by Pamela Yaye
Chapter 10
“It looks like congratulations are in order.”
Dante entered the third-floor conference room at The Brokerage Group head office, and spotted Sergey Smirnov, the company CFO, standing at the head of the table. He gave a polite nod. The Russian businessman had an ego the size of his native country and a penchant for four-letter words. Dante didn’t like him, hated the way he bullied his staff. But since he loved his job and wanted to keep it, he smiled and shook his boss’s outstretched hand. “Thank you, sir.”
“I saw your proposal on the evening news, you sly dog. I didn’t even know you were seeing someone, and I make it my business to know everything about my employees, especially those in senior management.” Mr. Smirnov gave a hearty chuckle. “I look forward to meeting your fiancée. She’s stunning, and from what I hear, a talented, up-and-coming actress, as well.”
“That she is, but Jordana is more than just a pretty face. She’s smart, vivacious and—”
“Fantastic in bed, right? Spanish chicks always are.” Mr. Smirnov gave him a shot in the ribs with his elbow. “My third wife is Columbian, and she puts the F in freak!”
The six board members seated around the table cracked up, but Dante didn’t laugh. Normally, he ignored Mr. Smirnov’s off-colored jokes, but not today. “Sir, your comments are offensive and disrespectful.”
“Relax, Dante, I’m just busting your chops.” Winking, he broke into a broad grin. “Everyone knows Asian chicks are the best lovers. They’re nimble as hell!”
Disgusted, Dante glanced discreetly at his gold Breguet wrist watch. He didn’t have time to shoot the breeze with Mr. Smirnov; he had to be downtown in ninety minutes. He’d spent the morning meeting architects and engineers about a proposed condo unit in Hollywood, then visited the high-end strip mall complex being built in Santa Monica. He didn’t have breakfast, had guzzled down an energy drink as he drove Matteo to school, and didn’t have time for dinner. He wanted to see Jordana tonight, but it was impossible. She’d just have to understand. Yesterday, when he’d dropped her home, she’d suggested they take Matteo to Family Arcade for pizza and games. Even though he knew his schedule was jam-packed, he’d readily agreed. He had to, had no choice. He wanted to marry Jordana on Friday, and would do anything to appease her—even if it meant telling a small lie or two. As promised, he’d paid his ex-wife’s bail, but held off from writing the check for rehab. Why waste his hard-earned money? Pleased he’d been granted emergency custody, nothing could ruin his good mood. Not even his scheming ex-wife.
“Everyone out. I need to speak to Dante alone.”
One by one, Armani-clad board members filed out of the room. Mr. Smirnov stood at the door, smiling, shaking hands, laughing so hard his wiry brown hair tumbled around his head.
Taking a seat at the table, Dante considered his predicament. He’d make it up to Jordana tomorrow. He would find a way to smooth things over before their courthouse wedding. They weren’t married yet, so technically he’d done nothing wrong. Furthermore, her request was impossible. Being home every night for dinner wasn’t feasible, not with his crazy schedule, and he wasn’t going to let Jordana make him feel guilty for working. He had an appointment with city zoning officials at five o’clock, and cancelling it could delay the permit. Without them, construction couldn’t start on Dolce Vita Beverly Hills, and the project was already three months behind schedule. He wanted to spend the entire day with Jordana tomorrow, planned to treat her to lunch at her favorite restaurant and a shopping spree on Rodeo Drive. It was imperative he complete everything on his to-do list before calling it a day.
Mr. Smirnov closed the door, strode across the room and plopped down on the side of the table. He smelled of cigar smoke and vodka, and the stench polluted the air.
“Good news,” he announced. “Mr. Quan is arriving in LA on Sunday morning...”
His spirits sank.
“Clear your schedule. He’s only in town for a few days, so we have to make every second count.” Mr. Smirnov nodded to emphasize his point. “Nothing is more important than impressing Mr. Quan, so forget about your curvy new fiancée, and get your head in the game.”
