LUCA - Her Ruthless Don (Ruthless and Obsessed Duet, Book 1): 50 Loving States, New York, Pt. 2 (Ruthless Tycoons 3)

by Theodora Taylor

  “Rumor is he’s got a key witness, willing to testify against me,” he says into my pained silence.

  “Okay, well, I don’t know anything about that,” I answer. “And I don’t want to know.”

  “No, you never did,” Luca answers, his voice tight.

  And it feels like an accusation. Like I’m the reason we fell apart. My nostrils flare. This is why he’s a total shouldn’t have. Shouldn’t have dated him, shouldn’t have married him, most definitely shouldn’t have fucked him in the back seat of the car. Because all we do… all we’re ever going to do is crash and burn.

  “Okay, well, like I said, gotta go. Big meeting tomorrow.”

  This time I really do push past him. And to my relief, he lets me go.

  But I can feel his stare on me as I escape the ballroom.

  I wasn’t lying to Luca about the important breakfast meeting….

  “Two cronuts, one decaf, and three pictures of Judge Barton taking a payoff from Galeson’s lawyer,” my assistant, Diamond, announces when I walk into the office early the next morning. The quick clack of typing underlies her announcement.

  From the direction of her voice, I can tell she still hasn’t taken me up on my many directives to sit at the outer office desk—you know, like a professional, and has instead once again posted up on the couch, which is supposed to be reserved for waiting clients.

  But I walk over to the desk anyway, because that’s where Diamond always leaves things for me. Like it’s an oversized inbox, not a piece of office furniture, she should be putting to use.

  Whatever irritation I might have felt quickly disappears, though, when I run my hand over the smooth file folder with the pictures inside. “My New York Post reporter’s not going to be able to run this if we don’t have—”

  “Barton’s financials. Yeah, I know. Working on hacking his shit right now. Bet I’ll have something for you by tonight.”

  I never gush, but I have to say, “Girl, you’re amazing!”

  “Thanks, A, but I don’t even think I can take any real credit for this one. These old dudes were, like, cray obvious. I’m just picking up all the crumbs their stupid asses left behind, straight maid.”

  “Nope, nope, your mom named you right,” I insist.

  Diamond’s not Prin, not even close. Prin was a law student, who took the job in my office for the extra funds and some resume filler, since former reality star isn’t exactly something that will get you hired by a top law firm after graduation. But Diamond, clever as she is, never went to college. Quite frankly I’m not sure she even graduated high school. Her entire interview consisted of four emailed lines: Heard you need an assistant. I can hack into any computer and pick any lock. Plus, I hate rich guys trying to get over, and I learn real quick. My name is Diamond, and trust me, you want to get with me for this job.

  The thing is, I don’t pay that much, so before that, my office assistant position tended to attract more do-gooders than do-badders. But, ever since Sylvie’s case landed me in the headlines, I’ve been getting more and more divorce and custody clients. The wives of powerful men who need a passionate lawyer who isn’t afraid to go against, and can’t be bought off by, their rich husbands. That particular combo, as it turns out, is surprisingly hard to find in New York. And because of that, business got better than good in the months after I took on Sylvie’s complicated custody case at my usual flat fee, as a somewhat petty favor for my old assistant Prin. But after Prin’s departure to a much higher paying job, I figured I could use somebody who knew her way around the shadier side of the street.

  So, following my gut, I hired Diamond on a trial basis the very next day, and a year later, I still consider it one of the best decisions I’ve ever made for my career. Talk about a diamond in the rough. If I so much as sniff something rotten—like say, a judge that comes back with a custody decision in favor of my client’s estranged husband way too fast—I point her in the direction of the bad smell and she roots it out.

  “I think I might have to give you a raise,” I tell her as I dig into the bag of cronuts. I can’t say as a medical certainty that the baby growing inside of me is the reason I suddenly just have to have a couple of the delicious baked treats every morning, but he kicks when the fresh smell hits my nose.

  “Because of you, Mrs. Galeson might get full custody of her kids back before my six-month appointment,” I tell Diamond with my mouth full.

