“They why did you legally change your name to your grandmother’s maiden name.”
“How do you know that?”
“I mean, finding you wasn’t easy, but it wasn’t that hard either. You should have used an anonymous name. Like Jones or Smith. That would have made it much harder, although not impossible.”
“I’m not hiding from anyone. I changed my name because I don’t want to be associated with the cartel. I want a simple life. I don’t want anything to do with my brother or his business. So you can understand why I’m not that nice to you.”
The food comes, and I wait until the waiter is gone before speaking.
“You know, family isn’t something you just decide you’re no longer part of. The farther you try to run, the tighter you’re tethered.”
She’s good at masking her thoughts, but this makes her pause. I see it, at least momentarily. I wonder, though, if it’s something in her own life or how the comment relates to me that’s made her stop. That’s turned the tables, making her study me now. A moment later, she picks up her glass and drinks more of her wine.
“You’re making assumptions about me when you don’t know me.”
“Isn’t running what you’re doing, though? You claim you’re not in hiding, but you disappeared after your father’s death. Never returned to school. No one saw or heard from you again. You’ve since legally changed your last name. The company you work for has no idea who you really are. I get the feeling you keep everyone at a distance.”
“What’s your point?”
I keep my attention on her while draining the last of my wine.
“Or do you just want to try and get under my skin? You won’t. I’ve dealt with your kind before.”
“My kind?”
“Arrogant egomaniacs.”
“Wow. And how do you come to that conclusion about me?”
“I knew it the instant I saw you. You’re a bully. You expect everyone to cower at your feet. You use whatever means necessary to get what you want. Me, for example. This whole thing.” She gestures to the table.
“My patience is wearing thin, Emilia.”
That checks her, and she turns her attention to her plate and rolls spaghetti onto her fork, only glancing at me from beneath thick lashes.
But she’s too stubborn to drop it. “Isn’t it true, though?”
“Where did you go last night?”
I can see she’s surprised by the question.
“Are you having me followed?”
“I wouldn’t want you to disappear like before. You seem to be pretty good at it. Did you see your brother?”
“No. I went for a run. I already told you I don’t know where he is.”
I lean in close. “If it turns out you do—”
“I don’t—”
“He won’t be the only one I punish,” I finish as if she hasn’t spoken.
Her eyes search mine, perhaps weighing my words, trying to figure out if I mean them. I do. She can be sure of that.
“How about that truce?” I ask.
Reluctantly, she nods.
There’s something strange about her. Something different than I expect. She’s afraid of me. She’s trying to be brave, to put on a show, but she’s scared, which is normal, considering. But there’s more—there’s almost an acceptance, for all her fight. A submission. A sadness just beneath the surface, quiet but deep. For some reason, I want to touch that darkness.
“Let your hair down.” I don’t know why I want this. No, that’s a lie. I do.
“What?”
“Your hair.”
She touches it, then, she again surprises me by pulling the jeweled clip out and letting it fall down over her shoulders. She combs the long, thick waves back with her fingers, and there’s a softness to her when I see her like this. The dark hair with her olive skin and those green eyes, not to mention the red lips, swollen and like a heart.
A broken heart.
“Why don’t you have a boyfriend?”
She’s pushing food around her plate, and the only sign I have that she’s surprised by my question is the momentary pause in the twirling of spaghetti onto her fork. She tilts her head so she’s looking at me.
“If you think I’m going to fuck you after dinner, think again.”
Rebellion and submission are warring inside her, each one equal. She’s cautious, because she knows she’ll lose any fight with me. She’s choosing her words and her battles.
I grin.
“Well, I would like to fuck you after dinner, but I wasn’t assuming it was a given.” Long minutes of silence pass as we eat. “Aren’t you curious what Alessandro did?”
She puts the last forkful of pasta into her mouth and sits back, chewing thoughtfully as she picks up her wine and drains her glass. “This was good,” she says. “I’m glad I ordered it. Thank you for recommending it.”
