“No, you don’t get it. He doesn’t do that sort of thing. The Joker doesn’t pay for people’s meals or act like they even exist, but today he calls you beautiful and then pays for your food for an entire week. I’m scared just from being at the same table with you.”
“You’ve never had a man buy you a meal before? And how do you know so much about him?”
“Of course I’ve been taken out to dinner, but never by someone like that. I don’t know too much, honestly. But there are stories and I’ve heard my fair share of them. Please listen to me, Grace, just this once, and be careful—at least for a while.”
“I love you, Kayleigh, but I have to get back. We can talk more about him later, okay?”
“You’re not going to listen to me, are you?”
Shaking my head, I’m honest with her. I always am. “Probably not.” My mouth turns up in a grin, as I squeeze her shoulder affectionately. “I just don’t see what the big deal is. But, I’ll talk to you later and you can try to convince me some more, okay?”
She nods, worry in her gaze as I turn away. She clearly doesn’t care for my response, but she knows me. If she tells me not to do something, I’m going to want to know why and in some cases figure it out for myself. It’s like that Jelly Bean game, Bean Boozled. After playing it with her nieces, she warned me never to try it. So naturally I did, wanting to see what the fuss was about. It was all fun and games until I got the puke flavored one.
The walk back to my job is pleasantly quick and I hate to admit it, but I do check over my shoulder a few times. I feel like an ass by the time I get to my building though. I learned a long time ago that rumors are just that—rumors and nothing more. Well, usually anyhow. In this case I think everyone was being a little melodramatic. People love a good story to get worked up over. The guy was a businessman, maybe not completely straightlaced, but I highly doubt it’s what Kaleigh was saying.
Why would she lie about it, though? She would never do it on purpose, but she does buy into that shit the realtors she works for feed her. That’s probably where it all came from.
“Hey, Grace, have a good lunch?” Keisha, the receptionist asks as I step out of the elevator. She’s worked for the same marketing company as I have for nearly ten years. She’s a curvy, mocha-skinned, vivacious woman with one of the biggest hearts around.
“It was interesting, that’s for sure.”
Her full lips pull up into a curious grin, as she catches me off guard, “Well, maybe it’ll get more interesting then. You had a delivery about five minutes ago.”
“Really? From who?” I rarely get surprises. I wonder if my mom sent me something. It’s not my birthday or anything though.
Her smile grows more until she’s beaming, full of excitement for me. “Wouldn’t leave a name and said his boss wanted you to have something beautiful.”
“No way!” She has to be teasing me. I haven’t been seeing anyone in a while for a man to be sending me something. It must be my mom.
“Go look on your desk.” She wags her eyebrows and I damn near skip to my door with curiosity.
Sure enough, there’s a large bouquet sitting right in the middle of my desk. The flowers are encased in a thick crystal vase, swirls and hearts expertly carved into the base. It’s not something you’d find in a regular florist; it had to have cost a fortune and been made specially to order. There must be fifty lilies, all a deep violet color—the exact same shade as the shirt I have on.
Whoever sent them knows how to pay attention to detail, or else this is a strange coincidence.
The small, light gray piece of cardstock tucked into the arrangement draws my eyes away from the stark color. Carefully, I work it out of the prong holder, bringing it closer. In small Modern number twenty font—I know this because of my experience in design—there’s one word printed, black and bold. It’s enough for a cold chill to crawl up my spine, heeding my friend’s warning from earlier.
Bella
Holy shit. There’s no possible way, they’re from him. None. He knows nothing about me.
“So?” Keisha asks, causing me to jump at her voice. “You okay, girl?” Her eyes light up in amusement.
“Yes, um, they don’t have a name. Are you sure they were for me and not Rose? Wasn’t it her anniversary or something?” As beautiful as they are, I’d feel better right now discovering that they were delivered to me by mistake. Naïve, I know, but it doesn’t hurt to ask.
“Yeah, it was last week. Besides, the guy that delivered them gave me your name specifically, so those gorgeous flowers are all yours.”
