Twisted Fate: A Forbidden Romance

by Ella James

  “My thoughts exactly.” I rise from her white couch, toss the folder into her lap, and grab my wine glass from her living room table, sauntering toward her kitchen for a refill.

  A couple seconds later, I hear her boots click on the floor behind me. She sets her empty glass on the granite counter beside mine as I work the cork off our half-drained bottle of Gaja Barbaresco.

  “For starters, let me just say I feel like a terrible news analyst—because I just realized I didn’t understand much about what D.A.s actually do.”

  I turn to her with my mouth open for dramatic effect. “A horrible analyst! What about horrible friend?” I jab my finger at her silky, powder blue blouse, and Dani blinks a few times like a gorgeous doll.

  “Mmhmm. Sleeping on the friend job ’cause you’re so wrapped up in screwing what’s-his-face.”

  She gives me a guilty grin. “His face is gorgeous and his name is Raul. He’ll be working as a guest producer for the next six weeks, so there’ll be plenty of time for…whatever events might unfold.”

  Despite my angst, I can’t help snorting as I picture Dani’s long legs doing just that.

  “You’re awful,” I tell her, pouring.

  “You’re breaking disclosure laws over weeknight wine. Not that you don’t have a damn-it-all good reason to.” She throws an arm over my shoulder as we walk back into the living area. It’s two stories of tranquility, with a second-floor balcony overlooking the TV/fireplace area and every square foot done in pale tones and fluffy textures. When Dani unveiled the space to Ree and me after her interior designer spruced it up last year, Ree blinked a few times, sputtered, and said it looked like a lovely bird’s nest.

  I sink back into the velvet-soft couch, pull a fleece over my legs, and watch as Dani nudges her shoes off and props her heels on the edge of her glass coffee table. She tosses back about a quarter of her wine and scrunches her nose.

  “I don’t know what to say. I can’t imagine finding all this out after he approached you in Central Park. Clearly, he’s just…corrupt.”

  “Umm, maybe a little. You know, he’s like…a mob boss?”

  We both laugh at that until we’re howling. When we catch our breath, Dani wipes the laugh tears from her eyes and gives me a more sober look. “So you’re fucked. And not the sexy kind. Is that what I’m hearing?”

  I nod. “Yeah, I guess. It all blindsided me. Both the thing with him on New Year’s Day, and then the other stuff after I took office. To think these precincts had been hoarding all this evidence for almost two years, waiting for the next D.A.—”

  “And that D.A. is you.” Dani polishes off her glass. “I know, girl. It’s fucked. So what are you going to do?”

  “Well, like I said, I had to form a task force. You can’t ignore something like this. Nor would I want to,” I add quickly. “You just heard my little fun-time summary of stuff from this folder, but some of the files we got from the precincts are pretty damning. Lots of drug stuff. And see, what I think is going on is that the head of the Armenian mob, this guy named Aren—”

  “Armenians like the ones you had to get protected from?”

  “Yep. Anyway, their fearless leader—” I roll my eyes “—is this guy named Aren. Apparently he has a relationship with an analyst at the FBI, and he’s told her he’s getting out of human trafficking because the Italians are taking that over. The details are sketchy.”

  “And like whoaaa disturbing!” Dani seems drunk off her ass and looks just like she did in high school right now. “Human trafficking. That’s some fucked-up shiz.”

  “Well, the three people in our office who know the most about the Arnoldi family don’t think it’s true. Apparently Luca is a member of some low-profile council through some equally esoteric charity whose mission is working against human trafficking. Ergo, he’s expressed distaste for it.”

  Dani just blinks a few times, bug-eyed, like she can’t even.

  “Those things are going to fall off,” I tell her.

  “They are not going to fall off! These are my Ardells, but I’ve got the really good eyelash glue.”

  “I have no idea what that means.”

  She dabs at her eyes and sniffs. “Keep talking, fishy. Spill the rest of the tea. I’m in suspense waiting for you to make me understand. Can you just bottom-line it for me? What’s the worst thing that could happen in this?”

