by Juli Valenti
“Brian, I’m so pleased you’re in the city.” His mother’s voice was musical, her Irish lilt both charming and strong. There was no mistaking her heritage; if you’d somehow missed it from her hair and her jade-green eyes and freckles, you’d definitely catch it when she opened her mouth.
“Hey, Mom, it’s good to see you. This is…” he started, but she cut him off.
“Miss Macek, of course.”
“Ryen,” I corrected her, cringing. There was the dreaded Brian + Ryen thing I wanted to avoid. Eesh.
“Of course. What brings you to the city, Ryen?” she asked, sipping from her water. Her nails were manicured perfectly and the light glinted off a huge diamond on her left hand, momentarily blinding me. I shook my head before answering her.
“I’m on vacation. I decided I needed a break from Georgia peaches.”Okay, so when I’m nervous I make lame, lame, jokes. I promise it sounded funny in my head … really.
“Ah. But you lived here before, if I’m not mistaken? There’s nothing quite like the city, I’ve learned.”
“Yes, ma’am, I lived here while I was in college. And no, there’s nothing quite like New York City. I love it here.”
“With the exception of the paparazzi, I’m sure. I’m sorry about the loss of your father,” she stated before turning to Dane. “Brian, your father is not pleased about the photos…”
“Mom, don’t. And I’m sure if he has a problem, he’ll talk to me and not use you to play telephone,” Dane cut her off bluntly, almost coldly.
“But, Brian,” she started and he held up a hand.
“No, Mom. We’ve been over this. Let’s not rehash the same argument.”
His mother sighed and looked like she was going to continue talking anyway, but our waiter interrupted to take our order. I ordered a salad, still full from breakfast, while his mom ordered tea sandwiches. Dane shook his head and I glanced at him, my confusion like neon on my face.
“I’m not hungry,” he told me, a soft smile playing across his expression. “Ryen made homemade French toast this morning.” His last was to his mother and I cringed for so many reasons. Not only had he admitted that we ate – doesn’t he know the girl code … whether you ate or not, you order and eat to be polite! – but also because he alluded to the fact he was with me this morning. That implied that he stayed the night, which he had, but staying the night implies sleeping together, again, which we had, but still. If I’d been nervous before I was now nervous and uncomfortable. Meanwhile, he sat back, grinning like a cat that ate the chocolate-covered canary. Asshole.
“I’m going to try and forget I heard that,” she said, sighing, clearly unhappy.
“Well … you can try … but you’ll probably fail once the photos hit tomorrow’s tabloids,” he told her, grinning. Wow this is going so well, the voice inside my head said sarcastically. Dane reached over and grasped my hand, holding it tightly as I remembered the chasers outside my building this morning. Apparently he and I were ‘big news’ and they’d be following us around until someone did some drugs, or died … or something. Thankfully a car had been waiting for us, the valet throwing the key to Dane once we’d broken from the crowd.
“Brian, you know better. Really, you’d think you never lived a day in the spotlight. You know how rumors grow and fester; photos are permanent, they may eventually disappear from memory, but they’ll be on the Internet forever.”
“I don’t see how pictures of Ryen and I are a problem, Mom.”
“Your father –”
“And I haven’t spoken in years. Years. I don’t care what he thinks of them, if they get his panties in a twist, or if they somehow offend him.”
His mother’s eyes met mine and I suddenly felt like I was intruding. I was confused, having no idea what they were talking about anyway, only able to deduce that Dane’s father had opinions about things – what, I couldn’t tell you. I moved to stand, pulling my hand from his, and he looked up at me in question.
“You two seem to need to talk. I’ll go out front or go for a walk or … something. I don’t know what you’re talking about anyway.” I turned to his mother as I opened my purse, searching for my cash. “Thank you for the invitation to brunch and I’m sorry if I’m somehow causing family problems. I just got here, in the city, and it wasn’t my intention. It was nice to meet you.”