“You’re a strange girl, Emilia Estrella.”
“Larrea. It’s officially Larrea now. Emilia…Em Larrea.”
“Then you’re a strange girl, Emilia Larrea.”
“Sorry to disappoint you.”
“I’m not disappointed.”
She studies me as a waiter clears our plates and brings a different wine for the main course.
“So why don’t you have a boyfriend? You’re a very pretty girl.”
“Maybe I have a girlfriend.”
“You don’t.”
“Why don’t you have a girlfriend, Giovanni? Or do you, and does she know you’re here with me?”
“No girlfriend. I don’t cheat.” I finish my last bite and set my utensils down before wiping my mouth.
I think she’s surprised by my comment. “Well, good for you,” she says, finishing her food. She checks her watch. “I have an early day…”
“Don’t worry, I’ll get you home before you turn into a pumpkin.”
My cell phone rings just then, the interruption annoying me. I check the display. It’s Janet. That doesn’t usually mean a good thing.
“Excuse me,” I say, standing as I swipe the screen to answer and walk around the deck to the back of the restaurant for privacy.
“Giovanni, it’s Janet. I’m sorry to bother you. I know—”
“What is it, Janet?” Janet is my father’s live-in nurse.
“I just wanted you to know he’s been having those dreams again. The nightmares. He’s been calling out your name.”
“And what do you want me to do about it?”
“He wakes up in an awful sweat, Giovanni.” There’s a pause, but I don’t fill it. “He’s an old man, and I worry you’ll regret this someday. I know he can forgive you if you can forgive him.”
“Tell the doctor to up his meds. That should take care of the nightmares.”
“Giovanni—”
“I have to go. Good-bye, Janet.”
I hang up before she can say anything more. When I return to our table at the restaurant, Emilia is gone. I think she may be in the bathroom, but then Giacomo comes to me holding a handful of bills.
“She said she had an emergency. Took a taxi I’d called for someone else. She gave me this.”
I take the money and assume it’s to cover her meal. It’s an insult to me. I exhale.
“I’m sorry, I didn’t know what to do. I told her to wait, but she simply left.”
“It’s all right, it’s not your fault,” I say, my mind distracted. She expects me to chase her. She must know I will. I smile at Giacomo, pat his back. “You have any of your homemade Limoncello?”
3
Emilia
I’m not sure why I left. It’s not like he doesn’t know where I live. And I know he’ll come after me. In fact, during the ride to pick up my car and then onto my apartment, all I’ve been doing is worrying about this. His phone call gave me the opportunity to slip away, and I took it without thinking of the consequences.
He’s too observant. Too curious. He can’t start snooping. What he learns, it could des
troy everything.
I hope he finds Alessandro and leaves me alone. He doesn’t believe I won’t help him with that. I don’t ever want to see my brother again. I don’t ever want him near me again. But I already know Giovanni is a force to be reckoned with. He won’t let me off the hook, and I do believe he will hurt me if he has to.
It’s just a matter of choosing which will be worse. Which of the two I am more likely to survive.
When I climb the final staircase to my apartment, I half expect him to be waiting there for me. I’m not sure if I’m relieved or disappointed when he’s not.
I unlock my apartment door. I have to remember to make an appointment with a locksmith to change the locks. I wouldn’t be surprised if Giovanni had a key. Hell, maybe I have to move altogether. If he could find me, Alessandro can too. Maybe he already knows where I am.
No, he can’t know that. If he did, he’d have come for me.
My keys clang against the bowl on the table by the door where I drop them. The lights are on. I’d left them on this morning. I don’t want to be surprised again. I walk into the kitchen, pour myself a glass of water, and stand by the counter, watching the door as I drink it, waiting. Waiting for him.
What he said keeps repeating in my head.
“Family isn’t something you just decide you’re no longer part of. The farther you try to run, the tighter you’re tethered.”
