“Thanks for allowing me to spend some time with you today, Melanie.” She gave the headstone an affectionate pat. “I hope you enjoy the flowers.”
She shoved her hands in her coat pockets to warm them as she turned and walked away. She needed to catch the train back to New York. Downloading and viewing the dozens of photographs she had snapped would take some time. Analyzing them would take even longer. There was no denying she had a long day ahead of her. So why was some part of her hoping she could spend her night with Brooklyn DiVincenzo?
* * *
By the time she finished her stint doling out food, making small talk, and placing dirty dishes in the overloaded washer, Brooklyn felt like a waitress in a local diner without the meager tips to show for her efforts. Still, she was happy to have done her part to make life a little bit easier for Pete and Gail Evans. She had long considered them her surrogate parents. She was willing to do whatever she could to ease the tremendous burden they were carrying, even if it meant tying on an apron and standing behind a table laden with enough provisions to stock a soup kitchen for weeks.
“You look thin,” Gail said as Brooklyn covered a half-empty casserole dish with aluminum foil. “You should take some of this food home with you. It’s way more than Pete and I could possibly eat.”
“That’s okay. I’m good.”
“I doubt that, but thank you for everything you’ve done for us.” Gail held Brooklyn’s face in her hands. “I always hoped you and Charlie might—” She shook her head as her eyes filled with tears. “I guess it doesn’t matter now. Take care of yourself, okay?”
Brooklyn gripped Gail’s hands before she could break contact. “You’re acting like we’re never going to see each other again. I’ll still come to see you as often as I can.”
“You’ve got a company to run and a life to live. Pete and I couldn’t possibly ask you to—”
“You’re not asking. I’m offering.”
Relief washed over Gail’s drawn features. “We would certainly love to see more of you. You’ve always been like a daughter to us. Now you’re the only one we have left. You don’t mind sharing her, do you, Connie?”
“Of course not.” Brooklyn’s mother set the cake stand she was holding on the table so she could give Gail a hug. “Sal and I have always had more than enough love to go around.”
Seeing her mother and Gail hold on to each other next to a wall filled with Charlie’s childhood pictures almost brought Brooklyn to tears. She excused herself so she wouldn’t break down in front of them.
She headed outside to get some fresh air. If she were a smoker, she would have pulled out a pack of cigarettes and fired one up. And if the pantry had been stocked with something besides soft drinks, she would have taken a long swallow of her favored libation. Fresh out of vices, she desperately searched for a life preserver to latch on to.
She pulled her cell phone from her pocket and thumbed through her list of contacts. She had seen most of the people listed at the wake last night or the funeral today. The rest she hadn’t spoken to in months and, in some cases, years. If she hadn’t reached out to them before, she couldn’t possibly do so now. Acting on a whim, she selected one of the entries, pressed Dial, and waited for the phone to ring.
“It’s Olaf,” she said when she heard an increasingly familiar voice in her ear. “Does your offer still stand?”
Chapter Ten
Santana couldn’t believe she had made such a rookie mistake. If someone had eyes on Brooklyn, she had led them practically to her own doorstep. Sure, there were hundreds of residents in the building, but it wouldn’t take a skilled assassin long to find a list of tenants. Her name—one of them, anyway—would be on the list. No matter. If someone came for her, she would be ready. Because some risks were worth taking. And Brooklyn was starting to feel like one of them.
She had given Brooklyn her address but still hadn’t provided her with a name. She would do that in due time, preferably face-to-face rather than over the phone. She called downstairs to give the staff a heads-up.
“Good afternoon, Ms. Bautista,” Samson Diaz said. “How may I be of service?”
The follically challenged concierge bore no resemblance to the biblical character with which he shared a name. Still, Santana hoped there were no women in his life named Delilah. She liked him too much to see him betrayed.
“I’m expecting company tonight,” she said. “If a woman approaches you and says her name is Olaf, please direct her to my apartment.”
If Samson was taken aback by her unusual request, he was too well trained to let it show. “Of course, Ms. Bautista. Is there anything else?”
“Yes, actually.”
“And what might that be?”
“What’s your go-to dish when you’re trying to impress someone?”
She ran a hand through her hair. Unwilling to admit she needed help from time to time, she rarely if ever asked for advice of any kind. Asking for guidance on an issue this delicate was well outside her comfort zone. Thankfully, Samson treated her request with respect rather than disdain.
“Oh, that’s easy,” he said cheerfully. “Spaghetti and meatballs. It’s a cinch to pull off and if you make too much and wind up with leftovers like I always do, the sauce tastes even better the next day.”
“True, but my visitor is Italian-American. I don’t want to serve her something she could have any night of the week.”
“Plus you don’t want to compete with family history.”
Santana didn’t bother pointing out that she didn’t have the world’s best track record when it came to dealing with family dynamics.
“I’ve got another idea,” Samson said. “If you don’t mind a heavy dish, try steak with wine sauce and truffled mashed potatoes on the side.”
“Since I won’t be counting carbs tonight, that sounds perfect. Thanks for the tip.”