  I swallow more of my wine. “Basically—the task force is up and running. It’s a joint task force, looking at the Arnoldi family and the Armenians and how they interconnect. I put my best deputy on it. He’ll report back in a few weeks, but if he finds out something really damning, then they’ll start to build a case. Investigating more, widening the net, offering deals to cooperators.”

  “And eventually…” She waves her hand, and I roll my eyes.

  “Geez, Dani. Eventually, we’ll have to make a case against him. Someone will. I mean, it won’t be me personally. And it may not be against him personally, either.”

  “But would you argue it? Wouldn’t it be you in charge of all of it?”

  “Yes. It would be me. My office. Sort of.”

  She shuts her eyes and shakes her head. “This is a tragedy, Elise.” She looks forlornly at me. “A real-life one.”

  “His life is a tragedy, maybe. But my life is a triumph. The really unfortunate thing is that they have to intersect like this.”

  “I stand by what I said. I think he came to you that day in Central Park to talk about this stuff—like maybe even to try to twist your arm—but he got near you and he lost his nerve. That boy was crazy about you.”

  “Yes, so crazy. When I’m crazy about someone, I always dump them on a random sidewalk and disappear without a trace. And after I see them later and they practically accost me in an elevator, that makes me even more crazy about them.”

  “I’m sorry.” She sprawls back against the couch’s cushy arm. “This is a no-go topic. Which I know. Wow, that rhymes. Anyway, I shouldn’t talk about it because I’m drinking.”

  “What are you talking about right now?”

  Dani’s eyes close. “Shut up. And tell me what Holly says.”

  “I’m not seeing Holly anymore right now. I took a leave of absence.”

  “From your therapist?”

  “I do that sometimes.” I swallow so my voice feels less defensive. “When I feel good.”

  She sits up. “You feel good?”

  “Yes, Dani. I feel great.” I stand up. “I’ve got my dream job, my dream friend circle. Only one of them is currently drunk off her ass on a weeknight.”

  “Two,” she says with her eyes narrowed.

  “Who’s the second?”

  “You.”

  “I’m not my own friend.”

  “Everyone should be their own friend.” She laughs drunkenly.

  I take Dani to her bedroom, pour a bunch of water down her perfumed throat, and leave her with her cell phone on the charger and a nice, tall bottle of electrolyte water on the bedside table.

  “I love you,” she says as I go.

  “Love you more, you beta. Get some sleep and smoke some pot tomorrow night instead.”

  She sighs and says something that I can’t hear. “Mmhm?” I quirk an eyebrow her way.

  “Nothing. Goodnight, fishy.”

  Dani’s driver, Cian, takes me home. I take it as a point of pride that I’m sober enough to make appropriate conversation with him. I even indulge in a little espionage, trying to find out what Dani’s been up to lately. Cian, although only twenty-two, is the consummate professional, revealing nothing.

  I step out onto the curb in front of my building, my long coat whipping all around me as I walk toward the doors. I tell myself those eyes I feel burning into my back are only imagined. No one is concerned with what I’m doing. No one’s out to get me. Most especially not Singor Galante.

  8

  Luca

  Three Days Later

  Someone scratching my back…feels good. I groa
n and try to lift my heavy eyelids. The hand moves up, tracing between my shoulder blades.

  “Occhi blu. Non hai sonno, vero? Sei triste…”

  She runs her nails over my skin and gives a laugh at the resulting chills.

  “You’ve been up all night and sleeping in the day,” she whispers, rubbing the chills away. “Aless told me that the shit had hit the fan with some police precincts that went to the D.A., and you were going to ask her father to tell her.”

  Isa’s fingers squeeze my nape—the motion practiced and familiar.

  I roll out of her reach, force myself to sit up in bed. Fuck. I blink around my bedroom, squinting at the floor-to-ceiling curtains. There’s no light spilling around them. What time is it?

  I rub my eyes and frown at Isa, who’s wearing a dress. It might be a normal dress—I can’t tell—but I think she’s got on lipstick, too.

  “Where’re you going?”

  She gives me her happy smile. “I have a date.”