“Oh. Great,” I mumble sarcastically. If only Keisha knew why it was so disturbing, but I’ll keep what happened to myself. No need to freak her out. Kaleigh would fall over, too, if she were here right now.
“You don’t seem too thrilled. If it were me, I’d be thinking of a special way to thank the man who spent a grip on them—maybe with my mouth.” She winks.
They are beautiful and a thoughtful gift from whomever they came. Not to mention they smell fantastic. But thanking him with my mouth is most likely the last thing he wants at the moment. I can’t believe I was rude earlier and then he sent flowers. Who the hell is this guy?
“Or did he fuck up? Do I need to hurt someone for you? I will, if he cheated. I’ll dick punch him for you.”
Laughing nervously, I shake my head, “No, nothing like that. But thank you, it’s nice to know that you have my back.”
“Always girl, you just say the word.”
“Thank you, Keisha, it means a lot. If I figure out who they’re from, I’ll be sure to thank him.”
“Oh my God! You don’t know who they’re from? Shit! You have a secret admirer, this is so cool.”
Nodding, I send her a brief, shaky smile. She has no clue that it could be from a certain ‘supposed’ gangster, according to Kaleigh. Hopefully he’s just a rich guy with a good secretary to be able to find me like that. I should send him a quick email at least to thank him for the blooms and the lunch.
The phone starts ringing so Keisha hurries back to her desk, leaving me with my thoughts.
First thing I’m doing is moving these damn flowers from the middle of my desk. Picking up the heavy vase, I start to put them on my small side table against the wall, but can’t push myself to move them that far away. Instead, I place them on the right corner of my desk.
They’re too lovely to not enjoy having them close by. There’s a small leather couch pushed against the wall next to my door, my two matching leather office chairs, my desk, and my own chair. Not really a good spot for them in here, although they sure do make it feel more welcoming. Maybe I should get a plant or something to keep in here regularly to liven things up a bit.
So, he wanted me to have something beautiful and chose the same color as my shirt. How ironic that it’s also one of my favorite colors. I love violet, fuchsia, and really dark blue, just like the deep blue color of his tie earlier. I’m a woman, and I’m allowed to have twenty favorite colors if I want and when these choices are paired together, the colors look even more vibrant.
First, he buys me lunch and now flowers? I can’t be one hundred percent sure that they’re from him since he didn’t sign the card, but I’m not dense. I know inside that he sent them. Most women would be creeped out by it or head over heels already, but not me. I don’t know what to think about it all or what he wants and I hate the uneasy feeling that comes along with it.
If he’s as notorious a Kaleigh seems to believe, then I’m a little apprehensive garnering his attention. But if he’s not … well, then, he’s just another boring rich guy throwing money at me. Why do I have to be so hard to please when it comes to men? I want some excitement, but I also don’t want to get hurt. I suppose that’s most women though; however, they eventually end up settling on someone mediocre and I refuse to.
I had a nice boyfriend a while back. He had a good job and was pleasant. He also had a receding hairline, judged people based on their n
et worth, and thought that doing ‘the helicopter’ in bed was the way to satisfy me. Ugh. He didn’t last long and I’m happier being single than sharing time with someone like that. My B.O.B has more of a personality.
I’m twenty-nine, unmarried with zero children. I know I’m not ‘the norm,’ but I wanted a career and the right man never came along, so here I am. Only getting older. By my mother’s reaction to my nonexistent love life, you’d think I was on my deathbed or something. She wants grandbabies and with the amazing life she’s always worked hard to give me, she deserves some grandchildren. Hopefully, one day I can make that wish come true for her, but until then, I’m pretty happy with my life. I don’t need a man to make things better, but it would be nice to have someone to share some free time with.
Once I’m home and settled, I try calling Kaleigh before I jump into bed, but she doesn’t answer. I chalk it up to her sleeping already, but part of me wonders if she’s too scared to talk to me on the phone now too? No use in worrying; she’ll come around. We don’t ever go without talking for more than a few days, so I’m sure she’s fine.