  “I don’t need a raise, but if you really want to thank me—”

  “Still not naming the baby Diamond.”

  The clacking stops, and she whines, “C’mon why not?”

  “First of all, it’s a boy.”

  “Sexist much? You name a boy Diamond, and bet he’ll grow up to be a rapper.”

  “Second of all, I don’t want him to grow up to be a rapper.”

  “Aw, that’s cold, Amber! You out here, acting like you for the people, but behind closed doors you siddity AF.”

  Before I can defend myself against being called uppity by a woman I suspect might have several colors worth of extensions in her hair, my earpiece buzzes.

  “Call from…Naima Almonte,” its electronic voice informs me.

  Nai…. Probably calling to chastise me. Again. “Amber, why are you at the office so early?” … or… “sixty hour work weeks aren’t good for you or the baby”…. or…“you’re going to have to figure out some kind of balance after this child is born.”

  Ever since she offered to co-parent this baby, she’s been nagging at me to slow down.

  I answer the call anyway.

  “Hey Nai, we still on for nanny interviews this weekend?” I ask, trying to distract her from whatever lecture she’s got planned for me this morning.

  But instead of taking my bait, Naima says, “Um, Amber…hi…” her voice shaking, “I have a visitor. He was just sitting here when I came into the kitchen. And he…” she audibly swallows…“has a gun.”

  24

  Here’s That Rainy Day

  I jump out the Lyft and run up the stairs of the duplex Naima lives in alone, now that her parents have returned to Hispaniola for their retirement years. But rather than relish finally being able to live alone at the age of thirty-six, Naima has missed her parents terribly. The plan for me to give up my apartment in Astoria and move in with her in Jackson Heights a couple months before the baby was born had seemed perfect after I found out I was pregnant. But now I’m cursing myself for getting Naima involved in any of this in any way.

  This is all my fault, I think as I climb her familiar stairs, two at a time.

  Thank goodness, she got one of those braille keyboard locks for her parents a couple years ago. I punch in the code, and the deadbolt turns with an electronic whir, granting me entrance.

  “Nai!” I call out as soon as I’m inside.

  “In the kitchen!” her voice calls back. I can tell she’s fighting to keep her voice level, but I still clearly hear the fear.

  I’ve been to this house so many times, I don’t even need my stick. And though sighted, Naima still keeps all the walkways as clean and clear as she did when she lived here with her parents. So it’s a straight shot to the kitchen, with nothing to trip over.

  “Heya, Amber,” a voice says as soon as I enter the doorless kitchen.

  Not Luca’s. This one is deeper, grimmer. But I’ve heard it before, I’m just not sure where…

  And instead of waiting for me to return his greeting he says, “Just so we’re all on the same page, I’ve got a gun pointed at your friend’s head. From what I’ve heard, you two are real close. Like sisters. So, I’m imagining that’s not a good picture in your head right now, is it?”

  “No, I don’t like that picture,” I mumble, swallowing down my fear for Naima, in order to direct my gaze at the voice, just like Diamond told me to do with the special pair of sunglasses she outfitted me with back at my Astoria office.

  “Didn’t think you would. Why don’t you sit down, answer a few questions for me.
”

  With a jolt, I suddenly remember where I’ve heard this voice before. At the wedding, standing mostly silent next to a much friendlier pack of cigarettes, who kissed the top of my hand and congratulated me on being a beautiful bride.

  The only reason the brief meeting stuck with me was that Luca had introduced the two men as his cousins—the only family members between us who showed up to celebrate our doomed marriage, and they had sort of strange names. Rock and Stone, identical twins, but nothing alike from what I could tell. Rock was all affable and cheery, but Stone had only spoken a few lines before falling eerily quiet.

  And Stone, I had the feeling, was the one in the room with Naima now. The one with the gun. “You’re Stone… Luca’s cousin, right?” I ask, deliberately stressing all the names for Diamond’s recording back at the office. “What’s a member of the Ferraro crime family doing in my friend’s home, threatening her with a gun.”