  “Mm.” I glower at her, just for effect. “Chick or dude?”

  “Cheep-cheep.” She flaps her arms, and I rumple my brows, giving her a skeptical look. “But I’m not leaving ello until I know La Nave Arnoldi isn’t sinking.”

  “No ships are sinking. I’m not sleeping all day.”

  “Are you having her followed?”

  My heart skips a beat. But Isa doesn’t notice as I step out of bed, stretching in just boxer-briefs. She’s such a dragon—her description—that her eyes go right where I know they will.

  She makes that purring sound she does with the tip of her tongue. “Mmm-mm. Instagram is waiting for you, fratellino.”

  Baby brother. She’s a few months older, and she used to like to play that up. I reach for the glass of water on the bedside table, buying myself a few more seconds. Then I look at her over the crystal rim—a bored look, I hope—and say, “Why the fuck would I be having Elise followed?”

  She shrugs. “I don’t know. You’ve got that…intensity about you.”

  “Let’s not talk about intensity.” It’s a lame shut-down, but I’m still half asleep and it’s all I’ve got. I glance at the clock—4:49 p.m.—and head toward the bathroom.

  There’s a fucking thing I’ve gotta dress for. Old guys throwing parties for each other like a bunch of women—friends of Roberto that got handed down to me.

  I don’t waste any time stepping into my room-sized, walk-in shower. One button starts all the jets, and they start hot—no waiting for the water to warm. By the time Isa’s shoes clack on the marble floor, I’m out of my briefs and under the spray, grateful for the hazy glass door as I rub shampoo into my hair.

  “So what do they have on us? Aren’t you going to tell me?”

  “Didn’t Leo?”

  “Don’t be grumpy just because I like to fuck one of your bro pals. He likes to fuck me too. I know you wouldn’t understand, but it makes us both happy.”

  I’m not saying a word in reply to that, and Isa knows I won’t. She changes the subject. “How’s your back?”

  I’m turned away from the shower door, but I can tell by the volume of her voice that she’s standing right beside it. “Healed fine.” I run a bar of soap over the still-fresh scar that wraps around my hip.

  “You should wear that vest I got you when you do high-risk things.”

  I snort, but shower water gets up my nose, and I end up sneezing. Naturally, Isa notices and laughs her ass off. “You’re ridiculous.”

  “Says the person who, just last month, spent three days attempting to get an Instagram picture with a bunch of llamas.”

  “They were beautiful llamas. So picturesque and fluffy. You know that picture was amazing.”

  I snort again. “Sure. The llamas…” Isa, who is a fulltime travel “influencer” with more than a million followers, was leaning on a fence, showing what I guess she figured was the right amount of cleavage, wearing a white suede dress that clung to her ass.

  I can hear her smile as she says, “You know I’m your favorite.”

  I tip my head under the water again, thinking of pointing out that lately I only see her two or three times a year. But I don’t want to rain on her parade.

  “Let’s go out tomorrow night,” she says. “Just the two of us.”

  I grunt as I rub the soap bar around in my palm.

  “You know you want to.”

  “But do I?”

  “Of course you do. Anyways, we both know you don’t have any hot plans.” I laugh as she pulls a stool out from under my bathroom counter. Through the upper part of the shower wall, which isn’t hazy, I can see her opening one of my drawers. “So are you going to twist my uncle’s arm and help him feel the burn? Or go a less direct route, chat with E baby, and bust my little cousin’s bubble?”

  I squeeze my eyes shut. Even the word “bust”…as it pertains to Elise…

  I grit my teeth. Exhale so I’ll sound normal. “I’m not worried. Nobody’s ever had shit on me, and I don’t think they do now.”

  Isa is quiet for a moment, and I know what she’s not saying. She found me in bed during the day—or early evening?—so she’s wondering what’s wrong.

  I decide to offer up a bullshit answer, just to keep this shit short. “Couple long days with those shipping contracts your dad had all backwards; don’t tell him that. Meditated myself into a nap.”

  “That’s good.” Her voice is gentle. “Naps are always good.”