“Happy to help. Would you like me to call the grocery store and arrange a delivery?”
For a split-second, she wondered if he had looked inside her refrigerator and seen how empty it was. She hadn’t planned to remain in New York more than a few days. If she extended her stay much longer, she’d have to stock up.
“No,” she said, “I think I can manage that part myself.”
“Of course. Have a good night.”
“You, too.”
Santana ended the call, googled the dish Samson had recommended, and called a local grocery store to have the ingredients delivered along with a week’s worth of staples. While she waited for the provisions to arrive, she busied herself cleaning her apartment. She grabbed her laptop and all the research materials she had been poring through since she had returned from the cemetery that afternoon and placed them in the wall safe in her bedroom. Before she secured the safe, she looked around her apartment to make sure no traces of her true identity remained.
Vilma Bautista, one of the identities she assumed most often, had money to burn. Accordingly, Winslow had gone to great lengths to fill Vilma’s apartment with all the trappings of wealth—high-end furniture, art, and accessories. Not too many, though. She had to live in the place from time to time so she wanted it to feel like a home instead of a museum.
She closed and locked the safe, then covered it with the hinged frame she used to hide it from view. The painting housed within the frame had cost close to six figures. The objects in the safe it obscured were worth considerably less. For her, however, they were priceless. They were not only the tools of her trade. They were the keys to her eventual freedom.
After the groceries arrived, she gave the deliveryman a substantial tip and unpacked the bags. She opened the wine so it could have time to breathe before she incorporated it into the sauce, then she poured herself a glass to help steady her nerves.
Her heart was racing and she couldn’t catch her breath. Granted, she didn’t entertain guests often. When she did, she didn’t react this way before they arrived. What was it about Brooklyn DiVincenzo that had her so on edg
e? Simple. Brooklyn was dangerous for her in more ways than one. She represented a threat Santana had never faced. Not to her life. She had survived being placed in mortal peril before. This time, the risk was to her heart. Something she had sworn she would never allow herself to lose.
“I guess there truly is a first time for everything.”
* * *
Brooklyn had lived in New York all her life so she had grown accustomed to seeing the rich and famous come and go. Being among them—seeing where they lived up-close rather than from afar—was new to her.
The salary she paid herself was nice, though not exorbitant. She preferred to invest most of BDV Enterprises’ profits in the company or in employee bonuses, meaning her lifestyle wasn’t nearly as luxurious as the one she was bearing witness to now. She tried not to seem awed when her Lyft driver dropped her off at the address TDH had given her, but she doubted she did a very good job.
The building looked like something out of a movie. Not the gritty dramas populated by characters who could have doubled for some of the people she had grown up with. More like a glitzy romantic comedy featuring two trust-funded leads who had everything money can buy. Everything except love.
Her family had always been short on money, but they had never lacked for love. It was the one thing they always seemed to have in abundance. Besides bills, of course. She couldn’t speak for the current state of her individual family members’ finances, but hers were in pretty good shape. Though her personal and business accounts had sizeable balances, neither could compete with those of the people around her.
After the doorman ushered her inside, she stepped into the lobby and inhaled the scent of power, prestige, and privilege. This was the life she had always dreamed about. The one she had always hoped she would eventually lead. As she approached the nattily attired concierge seated behind a marble-topped desk, she was torn between feeling out of place and feeling at home.
“May I help you?” he asked.
“Yes, I’m here to visit a woman who lives here.”
“What’s her name?” The concierge reached for a phone as he consulted a list of names on his computer screen.
“I have no idea.” A fact that made her feel abjectly silly, given their plush surroundings.
“I see.” The concierge flicked his eyes away from the computer screen and focused them on her face. Both his voice and demeanor were a touch too calm. As if he were mentally running through the correct steps to take to kick her out without causing a scene. “Let’s approach this a different way. What’s your name?”
“Olaf.”
Somehow, she managed to say it with a straight face. Her efforts were rewarded with a smile.
“Ah, yes. I was told to expect you. Follow me, please.” He led her across the lobby and punched some buttons on the control panel in the elevator. “That will get you where you need to go.”
“Thank you.”
“You’re welcome,” he said as the elevator doors began to close. “Enjoy your evening.”
Compared to the day she’d had, even a disastrous night would be an improvement.
As the elevator began to rise, she felt her spirits lift along with it. The elevator in her building was so jerky riding in it was like being trapped inside a cement mixer. In contrast, the elevator in TDH’s building rode as smoothly as one of the many luxury cars parked nearby.
“Nice to see someone’s rent checks are being put to good use.”
Hers must line the building owner’s pockets because they certainly didn’t go toward repairs. If something in her apartment needed fixing, she knew better than to call the super. If she wanted something done, she had to do it herself. Then again, there wasn’t anything unusual about that. The youngest child in large families was often left to their own devices. Fending for herself was nothing new for her. Learning to depend on someone else was.
That was why she had resisted TDH’s offer for so long. She hadn’t wanted to seem weak or vulnerable. She hadn’t wanted to break down. She hadn’t wanted to need anyone. But a few hours ago, she was finally forced to admit she did.
