When Carlo and Peter had first seen the property, the whole third floor had been offered as one space. It was more than they needed or could afford, and they’d worked out a build-to-suit deal to take half instead. Their landlord had divided the space with drywall.
The vandals had come through the drywall, which had handily circumvented Carlo and Peter’s alarm system. And then they’d had a field day.
Standing in the midst of the rubble, Peter at his side, trying to listen to the cop’s instructions about what they’d probably need to make an insurance claim, Carlo thought the place was a near total loss. It looked like a rave had happened. Or a riot. By exceedingly angry Huns. From wall art to furniture, from Peter’s Red Sox bobblehead collection to their electronics, everything was destroyed. There was piss and shit on the walls and floor. Spray paint over the windows.
Worst of all, Carlo’s most recent drafts had been shredded. Into confetti.
Though he moved to digital design about halfway through his process, he could not find inspiration using a program. He had to start the old-fashioned way, with paper, pencil, compass, triangle, T-square. He needed to feel his designs with his hands. To see them with his fingers as much as his eyes.
The work he’d moved to digital was archived in the Cloud, so none of that was lost, but all the work in the inspiration stage—his favorite part—was in a pile at his feet. Unsalvageable. Weeks of work, just gone. Afraid to look, knowing what he’d find, he stepped around a corner and leaned into the modeling room. Yep. The foamcore model he’d just finished for a job they were set to present the final plan on next week was nothing more than apocalyptic rubble now.
He dropped to a squat, his face in his hands.
“I’m sorry man, so sorry.” Peter squeezed his shoulder.
Peter was an architect, too, but his strength was not in design itself. He’d never have made a career on his own, and his career at Supratecture, the large firm they’d both been working for, had been on life support. What Peter was expert at was seeing into the gaps. Though he couldn’t visualize a really original building on his own, he could look at someone else’s design and see a potential weakness—or an opportunity for something even better. And he was personable and extroverted. He enjoyed the parties and the lunches and all the things Carlo hated. He was a great wingman, in life and in business. Carlo was the talent; Peter was the emcee. They both knew it, and they were both comfortable in their roles. Being the business head of their little enterprise had taken a lot of pressure from Peter—and from Carlo. In their partnership, each played to his strengths.
Carlo stood and went to the crushed model. “I’m going to have to rebuild this. Like yesterday.” He’d have to cut his week in the Cove short. And give up sleep.
“I’ll get an extension on the presentation. They’re not going to can us so fast this late in the game, and this”—he swept his arm around the room—“is the best excuse I can think of for needing more time. I’ll get you a week, at least.” A dry laugh rasped from his throat. “We’re going to need to get serious about that 3D printer fund.”
Trying to regroup, get his thoughts in order and figure out what to do next, Carlo sighed. “Okay. I’m gonna pick up some supplies and head to the loft. I can work out of my office at home for now. I’ll ask one of my brothers to drive Trey back in.” Fuck. He had no way of getting hold of Sabina to let her know he wouldn’t be around if and when she sought him out again. The thought of not seeing her for God knew how long hurt almost as much as the thought that they might have just lost their business. Fuck. He hoped the Uncles were moving quickly.
~oOo~
About an hour later, he came off the elevator at his loft, his arms laden with supplies to rebuild the model. He set everything down and slid his key into the deadbolt lock, but was surprised when turning it did not move the bolt. He turned it in the locking direction instead, and felt the bolt engage. It had been unlocked. He turned it back and tried the knob. It turned freely.
Had it not been for the current state of the office, he would have thought little of this development. He would have assumed that Natalie was there. But his nerves were on edge. Stepping back, still really more curious than alarmed, he looked closely at the door. It showed no signs of force. It was simply closed and unlocked. Maybe Natalie was here? But, thinking more about it, why would she be? She had the week off. She knew they were out of town. There was nothing for her to do here.
He left his supplies leaning against the wall and opened the door. “Nat? You here?”
Silence. He stepped into the hallway. At first, everything looked right—the credenza, the bowl in which he always dropped his keys and change, the mirror above it. Then, at the end of the hall, he saw a pile of fluffy clouds. The stuffing from his couch. Wishing he had a weapon at hand, Carlo walked slowly down the short hall and into the main space of his loft.
Whoever had partied at the office had had their after-prom here. The destruction was as complete, if not even more vigorous, here, in his home. Where his child lived. No longer worried about whether there was someone still there, he ran to the other rooms—his office, trashed. His bedroom, trashed. Trey’s room. Demolished. No other word for it. His toys had been destroyed, the contents of his dresser and closet torn to pieces. His mattress had been slashed open, long cuts like wounds striping the surface, showing the guts of foam and cotton matting.