  “You’re such a mother hen.”

  “I’m your sorella.” I see her stand. “I’ll come back tomorrow night about this same time, dressed for dinner at Le Bernardin. I’ll bring something that matches my dress.”

  “Always love a suit,” I say sarcastically.

  “You look impeccable in a suit. Don’t deprive the world of that view.”

  I can’t help a soft chuckle.

  “I love going out together, seeing all the heads turn. We make a fantastic-looking couple. Even though one of us is a monk.”

  I rub the soap bar over my chest, blinking down at the drain. “Have fun on your date, Isa.”

  “Take care of yourself, mio fratello.”

  She blows me a kiss and sees herself out. I sit on the shower bench, think of Elise’s body pressed between mine and a Central Park tree trunk, and do exactly that.

  Elise

  When I was little, my mom used to tell me stories. For years, I thought they were fables in the Bengali tradition. One day when I was a teenager, I asked her if they were from a book. She told me she made all of them up.

  “I chose the things I thought you needed,” she said simply.

  In the one that was my favorite, two rabbits set off from their warren, each going a different way. They both traveled far and wide. One rabbit was a free spirit, doing what she wanted and trying to have fun. She made good choices when possible, but she didn’t live an overly thoughtful rabbit life. I think I remember my mom saying she was always munching on a carrot; Mom would mime a rabbit munching with her front teeth. The second rabbit thought long and hard about everything. She was obsessed with doing things right. She cried when she made missteps and took life very seriously. She spent most of her time thinking about how she could be the wisest rabbit to ever come from her home warren.

  The rabbits both lived long lives, and near the end of their lives, they both decided to return to the warren. The do-good rabbit—as my mother termed her—asked the carefree rabbit how her life had turned out. She said, “Wonderful,” and asked the do-good bunny how her life had been. She said it had been wonderful as well.

  “In the end,” my mother used to ask me, wide-eyed, with a slight shake of her head, “who made the right choices?”

  I would feel my heart kick in my chest, and whisper, “Who?”

  My mom would throw her hands up and say, “I don’t know! Do you know? Who can know!” And she would grin like it was all a great joke.

  I think about the rabbits as I move through the revolving gold door into the s
leek, black lobby of the Columbus Building.

  I ride an empty elevator up, watching the lobby shrink through the single glass wall before blinking at my reflection in the three mirrored ones. I look like I’m going to an underworld ball—because I am.

  Gabe Arnoldi is presenting a lifetime service award to one of my dad’s oldest friends, who’s stepping down from the board of the Most Holy Redeemer charity due to a cancer diagnosis he’s still keeping quiet. Dad got one of his headaches and couldn’t be here tonight, so his secretary called and asked if I was coming. It didn’t take much to read between the lines: Dad was hoping I might come here in his place, so here I am.

  I give myself a small smile, admiring the hue of my lipstick. It’s a discreet color, not the deep red I go for sometimes. This is more a pale magenta, clearly lipstick, but it isn’t screaming “look at me.” Which is a good thing—because my gown is. It’s black silk and slightly form-fitting…only three hundred and fifty dollars off the sale rack at Saks. It flows just a little bit behind me, not trailing but more a flounce when I walk in my favorite Tom Ford heels. I narrow my eyes at myself, asking rabbit questions.

  I don’t know the answers. And, like my mother, I’m not really sure it matters. I think somehow, over the years, I’ve become a different rabbit anyway.

  Within a few minutes of stepping off the elevator, I’m surrounded by a dozen people I know, most of whom are offering congratulations on my new job. I’m moving slowly down the hall that runs alongside the dining area and adjoining ballroom. The two spaces total probably 5,000 or 6,000 square feet, with dome-shaped thirty-foot ceilings and crystal chandeliers.

  I get only glimpses of the space between the arched doorways that line the hall I’m in, so I can’t see clearly—but I can smell the roses. I hear the faint clanking of dinnerware and know that plates and cutlery are being whisked away from tables. I over-shot that part of the night, missed the presentation of the award—because I knew we’d all be in one room. And that would be too dangerous.