  A beat. Then the voice says, “Table’s right in front of you.”

  “You don’t want to do this. And you should know that if anything happens to Naima, the police will be notifi—”

  “No need for threats, Amber,” he says, like I’m a super rude guest. “This is just going to be a little conversation between me, you, and your friend. As long as you’re honest, nobody gets hurt. Now sit down, I’m not looking to get Jackie Channed like that guy that tried to come for you and that Sylvie chick last year.”

  Dammit… so he knows I’ve turned my body into a lethal weapon in the years between my divorce and him showing up in this kitchen. I sit down, pulling the chair as far as possible from the table.

  Only to have Luca’s cousin say, “Scoot your ass all the way in, sweetheart. Far as that baby belly will let you.”

  I stay where I’m at for a mutinous second, testing his boundaries.

  But then, Naima eeps.

  “Sorry, my gun’s so cold, sweetheart,” Stone says, with zero actual remorse in his voice. “See, I came straight here after interviewing your friend’s ex-boyfriend this morning inside a freezer.”

  My own heart goes cold at the mention of Pascoal. Innocent Pascoal…

  I scoot in, but demand, “Is he okay? Did you hurt him?”

  “Not too bad. Probably won’t even have to spend a whole night at the hospital I dropped him at.”

  A rush of anger overtakes my head and before I can stop myself, I’m yelling, “He doesn’t have good insurance, you careless asshole! And now you’ve saddled him with an expensive hospital bill?”

  “Not that expensive. That so-called martial artist turned into a fucking baby when he woke up, tied to a chair inside a freezer. It only took a couple of pistol whips to get him talking.”

  I just shake my head. Hating this thug, almost as much as the man who sent him.

  “Thing is, I’m kind of confused, because this former boyfriend of yours told me the kid you’re carrying ain’t his. He said you two broke up, because he didn’t want to climb on the parent train with ya, and as far as he knows you went ahead with the turkey baster option—at least that’s what I think he said. It was kind of hard to understand him with all that bitch-sobbing.”

  He pauses for my reaction, but this time I manage not to give the bastard anything, except what I hope is a completely blank face behind my recording sunglasses.

  Unfortunately, Naima isn’t receiving my keep your mouth closed mental message. “That’s what I told you, too. Exactly what I told you. She broke up with Pascoal and got IUI. So why are you still here? Why did you make me call her?”

  “Because he’s cruel and doesn’t care who he hurts,” I answer Naima, between gritted teeth.

  “Because the thing is, we’ve been checking over your friend’s insurance stuff, and we can’t find any record of her receiving any… what do you call ‘em… fertility treatments,” Stone answers Naima like I haven’t spoken. “All we’re seeing are a couple of appointments with her main lady parts doc, and then she starts up with an OB a few weeks later. Would seem to me that if some other doctor knocked her up with a turkey baster, they’d want some kind of follow up.”

  They hacked my insurance records? My stomach drops at how much they found out in less than twelve hours, and how much more they’ll figure out if they manage to get their hands on my actual medical records.

  “So you’re a fertility expert now, along with a thug who goes around threatening people with guns after violating, like, all the HIPPA laws?” Naima asks.

  “No, actually, what I am is confused. Because both you and this Pascoal are claiming one thing, but the paper trail don’t match.”

  “Okay, not all insurance covers fertility treatments,” Naima answers. “She probably had to pay for it out of pocket. And even if she did, what does that matter? It’s not like this is any business of your cousin or boss or whatever that undeserving ex-husband of hers is to you. Amber hasn’t seen that dude, in, like, five years.”

  Oh God. “Nai…” I start to say.

  “No, no, Amber, this guy is in the wrong. I mean what does it matter how you got pregnant? The fact is you did, and your journey is nobody’s business but yours—”

  Oh Nai… “If you want me to talk, put down the gun and call Luca. Tell him to come here himself, because I’m not dealing with anybody else,” I say, cutting her off before she can take her defense of me any further.

