’t come looking for me either. I mean, he hasn’t ever before, so what would remotely give me a reason to think he would now?
Lucas Christopher Black . . . or is it Ruffinelli now? I don’t even know or care which name he refers to himself as, and it doesn’t matter. The point of leaving New York was to escape ‘the family’ life and reminders of what’s missing, so I won’t be referring to him as anything, since he definitely is a trigger representing both.
“What are you doing here, Lucas? How did you even know I was here?” I ask, finally snapping out of my stupor. He moves, holding the vase in one hand, and crouches down to Gatsby’s level in my arms. He’s currently squirming wildly, overeager to greet our company. I’m not sure if I’m worried or hopeful his excitement might cause an accident, so I’ll have good reason to excuse myself and postpone this reunion until . . . never.
“Elianna, it’s my job to know. Aren’t you going to invite me in?” He asks, looking up at me, but when I really look into his eyes, I notice for the first time how eerily similar they are to his brother’s, just dar
ker in color making them gray. For a moment, I see Matteo in front of me, and my heart leaps, but I calm my nerves, refusing to allow myself to find joy in this. Even with the irresistibly devastating grin, I’m not sure whether to categorize Lucas in the good or bad side of life column. Ugh . . . it’s so wrong that my lips tremble with the urge to smile as I watch him playfully pet Gatsby. Attractive males who succumb to puppy love tendencies when face to face with a real live puppy may very well be a newly discovered weakness for me. Noted to avoid in the future.
“Um . . . I guess come in,” I tell him, trying to be courteous but not caring that it probably comes across as patronizing too.
“Don’t act so happy to see me, Sunshine.” He chuckles, standing. He follows me through the door as I turn and walk inside with Gatsby, waiting to set him down until Lucas pushes the door closed.
Sunshine? I can’t help but laugh at that. What the hell kind of name is that for me? Clearly, he doesn’t know me at all if that’s what he comes up with because I’m anything but. I get he’s known me since we were kids, and maybe the whole nickname thing makes him feel nostalgic, but still nope. We’re not going to be on that kind of friendly level right out of the gates. Wait . . . I mean, ever, not out of the gates.
“You can just call me Elianna, Lucas. Sunshine isn’t appropriate. Plus, even if the first part weren’t enough, it definitely doesn’t really fit me,” I say with staid calmness.
He smiles tentatively as if testing the expression then places the arrangement on the entry table. Looking at me directly, he hesitates as if trying to read my demeanor before taking in the rest of the room.