I lied to Giovanni earlier. I am hiding from my own brother. I took the Larrea name for two reasons. One, I don’t think Alessandro would expect me to do so. He’d expect me to do what Giovanni said. Use a name like Jones. But the second reason is more important. I don’t want to be a part of the cartel, but that doesn’t mean I’m ashamed of who I am. Who my father is. My mother. My grandmother. And making Larrea my legal name, in a way, it makes me feel closer to them.
I’m not running or hiding from my past. Just my brother.
When a full hour passes, and he doesn’t come, I wonder if I’m wrong. If he’s not going to come after me tonight. Maybe he’d had enough after that dinner. I’m sure I didn’t provide the challenge he expected, the fire he so liked. I’d ordered what he suggested, let my hair down when he asked, and our conversation had to be about as enjoyable for him as it was for me. So maybe fucking me has lost its appeal.
I double-check the lock on the door before heading into my bedroom. It’s large and beautiful. The whole apartment is, with gorgeous hardwood floors, heavy, ornate doors, intricate crown molding, and chic but comfortable furniture. The colors are all muted, white and beige with gold tones and hints of color in shades of softest green.
I slip off my jacket, and when I open the closet doors, the lights go on automatically. Here, too, everything is neat and in its place. The housekeeper comes twice a week and knows how I like things. I lay my suit jacket, skirt, and blouse in the dry-cleaning bag. She’ll take care of it at the end of the week. My shoes I place in their cubbyhole among the rest. I touch the shiny heel, stand back, and look at them, then look around the closet. Here, too, the colors are muted, subtle, for the most part.
Stripping off my bra and panties, I drop them into the hamper and make my way back through the bedroom and into the bathroom. The marble in here matches that in the kitchen, and the fixtures are brushed gold to pick up on the lines in the marble. I look at myself in the mirror. My face is blank of expression as I run the water and wrap my long hair back up into a clip to wash off my makeup. I then walk over to the shower and switch it on, glancing back at my reflection as the water begins to steam, looking at the lines that crisscross the whole of my back. I’ve gotten good at this. I don’t feel anything when I look at them anymore. Not pain. Not shame. Not betrayal. Not fear.
They’re ugly, the lines. Some of them, at least. I touch the one at my shoulder. Thick scar tissue feels bumpy beneath my finger. I press against it, testing. I don’t feel a thing.
I make myself look every time. I make myself remember every day. And I’m grateful that at least he didn’t cut my face. My back I can hide.
I step into the shower for a quick rinse, then climb out, reach for one of the lush towels folded on the rack, and wrap it around myself, liking the faint scent of detergent that clings to it. Clean. I like clean.
At the bathroom door, I stop to listen, wondering if he’s here now. Asking myself if I want him to be or if I’m disappointed when I open the door and find that I’m still alone.
Drying off, I walk to the window, open it a crack. Even though the air-conditioning is running, I need the noise of the city to sleep. It’s comforting somehow. Like I’m not alone. I climb beneath the covers and switch out the light. Somehow, I never really have a hard time falling asleep. I should, considering, but I don’t.
Silk tickles my skin, and it takes me a moment to realize it’s the blanket sliding off me. I reach for it, still half-asleep, but when I hear a “Tsk-tsk,” my body goes rigid and my eyelids fly open. In the light coming through the sheer window curtains, I see the outline of a man. He’s huge and standing at the foot of my bed. I know it’s him. I recognize his voice, his build. His aftershave.
“You left before coffee.”
I sit up, or try to, but he grabs my ankle and tugs on it and stops me.
I want to cover myself, but the blanket is out of reach, so I lie there, naked. Giovanni smiles and his gaze slowly travels over me.
“Were you expecting me, or do you always sleep naked?”
I kick the leg he’s got, but when I do, he tugs me down the bed. Turning me slightly, he slaps my ass hard.
“Ow!” He’s not smiling when I look back at him, my hand covering the spot he just hit.
“You deserve more than that.”
