by Bethany-Kris
“Yep.”
Her daughter hadn’t been to Canada yet—Tiffany would love all the trees.
“So, you’re not avoiding anyone, then?”
Cella gave her sister a side-eye as the two of them headed down the street toward her car parked at the corner. The only goddamn spot she had been able to grab that morning as she came in later than normal, and that always meant she had to fight for a parking spot that was remotely close to her studio. It was the only thing she hated about the current setup.
“What does that mean?”
Liliana shrugged. “Well—”
“When do I avoid people?”
“Sometimes, you just do it. I don’t even think you mean to, but you do. I think it’s whenever you’re having a rough time, maybe because of life, or William ... either way, you tend to hide away from the rest of us. John, I could understand because—”
“I don’t avoid John.”
And she didn’t.
Not anymore.
Oh, sure, she had blamed her brother for a long time because of what happened to her husband. It had been because of things that happened with John’s involvement that made those people attack William, after all, but her feelings then had been a by-product of her grief, and very little else. She tried not to react from that because she still occasionally felt herself slipping back to a grieving state of mind whenever she thought about her dead husband.
It happened.
No one was to blame but the people who pulled the trigger.
And they were gone.
Her father and brother made sure of that.
“Anyway,” Cella said, “enough about me. Are we eating, or ...?”
Liliana grinned. “Yeah, let’s find a place to eat.”
• • •
“Why is there a camera up there, Ma?”
“To make sure everything is okay in the elevator.”
Tiffany, in all her blue-eyed, blonde-haired sweetness, peered up at the camera in the corner of the elevator with curiosity. “Oh.”
“Any other questions?”
Because her kid asked about a million of them. Her daughter’s desire to know everything about anything and anyone who stepped in her path just couldn’t be contained. The constant flow of whys that came out of Tiffany’s mouth were never-ending. Some people tried to deflect the girl onto another topic, but Cella never did.
She loved it.
And thankfully, Tiffany’s curiosity made the two-hour drive from Rochester to Toronto fly by in a blink of an eye. From why they had to stop to talk to the border control agent before they could be let across into Canada, to why the speed signs changed from miles per hour to kilometers. The questions came one after another.
“Who lives here?”
“Not sure,” Cella said, digging in her purse to find her phone as the elevator jerked. She was supposed to send a message through to the contact on her phone when she arrived at the address provided—which she just found out downstairs was the penthouse in this very old but prestigious apartment skyrise in Toronto. “But I am sure—”
She didn’t get to finish her statement before the elevator finally came to a stop, and the doors spread wide to welcome them inside the penthouse on the very top floor. She swore stepping into the place, the gleaming marble floors beneath her clicking under her three-inch stilettos, that it was like jumping back in time about twenty or thirty years.
Oh, it was beautiful, to be sure.
Back then, she bet the white décor and gold chandeliers dripping with crystals would have been what was most in style. The choice in floor surprised her, but it seemed like the marble ended toward the far side of the hallway. Art covered the walls, and a few pieces of furniture greeted them at the front door like the decorative table with one drawer to pull out, stained with a deep, cherry red. She didn’t bother to use any of the hooks, or even the small closet, to hang up her coat or purse. She removed Tiffany’s shoes before the two of them headed deeper into the place.
“Hello?” she called out.
Her voice echoed back.
“Is it empty?” Tiffany asked.
A dark chuckle answered that question. They didn’t even make it to the end of the hallway before a man came to stand there. Dressed in a three-piece suit, shoes gleaming against the floor where light hardwood met the marble, he smiled at them with an easy disposition, and his hands stuffed loosely in his pockets.
“Cella Marcello, oui?” the man asked.
His dark brown hair, slightly peppered with gray at the temples, had been slicked back, likely by his fingertips, if she were to guess considering the messiness of the strands. Although, it worked for him. The hard lines of his features gave him a very classically handsome appearance, and his warm smile only added to the appeal. The lines around his eyes as he grinned spoke of his age, which she thought was likely closer to her father’s.
And right away ...
Instantly, Cella knew who he was.
“Gian Guzzi.”
She only recognized him because a few times growing up, the man had made his way to New York for different business that he had with her father’s crime family. Through the grapevine, and the inevitable whispers that followed his presence, like it did for the men in her life, she learned he was exactly like them.
Mafia.
Made.
And in fact, the boss of a Cosa Nostra faction in Toronto. A well-respected, and very powerful man, actually. They hadn’t spoke except for polite conversation and hellos at the dinner table when he joined them on rare occasions, but it was always good to keep up with who was who in their world.
Despite living far away from one another, their world was still quite small. No one wanted to cause trouble with another family. It never ended very well.
“That’s me,” Gian said, still smiling in that welcoming way of his. “Thank you for coming today, and also ... well, for following along with my little demands about not getting a name of your client.”
Cella kept a hand on her daughter’s shoulder, determined to keep Tiffany in one place while she spoke to the man. If she let her go, it was very likely the girl would run off to explore. Which wouldn’t be a problem, except she didn’t know if that was okay here.