I dropped a twenty on the table to pay for the salad I wasn’t going to be eating, to be polite, and started to step away. Not going to lie, I felt pretty proud of myself. I’d been diplomatic when I’d really been thinking ‘Stop talking in fucking riddles. They’re just pictures. Oh, and you shouldn’t have invited me if all you wanted to do was scold your son.’ But nope, didn’t say any of that.
My pride was short lived, however, when Dane also stood and snagged my hand, stopping me. I gazed down at our hands, then to his face, but he wasn’t looking at me. He was glaring – yes, glaring – at his mother.
“Ryen, I’m so sorry. My father doesn’t like my photos in the paper because it’s a reminder he can’t control me too. It’s a reminder that I’m not in the family business and will never be.” Sure, his words were directed toward me, but he never broke eye contact with his mom. I’d never seen him angry, but here it was. I counted my blessings that it wasn’t directed toward me.
“Brian,” his mom started, but he held up a hand, also standing.
“No. Thank you for brunch and for interrupting our marathon for this. You could have just lectured me over the phone, you know. I love you, you know that, but nothing he sends you to say is going to fix that bridge. There is no ‘fixing.’ The bricks melted into pennies and fell into the East River long ago. We’ll talk later.”
Dane led me outside into the sunshine and I took a deep breath, trying to quash the unease inside me. What was the problem that our pictures were being taken? Why did his dad care? It’s not like I was Charles Manson’s daughter or something, infamous. Hell, I was just the daughter of a farmer. I wasn’t even famous, just ‘interesting’ in the eyes of the socialites of New York.
“I’m sorry … my mom means well, she just has to live with my father,” he said softly, his fingers still linked with mine.
“No apologies necessary, really. Yes, I wish I had some clue as to what the hell went on in there – I sorta feel like I was watching a foreign movie with no subtitles – but it is what it is. I know all about … moms. Mine’s crazy. Not saying yours is, but I know that word vomit runs in their blood. Mom blood … not crazy blood. I’m shutting up now.”
“You’re fucking adorable,” Dane announced, leaning down and capturing my lips in a gentle kiss. It stayed chaste and we broke apart quickly, not wanting to scar the elderly woman entering the restaurant. He tugged on my hand and we made our way to the rental car, the same beauty he’d driven me in after the charity gala. “So, what do you want to do for the rest of the day?”
“You don’t have to work?” I asked, making sure I wasn’t keeping him from something important. It was Sunday; most people went to church or other things, but I didn’t know the routine and structure of an architect’s life.
“Tomorrow, yes, but not today. It’s Sunday. Don’t tell me that those crazy Georgians work on Sundays … That’s just wrong.”
“No, they don’t.” I smiled at the mock horror on his face before nudging him with my elbow. “So, I don’t really care what we do today, then. I’m up for anything.”
Up for anything, in Dane speak, for that night at least, was cosmic bowling. The next night he took me out on an old-fashioned date – dinner and a movie. After that? Let’s see … there was a red carpet movie release, a lunchtime picnic in the park, a walk and dinner in Chinatown, and a Knicks basketball game. Apparently, from what I was told, the game was a ‘big one’… not that I know the difference between a little game and a big one. I’m not all that into sports, but Dane? Him, I’m into, so I went and didn’t complain. I wore a pair of jeans and the T-shirt he’d brought over, smiled when the Jum
botron landed on us, and didn’t even cringe knowing that it was going to make the gossip pages.
I guess you could say I was thoroughly distracted, happily so. I’d forgotten what it was like to feel special, to be the center of someone’s attention and affection. Elle called every day to check on me and we’d talk, each time her spouting her fountain water of love and romance. They were the same conversations, only minor details changing, only different days. Nothing surprising there. What had surprised me were the text messages I’d get from Dane.
They ranged from asking what I was doing, to random philosophical quotes and thoughts, to the latest drawings he’d done – pictures included. When I’d asked how he’d gotten my number, he’d merely laughed and told me he’d done some “stalking” – I’d pouted but wasn’t really bothered by it. I won’t admit that I secretly looked forward to his messages … that would completely negate the idea of a secret. During the days, he worked, I shopped or lounged around the apartment; some days I’d find myself in coffee shops reading a book on my Kindle (I finished the Clayton novel – it was hilarious, by the way) or even people watching at the park. Most nights were spent together and I’d forgotten what it was like to sleep alone in my bed. After I’d learned to sleep with the snoring, I was even okay with that.