Dante was conflicted, unsure of what to do. He didn’t want to spend the week wowing Mr. Quan. He wanted to spend it hanging out with Jordana and Matteo at his Bel Air estate. He’d planned to have a dinner party for the Chinese billionaire at the end of the month, not in four days’ time. What if the businessman saw through his marriage charade? Would Mr. Quan take his business elsewhere? Would his boss hold him responsible? Troubling thoughts bombarded his mind, and Dante felt his throat close up. If the truth gets out will I lose custody?
“Let’s give him the royal treatment,” he advised. “Champagne, caviar and strippers go a long way in closing deals.”
“Not this time. Mr. Quan is a devout Christian, and I don’t want to offend him.”
Mr. Smirnov snorted like a potbellied pig, and gave a dismissive wave of his hands. “Devout Christian, my ass. One night at Cheetahs and he’ll be singing another tune. Just watch.”
“I don’t think so. Mr. Quan comes to LA regularly, but he doesn’t attend movie premieres or celebrity parties. He loves gospel music, and attends concerts, services and prayer rallies at First AME Church whenever he’s in town.”
Mr. Smirnov stroked his beard. “I don’t have to tell you what this deal could mean to this company, do I?”
“No, sir, you don’t.” To project confidence, Dante straightened in his chair, and pinned his shoulders back. “I’m well aware of how important it is, and I want you to know that I’m a hundred percent committed to our global expansion plans.”
“Good. That’s what I wanted to hear.” Mr. Smirnov swiped his cell phone off the table, slid his finger across the screen and typed for several seconds. He kept his head glued to his iPhone, but continued speaking. “Now isn’t the time to rest on your laurels. Be aggressive. Take risks. Do whatever it takes, you hear me? Whatever. It. Takes.”
Dante didn’t like Mr. Smirnov’s tone, didn’t appreciate his boss talking to him as if he was a newbie desperate to make a name for himself in the real estate field. He had a successful track record and business contacts all over the world. He didn’t need, nor want, Mr. Smirnov’s advice. He’d do the deal his way, or not at all. “I want this contract, but not at the expense of my pride. There are numerous investment opportunities right here in the United States, and I have several lucrative business deals in the works,” he explained.
“Yes, but none of them are worth five point two billion dollars.”
Anger burned inside him, but he masked his true emotions.
“This deal could make or break us.”
“I disagree. To achieve success in the Asian market, we need to diversify, not pin all our hopes and dreams on this one deal. It’s imperative we build our reputation, attract international attention and partner with established investment firms known worldwide. If we don’t, our five-year global expansion plan will fail miserably.”
His smile was as cheap as plastic, but he spoke in a jovial tone. “Well said, Morretti. I agree wholeheartedly.” Mr. Smirnov put down his cell phone, and folded his arms across his flabby chest. “I need to discuss something important with you.”
“Sure, sir, what’s on your mind?”
“I understand that your firm, Morretti Realty & Investments, is working with Ryder Knoxx.”
Dante didn’t respond, remaining calm and stoic on the outside.
“He wants to buy an estate in Beverly Hills, just miles away from my daughter’s home. I can’t let that happen. They were married for nine years, and he made her life a living hell.”
“I’m sorry to hear that, sir, but your family drama has nothing to do with my company.” Dante wore a sympathetic smile, to assure his boss he wasn’t choosing sides, but he su
spected Mr. Smirnov was feeding him a lie. He’d met the aging rocker several times and found him to be polite, soft-spoken and courteous. “Mr. Knoxx is a client, and I won’t discuss his private affairs with you.”
“Screw him,” he growled, baring his coffee-stained teeth. “He’s a punk who abuses women, and one day I’m going to give him a taste of his own medicine.”
“Sir, with all due respect, I won’t discuss my company, my clients or my personal investments with you.” He pushed back his chair, stood and buttoned his suit jacket. “Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have work to do.”
“Veto the deal.”
Convinced he’d misheard his boss, he stopped and turned around. “Come again?”