I love gangsta rap. I like to think I’m still from the hood that I never lived in.Just keepin’ it real.
-Funny Meme
Hurrying into work the next day, I flash Keisha a quick smile as I rush to my office. I sneezed while putting on my mascara this morning and I had to completely redo half of my face. Probably gave the neighbors an earful with my colorful language; I’m sure they hate me by now. I’ll most likely be the blame for their two small children learning curse words, but that mascara pissed me off.
I hate being late, almost to the point of me calling in. The last time I came in wearing no makeup, two people asked me if I was feeling sick. Jerks.
Instead of flaking out, I’ll eat the disgruntled look my boss will give me if he notices. Hopefully, I can slide in without anyone paying attention though.
Plopping into my plush leather office chair, I’m surprised to see something else resting on the middle of my desk. I still have the gorgeous flower arrangement. I left them here instead of taking them home with me. I’m not a generally a paranoid type of person, but Kaleigh had me thinking. Naturally ‘tracking device’ came to mind when pondering over how he found out where I work so quick and easily, so they stayed here.
“Keisha?” I call loud enough so she can hear me from my office.
A few seconds later she appears in my doorway, “Yeah, babe?”
“Hey, did you put this on my desk today? And if so, who’s it from?”
“What is it?” she asks, coming closer. I point down at the box, wrapped in lovely dark blue paper.
“Nope, I haven’t had any deliveries yet.”
“Hm. Okay, I’ll ask around the office and see if it’s from or for one of them.”
“You’re the first one in today, so you might want to wait until a little later. Why don’t you just open it? There could be a card or something inside.”
That means a free pass with my boss then. No one’s here and I know Keisha won’t say anything. Nobody will have any idea about me being late and my makeup’s on point. Double win. Thank you mascara gods.
“Yeah but I’d hate to open it if it’s not really intended for me.”
“Could be from him.” She nods toward the flowers and I have a strong suspicion that she’s probably right. But how did it get on my desk if Keisha or another coworker didn’t put it in here? The only other person with office access is an old man that does the cleaning at night. “Just open it and if it’s not yours then I’m sure whoever it belongs to will understand since it’s in your office and doesn’t have a name tag on it.”
“You’re right, but I’m going to wait until later I think, just in case anyone mentions something about it.”
“Suit yourself, Grace.” She shrugs and leaves my office. Keisha’s always busy with a million tasks, so I know she’s probably too preoccupied to talk me into opening it now. She’s nosey like me, so I know she’ll be back later.
Powering up my computer, I dig out my favorite quote covered notebook that I keep my random notes in. I don’t have any new clients this week, so I get to touch base with all of my current jobs I’ve worked on recently. I try to call them occasionally in case we need to update or add anything to their accounts.
Marketing isn’t my favorite thing in the world, but it pays the bills and allows me to have a small apartment in the city. Another benefit is that I’m usually always off on the weekends and evenings, so I can’t complain much. Too bad I don’t have much of a life outside of work to actually use the free time.
Scrolling through my contacts on the spreadsheet in front of me, the blue box on my desk is practically taunting, daring me to open it. It’s medium sized and could be absolutely anything. I think that’s why it has me so intrigued, plus the fact that it could be from the Joker, the man himself, from the restaurant.
What kind of nickname is that anyhow? I think of Joker and it instantly brings Batman to mind. Now that is another fine specimen to think of.
Why would he send me something two days in a row, though? We’d barely spoken to each other and I could’ve been a bit friendlier instead of pretending he was the waitstaff. There’s no way in hell you could mistake him for one of the servers anyhow. He was in an expensive suit, probably worth my monthly salary, and everyone who works at the restaurant wears a plain white button-up shirt and black slacks. And he called me beautiful, in another language, no less.
Screw it. I’m not waiting any longer. I’m going to open the gift. If it’s not for me, I’ll just apologize like Keisha suggested. I’m hoping it is for me but from my mother or something. We know how that played out yesterday when I thought the last delivery was from my mom though. And since when do I wish a present was from my mom and not from a man?