Soon, more than a week had passed. It was Tuesday and I’d just gotten off my same shit, different day conversation with my best friend. Dane was supposed to come over with takeout and we’d planned a Game of Thrones marathon. When he’d learned I hadn’t watched the ‘acclaimed television series’ his eyes had about bulged out of his head. He’d done everything but jump up and down, waving his arms like a monkey, at me about it, so I’d given in. Of course, I’d seen the previews like everyone else, but I’d read the books – books are always better than their movie, or in this case television series.
There was a knock at the door around six, which was odd; it usually took him until about seven or seven-thirty to get to my house from Brooklyn after work. Even stranger was that he’d knocked – the cocky bastard had stopped knocking after day four or so of us hanging out. Figuring his hands were full, I made my way over to the door and swung it wide, a big smile pulling my lips.
“Hey, babe, where’s my wantons?” I asked, only to stop dead in my tracks. It wasn’t Dane at my doorstep.
Chapter Fourteen
The older gentleman at my doorstep, standing rigid in a sharp black suit with an honest-to-goodness red carnation at the lapel, was definitely not the man I’d been hoping to see when I opened the door. He wore a matching black fedora-style hat, the band the same color as his carnation, only a slight amount of graying-black hair sticking out from underneath. If I had to peg him in age I would’ve guessed around sixty, give or take a decade – he had lines around his eyes, his mouth, and looked like he never smiled a day in his life. A large gold ring adorned his finger, the light catching on the near-black stone in the middle.
It wasn’t any of his clothes, or the way he stood – like he was a force to be reckoned with – that told me who he was. Ironically enough, it was his cheekbones, so familiar to me but not, at the same time. The man standing in front of me was none other than Dane’s father. His father, the mob boss. Gianpaolo Ranucci.
I’m sure I probably should have said something clever, or witty, or even slightly respectful and pleasant, but my mind went completely blank. Why was he at my house? What did he want from me? To off you? Isn’t that what the mob does? I wanted to kick that stupid voice in my head, but I couldn’t deny the possibility. Glancing around the hallway, I noticed no one directly behind or to the sides of him, no, but there were two gentlemen standing at the elevator, both sharply dressed as well. It’s the fifties era all over again, I thought sarcastically. I took a deep breath to say something, but the man spoke first.
“Miss Macek.” That was it, two words, and not a question. It wasn’t like he was asking if it was me … or if he had the right apartment. Nope. Lucky for me he knew who I was, apparently, and where I lived. The former he could’ve gotten from the papers, the latter I wasn’t sure. I knew the paparazzi had taken photos outside my building before, but the apartment number? They’d never share that information.
“Um … er … yes, I’m her,” I told him lamely, glancing toward the floor before meeting his gaze.
“May I come in?” he asked, unmoving, unnerving the hell out of me. Oh boy, this was going to make for a joyful visit.
“Oh. Okay, of course.” I waved him inside, glancing at what I could only assume where his bodyguards before entering behind him and shutting the door. Whew, at least Tweedledee and Tweedledum are staying outside, I thought. And, like clockwork, that dumb voice had a comeback: Less guns to kill you with, my dear. Bitch.
As Gianpaolo took in my apartment, I stole another glance at him, taking him in. He wasn’t fat, like I’d assumed all Italian mobsters looked. Instead he was tall, like Dane, with a similar body style, fit, but his muscles were less defined … at least from what I could gather through his suit. If I’d known I was going to be hosting someone who could kill me as easily as swallowing, I would’ve dressed nicer. Soffee shorts and a tank top were definitely not on my top ten list of things to die in. Vain, much?
The man in question turned toward me and I froze in my assessment. Steeling whatever internal strength that hid inside me, I waved him toward the kitchen.
“May I get you something to drink? Water? Wine? Coffee?”