  Now it’s Stone’s turn to test boundaries. The hard click of a gun cocking sounds. And Naima squeaks again. Her temporary fit of fire disappears, and her breath starts coming out in quick, panicked bursts.

  “If you kill her… if you hurt her… then there will be no reason for me not to come after you with full force,” I say, my voice lethal but level. “And I’m pretty sure a physical fight with a pregnant lady wasn’t part of your completely fucked up mission parameters.”

  A beat of silence.

  Then I hear the much more muted click of the gun’s safety sliding back into place.

  A whisper of fabric and the electronic notes of phone buttons being pushed come next. “Yeah… she’s asking for a meeting…. Want me to bring her—”

  He cuts off, listening. “Yeah… yep… got it.”

  I hear another fabric whisper, this one probably the phone being put away, then Stone says, “Alright, sweetheart, you’re coming with me.”

  There’s a sharp metal screech, and Naima cries out, right before what I’m guessing is the back of the chair she was sitting in, makes a dull bang against the kitchen floor.

  Obviously, Stone’s pulled Naima out of her chair. I follow her sharp breaths across the kitchen, and I keep my recording gaze on her as long as I can, all the way up until I hear the open and closing slam of the front door.

  But I’m so completely intent on capturing every moment of Naima’s removal from her own house for Diamond recording back at the office, I don’t hear the opening and closing of the kitchen’s back door. Don’t notice the footsteps of the person coming toward me or smell his cologne.

  Not until it’s too late, and both my earpiece and the sunglasses have been abruptly ripped from my head.

  “Luca? Luca, why are you taking my sunglasses and my phone?” I say, not because I’m really wondering, but because I need Diamond to understand we’ve been made. “Please stop this right now, Luca Jacob Ferraro. I don’t want anyone else to get hurt. Life is a precious jewel, and you should go home before anyone else gets hurt!” I say, hoping to God Diamond gets that these words are really for her.

  The catch of the coded message is that as far as I know, Diamond doesn’t have a home. She’s never provided me with an actual address or even any reason to believe Diamond is her real name. As far as I know, she’s an offshore bank account that gets my pitiful paycheck transferred into it every other week. So “Life is a precious jewel… you should go home!” is the closest I can come to saying, “Diamond run and hide before they come for you, too,” without completely exposing her to Luca. Because the last thing this situation needs is another
innocent person I care about getting dragged into it.

  A door whines open, and I can just imagine the sunglasses being handed off.

  I’ve been training for something like this for five years, and my body tenses with the impulse to immobilize Luca and run to safety. But he’s played this exactly right by taking Naima. I can’t do anything with her life at risk. Plus, there’s the baby to think of now…

  I rub a hand over my belly, vowing silently not for the first time since finding out it was inside of me that I won’t let him anybody or anything hurt him.

  Then the door bangs shut, and then comes the sound of Luca’s expensive shoes striding across cheap flooring. The chair creaks and bangs. I imagine him picking it up and firmly setting it to right, before taking a seat.

  Maintaining a straight gaze while this happens feels like a Herculean feat. Muscle memory dies a hard, hard death, and mine is still hanging on, even though I’ve been blind at this point almost as long as I wasn’t. My eyes instinctively want to follow every sound he makes, the primordial form of bracing against a predator in the bush still firing within the synapses of my modern brain, long after it lost access to my sight center.

  And as I feel his gaze going over me like a laser beam from across the table, it’s all I can do to keep my eyes still. Face calm. Breath normal, not scared and panting like Naima, who defended me so confidently, because I was too ashamed to tell her about my post-baby shower hookup with Luca. Guilt sickens my stomach at the thought of how scared she must be right now.

  But somehow, I manage to keep my gaze trained in the direction of his seat.

  I can feel him staring back, but he doesn’t talk. And, eventually, I wonder if he’s waiting me out or trying to intimidate me.

  Refusing to play either game, I say, “One weekend a month. One holiday a year.”

  I make my initial offer, then I wait to see how he’ll respond.

  More silence. So long, I’m beginning to wonder if he’ll even respond, when he finally says, “I’ll take that. And everything else.”