I realize he’s not wearing his suit jacket anymore but has his shirt sleeves rolled halfway up his powerful forearms. I wonder how long he’s been here watching me. There’s a dusting of dark hair on his arms, and the only jewelry he’s wearing is a heavy, expensive watch.
“What are you doing here?”
“Oh, come on, don’t pretend to be surprised. You knew I’d come.”
He lets me go, and I scramble back up the bed, sit up on my knees, and grab the pillow to cover myself. Giovanni walks patiently around the bed, and as he does, I mirror his movements. He switches on the light. I see he’s grinning. Moving much faster than I expect, he grabs the pillow from me and tosses it across the room.
“What are you doing?”
“I didn’t get to have dessert,” he says, placing one knee on the bed, catching me as I try to scramble off, tugging me into his chest. “Now lie down and spread those beautiful legs, so I can get my dessert.”
“You’re a freak!” I scream, shoving at his chest, but he only laughs it off and tosses me on my back onto the bed like I weigh nothing. I flip over onto my belly to get away, but he easily catches me by the ankle and tugs me flat and this time, presses a knee to my back. I know I fucked up because he stops. I hear him suck in a breath—or maybe that was me—because I know what he’s looking at.
It takes me a minute to turn my head to look over my shoulder and see his eyes, see the serious expression there as he eyes my back, the ugly crisscrossing of lines.
“Get off me.”
He drags his gaze to mine. “No,” he says, as he keeps me in place with his knee on my back. He just studies me for a long time. Not touching, not moving, Just taking in every inch of my back. And I feel myself shrinking. Feel his power over me growing.
I make a sound, wriggle beneath him, but he easily keeps me pinned and ignores me as he trails his fingers along the thin silvery lines that mark me where the skin broke, where my back was opened, and I feel my face burning because it’s private, this thing, it’s more private than any part of me. And it shows my weakness. And I don’t want him to see it. I don’t want him to know it’s there at all and that I fucked up.
But then he meets my gaze again, and that grin is back, although forced, I think, at least at first, until it isn’t, a
nd somehow, the wickedness of it is a relief.
“You’re going to have to tell me that story sometime,” he says, then flips me back over and slips off the bed to kneel on the floor, pulling me toward him, spreading my legs, his thick arms beneath my knees, hands gripping my thighs as he roughly brings me to his face.
“What are you—”
I gasp, my hands fisting the sheets as his mouth closes around my pussy and his hot, wet tongue licks me, tastes me, draws back to look at me, then meets my eyes and takes my swollen clit into his mouth and sucks and that sound, those sighs, that moaning, it’s coming from me.
He grins, and I close my eyes. Giovanni pulls me tighter to him, devouring me, the scruff on his jaw a rough contrast to the softness of his lips, his tongue, and it feels so good. Too fucking good.
My eyes fly open, and I try to pull myself free, but he tightens his grip.
Fuck, I’m going to come, and he knows it. He can hear it, hear my whimpers, my moans, and when he next takes my clit between his lips and sucks, I do. I cry out, and it takes me moments to come. Fuck, I come so hard I’m bucking against his face, and I hate him and I’m lost and it feels so fucking good that I can’t do anything but feel, feel it, feel him, let myself go. Let myself come.
When I open my eyes again, he’s releasing me, rising to stand. His eyes, so dark now, are locked on mine. He wipes the back of his hand across his mouth and he’s looming over me, and I just lie there, limp. Hollowed out, like he carved out a piece of me.
Planting his hands on either side of me, he leans over and brings his face to mine, inhaling, almost like an animal, like a predator scenting his prey. I swallow, and when he touches his lips to mine, I open for him. But he doesn’t kiss me, and he doesn’t close his eyes. Instead, he takes my lower lip between his teeth and bites, not hard, not hard enough to break skin.
I feel him against me, his hardness at my sex, and I want him again. I want him inside me. I want to come with him inside me.
And I know from the look on his face when he pulls back that he knows it too.
“Your pussy’s greedy, Emilia.”
Giovanni Page 3