The words DEAD KID were sprayed in dripping red paint across the solar system Carlo had painted on the wall behind his bed.
And then Carlo understood.
He called Luca and made sure his son was safe. Then he called Peter. When he answered, Carlo asked, without preamble, “Pete, were you home last night? Have you been home?”
“Yeah. Quiet night. Came from there to work. What?”
“Your house is okay?”
“Yeah. Carlo, what? You okay?”
He hung up and dialed Luca to make sure that Trey was still with him and that he would keep him. No one would fuck with Luca. Carlo didn’t give details for his worry, and Luca didn’t push. He would push later, Carlo knew, when they were face to face, but then he would be glad to explain.
Next he called Carmen, hoping to ask her to check on Bina, but got her voice mail. He left a message to the same effect, asking her to call.
And then he called his Uncle Ben. It was not acceptable to check in on the progress of a deal, but this was information they needed.
Because Carlo was sure that James Auberon was behind all this. And that meant he knew. He knew, and had reacted this way. And that meant that Bina was in much more danger than he’d even known.
~ 10 ~
Sabina had been born in Buenos Aires into a comfortable, middle-class existence. Her father had been a business executive of some sort; what he had done while he was gone every day had always been something of a mystery to her young mind, but he’d dressed in nice suits and carried a briefcase, wherever he’d gone. Her mother had taught piano lessons in their home. She’d had a brother, Eduardo, who’d been four years younger than she.
Her memories of that life were faded, sanded away by time and distance, but she remembered it as a comfortable, happy, unremarkable life. They’d had a pet cat. She’d had a hamster. They’d taken holidays. Her parents had held and attended dinner parties, and Sabina had had sleepovers with friends. Her little brother had been a pest.
When she was eight years old, her parents had allowed her to spend a week during a school holiday with a friend in the country, at her friend’s grandparents’ ranch. She’d been there, learning to ride horses and playing gaucho, when her parents and brother died in a car crash.
The months immediately subsequent to that day were almost entirely a void in Sabina’s memory, but she’d ended up living in Providence, with her paternal aunt, Tia Valeria. They hadn’t known each other well at all—Sabina’s father had married later in life, and his sister was older than he. She had moved to the United States and become a citizen long before
Sabina had even been born. But she’d been Sabina’s only living relative.
Living in the States had been terrifying at first. Sabina hadn’t spoken much English, and the pace of life here was much different than she’d known. But her aunt had been a warm, loving woman. She’d adopted Sabina, making her a citizen and giving her stability, and they’d made a life together, the two of them. The second phase of Sabina’s life had been happy and comfortable, too.
Her aunt had not been remotely social, though, and their life had been small, just the two of them. When Valeria fell ill, Sabina’s life had shrunk more, as she turned from her few high school friends and took care of the woman who’d taken care of her.
Valeria died a month after Sabina’s high school graduation, and Sabina had found herself truly alone in a world she had not yet completely understood.
But she’d made her way. Her aunt’s tiny house had been paid for and left to her. She’d secured a job at the men’s accessories counter at an upscale department store in Providence, and she’d done a little modeling—until a supposed job modeling swimwear became another kind of job entirely, and Sabina had fled that job and then the idea of modeling altogether. She’d taken community college classes in the evenings, and she’d worked during the day. She’d kept to herself and stayed focused on building a life on her own.
It was at the department store that she’d met James Auberon.
He’d come to the counter, clearly in a rush, holding a wad of silk in his hand. His crisp, white dress shirt was buttoned to the neck, but he was without a tie. Sabina deduced quickly his problem and smiled. “May I show you a tie, sir? Yours has been damaged, I think?”
His brilliant green eyes had sharpened at her words, and his expression had shifted from irritated impatience to pleasure. “Where are you from, miss?”
Of course she’d known what he was really asking, but she found that question rude when it came so early in an acquaintance, as if her accent were the most interesting thing about her, and she had a pat response. “I live in Manton, sir.”
He’d cocked his head. “You know that isn’t the answer I want.”
“Yes. May I show you a tie?”
He’d grinned, and Sabina had been dazzled. She’d never met a man more physically perfect. “The customer is always right, I believe, miss. You should answer my question.”
It had been hard to keep her voice steady. He was flirting with her, she could tell, and she was captivated. But she stayed strong. “I will answer any question you have about ties, sir. Of course. It’s your most pressing concern now, I think, yes?”
He’d cast his wadded tie away to the sales counter. “You know, I don’t think it is. Not anymore.” His eyes had dipped to her nametag. “Sabina. Lovely. I’m James.”