“I trust my father,” Cella said simply.
“As you should. It was a little more than who I am why I asked for it to be kept quiet, however.”
“Oh?”
“I’m trying to keep this a surprise for my wife—Cara. Have you met her?”
“No, but I have heard of her.”
Again, through the grapevine.
From her sister, too, whom Gian’s wife had counseled after a bad incident with an ex-boyfriend who now rotted underground where he belonged. Cara Guzzi had also been the therapist for Cella’s cousin, Catherine, after a particularly rough patch in her life. From all accounts, the woman was wonderful.
In fact, after the death of her husband, Cara’s name had been brought up repeatedly to Cella by literally everyone and anyone who knew the woman. It wasn’t that she didn’t think Cara would be able to help with her grief, but rather that she wasn’t ready to invite someone else into her life to see her through it. She did better alone.
Still, everyone spoke highly of Cara.
She’d just never met her personally.
“Ah, well, my wife has certainly heard a lot about you.”
That piqued Cella’s interest. “Has she?”
“Adores your designs, believe it or not. One of our friends. In Maine, you did their vacation home, and we visited last summer. That was when Cara started really getting serious about wanting to hire you for a design. But your client list is long, and life always has a way of—”
“Getting in the way,” Cella interjected, laughing under her breath. “Tell me about it. I also have a waiting list.”
Gian made a face, one that managed to look both arrogant but slightly bashful at the same time. How was that even possible? “Well, I hoped my con
nection to your father and that very nice check I sent over would possibly put me at the top of said waiting list. And look, it worked.”
“Seems it did, yes. Is the penthouse the job?”
“How did you know? I was thinking about an entire redesign—whatever you want to do, as long as you think it’ll be tasteful and my wife will enjoy it, then you have free reign.”
“It’s beautiful.”
“But?”
“Outdated.”
Gian nodded. “It is, and Cara has mentioned that once or twice in the last few years.”
“Really, only once or twice?”
“Every single time we visit, honestly.”
Yeah.
Cella thought so.
“I thought maybe she would want to sell it—good and bad memories,” he added quieter, but didn’t bother to elaborate. “So, as far as she knows, it’s going on the market. Although, I have no intention of selling it. It’s been in my family for many years, and when we’re not using it, one of our five sons do for one thing or another.”
“Five?”
Gian glanced her way. “Pardon?”
“You have five sons.”
“We do.”
At that statement, his gaze dropped to her daughter. For the most part, Tiffany had been happy to silently listen to the conversation. Always wanting to learn, after all. No doubt, Cella would get the million and one questions about it later.
“And this is your petite fille, hmm?” Gian asked. “Sorry, second nature to use my French—your little girl, yes?”
“Yes, my Tiffany.”
“Hello, Tiffany.” He kneeled to be closer to eye-level with her daughter. “My wife would love that pink dress of yours.”
“Bonjour, Mr. Guzzi. Thank you very much. Ma bought it for me.”
Gian grinned widely, giving Cella a look. “Is that the only French she knows?”
Cella shrugged. “That, and how to tell someone to stop.”
Tiffany beamed. “My teacher at daycare showed me.”
“And how old are you?”
“Five.”
“Not in school yet?”
Cella answered for that one. “She turned five in the middle of the year—I didn’t want to send her to kindergarten for half the year as a four-year-old. She starts in the fall.”
“Ah, and I bet you are excited, yes?”
“Can’t wait,” Tiffany said.
Gian stood straight, fixing the lapels of his blazer when he said, “She’s free to run around, if she wants. There’s not much trouble she can find here, and there’s a few toys in the living room that my wife keeps here for our grandkids.”
Tiffany peered up at her mom expectantly.
“Go ahead. Any mess, you pick it up. Got it?”
“Got it, Ma.”
The girl didn’t need to be told again before she darted off. That left Cella alone with Gian, and she took a moment to look around again.
“So, a surprise for her, huh?”
“That’s what I am hoping for. I will stay removed from it as much as possible, seeing as how my wife always seems to find out when I directly try to plan things for her.”
Cella smiled softly. “I think I can handle it.”
“How long do you think it’ll take?”
“Three months, maybe. Give or take.”
“Perfetto. My oldest son, he’ll be on hand for anything you need. He’s coming over later to give you his details—how long are you staying today?”
Cella met his gaze. “A while. I like to ... envision.”
“Envision away, Cella. It’s all in your very capable hands now.”
Yes, it was.
• • •
Cella walked through the back hallway of the penthouse, stopping at each room to take in the different spaces, and what they had been used for. Several bedrooms were located further at the back, while a small office that also seemed to act as a library was set up closer to the entrance of the hallway. Each bedroom had its own private bathroom. Another, far larger bathroom with a clawfoot tub and a walk-in shower that would make anyone jealous with the size, was located beyond the left side of the office between it and before the last bedroom at the very end of the hall.
The master bedroom.