Since now. I think and roll my eyes at myself.
Peeling the delicate paper away, I’m left with a plain white garment box. The pounding in my chest grows stronger as my heart starts to race. I’m excited and curious. It’s like Christmas; I wasn’t expecting anything at all and I’m surprised. I just want to rip through the box and remaining paper because I can’t wait to see what’s inside, but I don’t. Instead, I take my time to truly appreciate the thoughtfulness just like my mother taught me as a girl.
Lifting the top away, I carefully push aside the tissue paper, a soft gasp escaping as I peer inside. It’s one of my absolute favorite things—a Chanel bag that’s bigger than any I’ve ever seen before at the mall. It had to come from a specialty shop. It had to cost a small fortune and there’s no way on earth my mother could’ve afforded to send it to me.
Delicately, I open the purse to look inside and find another gray cardstock. It’s the same color and font as yesterday, only it has a set of initials this time. It’s him.
T.M. - meaning Thaddaeus Morelli. Be still my heart. I chant to myself as I close my eyes and remember his face from the day before. The way he consumed every ounce of air in the room, staring at me as if he couldn’t get his fill.
Setting the soft leather bag in my lap, I run my fingers lightly over the smooth surface. It’s exquisite, just like him. How on earth can he send me such extravagant gifts though? He doesn’t know me. Even if he did, this is entirely too much. I’m not materialistic; at least, I don’t think I am.
Did I come off that way to him? I hope he doesn’t think I’m a snob and that’s why he’s doing this. I would gladly just talk to him, maybe get a drink to see if we even like each other’s company. It’s hard imagining not liking anything about that man though.
For Chanel, it’s huge and a complete work of art. Any woman could appreciate the leatherwork and creativity that was so obviously put into the design. The creepy thing is that it’s the exact shade as my earrings and necklace I had on yesterday and still have on—sapphire. They’re my birthstone and I wear them often. It’s like he knows me without knowing me.
He had a few glances, five minut
es at the most to really look at me and yet he remembers little details such as my shirt color and my jewelry that vividly? When’s the last time I can remember a man ever paying that close of attention to me? Never, that’s when.
Why’s he doing this? First lunch, then flowers, and now a bag. I don’t even have a way to reach him to thank him properly. I shouldn’t keep the purse; a gift like this is way too expensive. Eventually he’ll come to expect something in return—they always do, and I’m not one to be bought or blackmailed. I wish he’d left his number on the card, but I suppose this way I can’t argue with him or try to send it back. Damn bossy businessmen so used to getting their way. I work with them here in the office and in my field.
You’d think he’d want to hear from me though, and that he’d want me to thank him. Surely, he expects me to be grateful and flattered. I mean, I am and a little shocked to be honest.
Screw it, I’m googling him.
Pulling up the handy search engine on my computer, I type in his name. Biting the inside of my lip, I watch as article after article and a few pictures pop up. They’re candid shots, nearly all of him walking into the Chicago courthouse. One expensive suit after another, I swear the man dresses amazingly. Either he’s showing up to court or he’s a lawyer. I seriously doubt he’s a lawyer though if I go by what Kaleigh says.
Like that doesn’t scream scary criminal right there.
Scanning over the search page, I’m met with headlines such as: Murder in the Streets; Another Dead; Dangerous Crime Lord; Chicago’s Modern Day Gangster; Missing Hands; No Evidence; Morelli Associates Found Dead; Let Off on a Technicality; Morelli Innocent but Police Force Disagrees; Highly Dangerous, and another that makes me cringe—Lock Your Doors Because He’s Free.
He’s really that horrible? Fuck. How can someone so gorgeous with such a commanding presence really be that corrupt? It shouldn’t be allowed, but I guess that’s the universe’s way of screwing with you. Find someone you finally want to lick like an ice cream cone and he’s a dud.
Gangster Page 2