“You heard me.” His tone was quiet, but deadly. If his eyebrows were any higher they’d be touching his receding hairline. “I don’t want that creep anywhere near my daughter, so veto the deal, and do it now.”
“And if I don’t?”
Mr. Smirnov flinched, as if he’d been pimp-slapped, but quickly recovered, flashing a smug, superior smile. “I’m not asking you, Dante, I’m telling you.”
“I think you forgot how I came to work for this company, so let me jog your memory. You sought me out,” he said, jabbing a finger at his chest. “I told you I had my own business, but you practically begged me to take this job.”
His face was as red as his burgundy tie. “I didn’t beg you to do shit, Morretti.”
“I’m going to pretend this conversation didn’t happen, and I suggest you do the same.”
Yanking open the door, Dante stalked out of the conference room without another word.
* * *
Dante dragged his weary body into the master bedroom of the penthouse suite at W Hollywood, and dumped his briefcase on the reading chair. The black-and-red color scheme was simple, but striking, and the combination of wood, granite and marble created a luxurious feel inside the suite. Leather couches, glass sculptures and dramatic artwork beautified the space.
Yawning, he collapsed onto the platform bed and closed his eyes. He stayed at the hotel whenever he was too tired to drive to Bel Air, or if he had female company. Club-hopping and one-night stands were in the past. Dante wanted his marriage scheme to work, and planned to spend his free time with Jordana and Matteo, not at the local bar or lounge.
Dante sniffed the air. It held the faint scent of Sancho Panza cigars—his favorite vice—and the aroma made him hanker for a smoke. Too tired to move, he unbuttoned his jacket, and loosened the knot on his pin-striped tie. Dante lay there, sprawled out in his Hugo Boss suit, staring up at the ceiling, reviewing his day. His conversation with his boss played in his mind, angering him afresh. Mr. Smirnov had some nerve. If he thought he could control him he was wrong. Dante didn’t need The Brokerage Group; they needed him. On the upside, his meeting with city zoning officials had gone well, and construction could start on Dolce Vita Beverly Hills next week. From his Porsche, he’d called his cousin Nicco to share the good news. As with all of his projects, he wanted the restaurant to be completed on time, and under budget. He hoped the establishment would be as successful as the others.
His cell phone rang, filling the silence with rap music. What the hell? Who in their right mind would be calling him after midnight? Dante listened, recognized the “California Love” ringtone and bolted upright in bed. It was Tavares. They’d been boys since college, and Dante missed having him around. Anxious to speak to his friend, he fished his cell out of his pocket, and put it to his ear. “It’s about time you hit me back. I’ve been calling you the last few days with no luck. What’s the deal?”
“I was in Abu Dhabi on business, and returned late last night.”
“No worries. How’s Melbourne? Still thinking about renewing your work visa—”
“When were you going to tell me you and Jordana were an item?”
His mouth dried, but he forced his lips to move. “It’s not what you think.”
“Good, because for a minute I thought you broke the Bro Code.”
“The Bro Code doesn’t apply to Jordana,” Dante said, prepared to argue his case. “You dumped her, so technically I haven’t broken any rules.”
“That’s beside the point. Man, what’s going on? I thought we were boys.”
Dante dragged a hand across his neck, massaging his tired, aching muscles. “We are.”
“Then why did you propose to my ex-girlfriend?”
“Because Matteo needs a mother.”
“Did Lourdes die?”
Dante aired his frustrations, vented to Tavares about his problems with Lourdes. But instead of feeling better, he felt worse. His ex-wife had called him as he was leaving the office, and wasted twenty minutes of his time rambling about her “unauthorized arrest.” At the end of her nonsensical rant she’d had the nerve to ask him for a loan. To gain his sympathy, she’d turned on the water works, cried so hard she couldn’t speak. But Dante didn’t buy her woe-is-me act. It took everything in him not to curse her out for driving drunk in the first place. Remembering his promise to Jordana to keep the peace, he told Lourdes he’d think about, and hung up the phone. The things I have to do for my son, he thought, kicking off his leather, Kenneth Cole shoes. If I get my way, Matteo won’t see Lourdes again until she’s clean and sober.