“James. May I help you with a tie?”
After a desultory look into the case on which he was leaning, he’d pointed down to a deep blue Hermès. With a smile more sincere than her usual retail version, she’d pulled out his selection and held it out to him. He’d caught her hand in his—perfect hands, like a model’s hands—and then lightly looped the silk tie around her wrist. “How does that feel?” he’d murmured. “It’s good silk, isn’t it? The best. Gentle on delicate skin.”
“Excuse me?” Her face had gone hot, and she’d known she was blushing. Between her aunt’s illness and her tenuous life on her own, Sabina had not dated much at all. She could have counted the number of times she’d kissed a boy on one hand. But the stranger before her was exuding sex so strongly that even her naïve senses could tell.
With a gentle tug, he’d pulled the tie from her wrist. “I’ll take this one.” He’d dropped a black American Express card on the counter. They’d been new at the time, these ‘Centurion Cards,’ and even at this store, she’d only seen two others. “And I’d like to take you to dinner when your shift ends tonight.”
As she’d run his purchase through, she’d shaken her head. “I’m sorry, sir. I think I shouldn’t—”
He’d cut her off with a sharp twitch of his hand. “I’ll be waiting out front. Black Jag. You join me or you don’t. But I’ll only wait five minutes.”
“How do you know when my shift ends?” She’d handed him his purchase and his fancy charge card.
He’d only smiled and pulled his new tie over his neck.
He’d been waiting at the curb when she left the store. They were married four months later.
During the four months of their courtship, there had been signs, Sabina understood later, about who James really was. It had been crucially important to him that she was a virgin. In 1999, perhaps that should have been a point worth examining, but twenty-year-old virgin Sabina had thought it charmingly old-fashioned. He was moody, and when his mood went dark, the air around him was toxic. Sometimes, when she’d said or done something he didn’t like, she’d seen him literally shaking before he responded in a rational way, his eyes belying his calm. He’d been severely possessive and jealous, but, since she’d had no friends or even many friendly acquaintances, no one for him to chase from her life, his jealousy had manifested itself in ways that had not alarmed her—he’d glare at men who noticed her or who spoke too long to her in the line for coffee or sitting next to her in the theater. She’d understood these as little more than quirks, and, it later shamed her to realize, she’d interpreted them as expressions of his love for her.
Three times, he’d lashed out jealously in some way and scared her. But control was extremely important to him, and those instances were rare. What had made her concerned at all was that he’d shouted at her, grabbed her, for something someone else had done—the man in the coffee line or in the seat next to her. The drunk at the benefit, who’d grabbed her ass. That was the only time, before they were married, that James had physically hurt her. He’d spanked her. And then he’d kissed her bare, inflamed cheeks, thanking her for her understanding.
As scared and hurt as she’d been that night, it had been the most erotic experience she’d ever had. That night, when the danger signs around her were flashing furiously, was the night Sabina was most ashamed of. That was the night on which perhaps she might have made herself free of him. But she’d turned in his arms and held him while he told her about his childhood, neglected by his wealthy parents, abused by the nanny when he was young, then raised in boarding schools, finally left alone when they died overseas. He’d told her he couldn’t stand the thought of anyone else having what was his—having her. She’d cried and held him and told him she understood. She understood the erratic life of the orphaned child. She’d been orphaned twice. She’d told him she loved him. He’d proposed. Her skin still hot and sore from his abuse, she’d accepted.
And now, fifteen years later, here she was.
“Good morning, darling.”
Those years of living with a monster, anticipating him, had given Sabina a strong constitution. She did not startle easily. Now, she barely blinked, despite the fear that had flooded her veins. “James. I’m surprised.”
“I expect that you are. Why are you sleeping in here?”
She had taken the downstairs guest suite—because it was only her, and it was more convenient to the rest of the house; because it was smaller, and she’d always found it cozier than the expansive master suite; and because she had never shared this bed with James.
“It seemed simpler, since I am alone this week. I was, I mean. Are you here for long?”
James smiled, and in that rigid slash across his face, Sabina knew that James knew everything. She had been reckless. She had been intentionally careless. And he very likely thought he knew things that were not true.
He stood, walked over to the bed, and sat at her side. He was wearing his beach attire: crisp khakis, a light blue cotton broadcloth shirt, tucked in, but the cuffs folded and the throat open. Gucci loafers without socks. His Gucci belt with the ringed buckle.
“I’m not sure how long I’m here. Have you been enjoying yourself?” He raised a hand and
brushed her cheek with the knuckle of one finger.
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