“No. Thank you,” he replied politely before perching gracefully on one of the barstools. How did he do that? I’d even say he’d almost seated himself daintily, all pulling-up-the-pant leg and flipping the jacket out of the way and everything.
“Um, okay,” I answered, my voice wavering as I poured myself a glass of wine. After filling it halfway, I thought better of it, and filled the goblet. I figured I’d need the liquid courage … or the natural pain killer.
“You’re probably confused as to why I am here.”
“To be honest, I’m too hung up on the whole I-don’t-want-to-die bit to be confused,” I answered honestly, obviously not employing my brain-to-mouth filter. Glancing at my wine, I decided against it and placed it on the counter, out of reach. If I was already word vomiting on myself, I may as well not add fuel to that fire.
“I can see why my son is fond of you,” the mobster said, chuckling, eerily similar to Dane’s rumbling laugh when he’s amused. Amused was good, I could work with amused. “Alas, he is the reason I am here.”
“I figured, especially since I’m not all that interesting in a business aspect. I don’t have connections, or family … wait! I have family, people that care about me…” I was rambling. I did that when I was nervous. Before I could continue, Gianpaolo held a hand up, effectively halting my words. My mouth snapped shut so quickly I would’ve sworn it was on a button hinge.
“Brian is my only legitimate son, my heir, if you will,” he started, the epitome of calm in my kitchen. “I have several bastard children, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but he is the one who will inherit all or nothing from me.”
I bristled at the almost blatant accusation in his words. I’d known that Dane was his only ‘real’ son, the others were a surprise, but I also knew that his heir didn’t want it. Any of it. Can’t say I blamed him, either … I wouldn’t either.
“Okay…” I said, for the lack of anything else to say. What was I really supposed to say to that? Was I supposed to say anything? Probably not. Hopefully ‘okay’ was a nice enough filler word.
“So you’ll understand when I say that I see more of a future for him than being with a dead farmer’s daughter. Nothing against you, my dear, clearly you are quite lovely, but I have other plans for Brian.”
“Dane,” I stated, flabbergasted that he actually referred to me as a dead farmer’s daughter. Why yes, I am, thanks for reminding me that not only am I farmer’s daughter, but a dead farmer’s daughter. Douche-waffle, this guy, I tell you.
“Ex
cuse me?”
“Your son doesn’t use that name with me. He goes by ‘Dane.’” I was feeling belligerent and I’m sure it showed. My heart was hurting, though I knew it shouldn’t be, and it was pissing me off. Who the hell does this guy think he is? He came to my house, not the other way around, to tell me that he has ‘plans’ for his son?
“Brian will be with the woman I see fit. You are to have no further contact with him,” Gianpaolo continued, as if I’d never spoken, never corrected him. I suppose it was for the best, at least he wasn’t pulling a six-shooter revolver from his pocket or a machete or something. Do mob bosses carry machetes? I don’t know.
“I’m pretty sure Dane will be with whom he chooses. It isn’t the fifties, despite your pretty snazzy suit – things don’t work they way they used to in the good old days.” Yep, I had a death wish. Glancing at the clock, I noted it was seven sixteen. Where the hell is Dane? I may have said a tiny prayer that he’d walk in the door soon and save me from the big bad wolf about to eat my face.
“Young lady –” he spoke, but his words were interrupted by my front door swinging open. There stood a soaked-to-the-bone, very pissed off Dane, still holding takeout and breathing heavily. My first thought was ‘Oh, it’s raining?’ quickly morphing into ‘Goody, he still brought food,’ then ‘Thank God he’s here, about damned time.’
“What. The. Fuck. Are you doing here, old man?” I wouldn’t say he was shouting, more like yelling through gritted teeth, as my man moved toward us, shaking his head and placing the food on the counter between his father and me.
“Hello, Brian. Good to see your manners and respect haven’t improved over the years.”
“Good to see you’re as pompous and self-righteous as always,” Dane replied, steam practically coming out of his ears. He moved around to my side of the bar and put his arm around me, kissing my forehead. “I was planning on being here a half hour ago – I left work early and everything – but no one can drive in the city in the rain.”