“Let me get this straight. The proposal was just a ploy to win custody of Matteo?”
Dante heard the question, but he didn’t answer.
“Are you sure you’re not romantically interested in Jordana?”
“What kind of question is that?”
“Just curious. Every time we hung out, you two were always off in a corner, talking and laughing, and I felt like the third wheel. It was obvious Jordana liked you...”
It was? She does? Dante loved a woman with an opinion, and Jordana had many. Unlike the females he’d dated in the past, she wasn’t afraid to disagree with him and argued her ideas with the confidence of a Supreme Court judge. They had great discussions about hot-button issues, made each other laugh, and her one-liners were a turn-on. “Nothing’s going on, man. We’re friends.”
“What a relief.” Tavares released an audible sigh. “Jordana’s a good woman who doesn’t care about my wealth or status, but I was too full of myself to realize it.”
“It sounds like you miss her.”
“You have no idea.”
“I told you she was a keeper, but you wouldn’t listen.”
“I know. Don’t remind me. Do you think if I call and apologize she’ll forgive me?”
Dante shrugged. “I...I...don’t know.”
“Find out for me. I want to see her the next time I’m in LA.”
The silence was profound, as deafening as the music at a rock concert, but Dante couldn’t think of anything to say to fill the void.
“I thought Jordana’s ninety-day rule was a clever ploy to control me, so I pushed her away and ran around with other girls, but—”
“Hold up. Rewind. What ninety-day rule?”
Tavares gave a bitter laugh. “Jordana read this relationship advice book, adopted the rules and gave me hell whenever I messed up.”
“But, you guys dated for almost a year.”
“I know, but she still wouldn’t give up that ass. I bought her jewelry, flowers, the works. And she wouldn’t take things to the next level.”
Dante wanted to hear more, and pushed Tavares for answers. “Why not?”
“I don’t know. To be honest, I never felt like I mattered to her. When she refused to join me in Paris for the holidays, and went to whack-ass Des Moines instead, I dumped her.”
“Do you want her back?”
“Heck yeah! Haven’t you been listening?”
His cell beeped, signaling he had another call coming in. A glance at his phone confirme
d it. Lourdes was on the line. Dante pressed Ignore, and returned to the conversation.
“Hey, did you see the Royals game last night?” he asked, anxious to change the subject. “Demetri caught fire in the ninth inning, and the Sharks couldn’t do anything to stop him...”
They talked about baseball, their upcoming guys-only trip to Tampa for the RaShawn Bishop Charity Golf Tournament, and their respective careers. Tavares was a systems analyst for a Melbourne-based software company and had dreams of starting his own business. He was wise and perceptive, and Dante decided to open up to him about his day from hell. Dante was recounting his conversation with Mr. Smirnov that afternoon when Tavares interrupted him midword, bombarding him once again with questions about the marriage scheme.
“How long is your fake marriage to Jordana supposed to last?”
Dante scowled. Why did Tavares have to make it sound so devious?
“I’m not sure. Three months, maybe less. Once I’m awarded full custody we’ll get our marriage annulled, and go our separate ways. Why?”
“I just want to know how long I have to wait to have another crack at her!”
Tavares laughed, and said he was only joking. But Dante didn’t believe him.
“I should kick your ass for dragging her into your family drama. She’s fragile, you know.”
At a loss for words, he stared down at the phone. He’d never use the word fragile to describe Jordana. There was nothing weak about her. Tough and feisty, she was determined to make a name for herself in Hollywood, despite the numerous setbacks she’d faced over the years. He suspected it was just a matter of time before Jordana got her big break.
“Jordana’s the one I let get away,” he confessed. “We broke up months ago, but my parents still ask about her, especially my mom. I think she loves Jordana more than my sister!”
“How’s Nadine doing? It’s been ages since I saw her. The boys must be big now—”
“That’s it! Why didn’t I think of it sooner? I know what you should do.”