The biggest room in the penthouse, really, and that was saying something considering the size of the main rooms like the kitchen and entertaining areas. Cella kept her notepad out and on hand to do what she usually did when she walked through a new space that she was meant to redesign. Some jobs were more complicated than others. They required more work, for whatever reason. And she didn’t often take on ones that would need anything more than a wall or two taken out to redesign the floorplan. It wasn’t that she couldn’t do it, but those took longer ... most of her clients were on a tight deadline, and she also liked that fast pace more often than she didn’t.
Given Gian hadn’t said anything about redesigning the floorplan of the penthouse, and his focus was more on updating the space to be modern to the times, she wasn’t concerned about this job being anything unusual.
Well, except for the fact that his wife was a fan of her work.
That made her a little nervous.
Just a bit.
Cella wouldn’t admit it out loud, though.
She roughly sketched out the master bedroom in her notepad, taking a moment to stare at the mostly bare walls in the space, and skipping over the four-poster bed dominating the middle. That would have to go, if only because it really seemed to take away from the size of the space. The large windows behind the bed would be a perfect place to set something like a platform bed with a half a dozen decorative pillows. Morning light would come in to spill across the blankets and touch whoever was sleeping in the sheets.
Before long, she had moved from the master bedroom to the other spare bedrooms. Given she didn’t have much of an idea what to do with those, and Gian hadn’t given her an idea to go on with what his wife might like, she simply wrote down a few notes to look back at later. Then, she moved onto the bathrooms.
Sometimes, her designs came from things she wanted to see, because that’s what the client preferred. Knowing what little she did about Cara Guzzi, she thought perhaps the woman might prefer her spaces to be designed more to her personal tastes.
But that would be hard to do when apparently, this was meant to be a surprise. It wasn’t as though Cella could go have dinner with the woman, sit down and chat about what she wanted to see in her penthouse. Or hell, even bring the woman here to do it.
That made the job more interesting.
And tough.
Cella liked a good challenge, though.
It was only as she was coming out of the main bathroom that she realized how quiet Tiffany had become during her mother’s walk-through of the place. Not that she was concerned her daughter found trouble because that was the last thing her child seemed to do.
Soon enough, she found Tiffany.
In the living room.
With a man.
His back stayed turned to Cella as the unknown man kneeled in his sharp, black three-piece suit that seemed tailored-to-fit on his tall, lean form. Broad shoulders covered by expensive fabric led down a back made up by hard, firm lines that had Cella stopping in the entryway to the space instead of walking forward.
Well, that, and his laugh.
It was a lovely sound.
Deep.
Full of bass.
Every part of her heard it and felt it, she was sure.
It was then that Tiffany finally noticed her mother.
“Ma!”
The man stood and turned to find Cella standing in the entryway. At first, his face took her by surprise. If only because it felt like she was looking into a mirror of Gian Guzzi—only a younger version of the man, with just slight differences. Just enough, really.
A strong jawline. Squared chin. Dark, thick brows lifted when his smirking lips curved higher in a sensual smile. His brown eyes—flec
ked with gold—looked her over. His hair, a dark espresso color, had been cut into a style that allowed him a bit of length at the top but was trimmed short along the sides. Mostly, it just seemed as though he brushed the strands back to keep them from falling into those eyes of his.
Eyes that still hadn’t looked away from her.
“Cella,” he said. “Good to see you again.”
She swore it was like stepping back in time.
They’d met before.
At a very dark time.
Back then, Cella hadn’t taken the time to notice very much about Marcus.
“Marcus Guzzi.”
His smile deepened. “I hear you need me.”
Did she?
Cella dragged in a quick breath.
Her heart thumped hard.
What was that?
3.
It took Cella a moment to respond to Marcus, but he took those few seconds to take in all the changes in the woman since the last time he saw her. Of course, that had been a bad day for her, he bet. She’d been young, with a new baby, and burying her husband. There hadn’t been time for conversation, not that he thought for one single second that she would have been interested in it.
It took weeks for him to get the image of her heartbroken face out of his mind after that day four and a half years ago. Of those tears that stained her face, making lines through the makeup that someone had clearly applied to try and hide the fact that the woman wasn’t sleeping. Not that it helped—those dark circles had made her wide eyes appear far bigger than they really were and showcased her soul.
So fucking lost.
Broken.
Lonely.
Yeah, he remembered all of that.
And more.
The woman standing in the entryway now, however, was not the same woman he met all those years ago. Gone were the dark circles, and the pale skin that lost its gleam. She’d traded in the standard black funeral dress for a red number that hugged her curves, stopped just above her knee, with a slit in the skirt that showed off all kinds of leg in those heels of hers.
Things he probably shouldn’t notice.
Like the brightness of her blue eyes. Or the way her eyelashes framed the orbs to make them seem even bigger.
It was impossible not to notice those things. Not to mention, that despite the fact she did look far better than their last encounter, and she didn’t seem as sad on the outside, there was still something there. A shadow, perhaps, that clouded her eyes when she smiled.