The elevator stopped and the doors slid open. TDH was waiting for her when she stepped into the foyer.
TDH wasn’t wearing a suit like she had the last—and only—time they’d met, but her outfit was just as luxe. Leather oxfords, sharply creased jeans, and a gray V-neck sweater paired with a crisp white cotton dress shirt.
The sweater was form-fitting and clung to TDH’s slender torso. Brooklyn longed to touch it. Not to feel the expected softness of the material but the firmness of TDH’s body underneath.
“Welcome to my home,” TDH said. “Let me take your coat.”
Brooklyn turned and allowed TDH to slide her overcoat off her shoulders. She almost cried out when she felt TDH’s strong hands brush against her. The touch was fleeting but electric. Brooklyn felt her body come alive. When TDH asked if she wanted something to drink, she waited until she could trust herself to speak.
“A drink would be wonderful.”
“What would you like?” TDH asked as she walked toward a well-stocked bar lined with bottles of alcohol and assorted mixers.
“Anything but tequila. I had a few too many shots of that last night.” Brooklyn winced at the memory.
“Were you preparing for today or remembering the past?”
“A bit of both, I guess.”
Brooklyn’s thoughts were so jumbled she didn’t think she was making much sense, but TDH nodded as if she understood her perfectly.
“Two Manhattans coming up.”
As TDH busied herself making the drinks, Brooklyn checked out the living room. The space was filled with gorgeous furniture and stunning antiques, but it was the view that impressed her more than anything else.
“We’re so high up, I feel like we’re in some airline’s flight path.”
TDH smiled as she stirred bourbon, sweet vermouth, and bitters over ice, then strained the concoction into two chilled glasses. “Sometimes,” she said, joining Brooklyn by the window, “I feel that way, too.”
TDH held out one of the drinks she had just made. The contrast between her warm fingers and the cool glass gave Brooklyn goose bumps. “What do you do about it?”
“Pinch myself to make sure I’m not dreaming.” TDH raised her glass in a toast. “Cheers.”
Brooklyn laughed and took a sip of her Manhattan. The drink was smoky yet sweet. It reminded her of the time she and Charlie had drank Scotch and lit celebratory cigars to commemorate what, at the time, had been their most lucrative contract. The combination had made them both so sick they had puked in no time flat.
Would everything always remind her of Charlie, or would she eventually be able to make new memories that didn’t involve her?
She turned toward the kitchen, where something was simmering on the stovetop. “What is that incredible smell?”
“Wine sauce. It needs some time to reduce.” TDH’s expression darkened as if she had been struck by an unpleasant thought.
“What’s wrong?”
“I just realized I didn’t ask if you were vegetarian or vegan. I planned to make steak and truffled mashed potatoes for dinner, but I can swap the protein for chicken, Portobello mushrooms, or tofu, if you like.”
Brooklyn leaned against the reinforced window. “I just realized who you are.”
“Who might that be?” TDH asked through narrowed eyes.
“You’re one of those women who make the rest of us look bad. The kind who can kick some bad guy’s ass, then turn around and whip up a delicious gourmet meal. All without breaking a nail or a sweat.”
TDH’s response was as self-deprecating as her smile. “I would tell you how far off-base you are, but I won’t because I prefer your version of me to the real thing. Your version can make dinner on her own. Mine has to watch how-to videos on her phone.”
Brooklyn glanced at the granite countertop, where she saw a smartphone resting next to a bamboo cutting board. The realiza
tion that TDH wasn’t the superwoman she had thought her to be made her more relatable and, if possible, even sexier.
“Now that I’ve discovered you were only pretending to be a culinary goddess, does this mean I shouldn’t expect you to tell me your real name anytime soon?”
TDH held out her hand. “It’s Vilma. Vilma Bautista.”
Her name was suitably exotic, yet it didn’t seem to fit. No wonder she was reluctant to advertise it.
“Pleased to meet you, Vilma Bautista. I’m Brooklyn DiVincenzo.”
Vilma took her hand and led her across the room. “Now that we’ve gotten the introductions out of the way, sit down, put your feet up, and make yourself comfortable. You’ve shouldered enough of the load this week. Let someone else do the work for a while.”
Grateful tears filled Brooklyn’s eyes as she took a seat on the couch. The cushions were so soft she felt like she was sitting on a cloud.
“Dinner should be ready in about thirty minutes,” Vilma said. “How do you like your steak, rare or medium?”
“Is well done completely out of the question?”
“Not if it’s what you want.”
I could get used to being pampered, Brooklyn thought as she watched Vilma putter around the kitchen. Vilma even made an apron look sexy.
“Now that I finally know your name,” she said, “am I allowed to ask what you do for a living?”
Vilma put a pot of potatoes on to boil and sprinkled a liberal amount of salt in the water. “I’m a venture capitalist.”
Brooklyn knew how much start-up companies relied on venture capitalists to front them the money they needed to get their ideas off the ground, but she had always been too busy making a living at her own profession to research someone else’s.
“How does that work exactly?” she asked. “What I’m saying is, how do you make money when, essentially, your job is to give it away?”
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