12. Varak
CHAPTER 12
VARAK
T he Bugatti purrs beneath my hands as we cruise down Lakeshore Drive. Lake Michigan sparkles under the bright sun, almost as dazzling as Aileen's smile. Two weeks since that night on the roof, and I still can't get enough of her.
I glance at the tiny back seat crammed with shopping bags. Designer clothes, shoes, and accessories overflow from their pristine packages like an explosion in a luxury goods store.
"Is there anything else you need before I drop you off, my amazing one?"
"Charles, this is the third shopping spree in two weeks." Aileen shakes her head. "My closet can't take anymore. I'm going to have to start storing things in the restaurant's walk-in freezer."
The image of her Jimmy Choos next to the mozzarella makes me chuckle. "Then you should move in with me."
"What?"
"My penthouse has three walk-in closets. Currently empty." I downshift, the engine's growl matching my pulse. "Plus, the commute to work would be shorter."
"Are you serious?"
"The view of the lake is spectacular at sunrise. And you'd have your own private gym, spa, and-"
"Var—Charles." Aileen's fingers twist in her lap. Her shoulders tense.
"The kitchen has state-of-the-art everything. You could experiment with new recipes without your father hovering over your shoulder."
"Please stop."
"There's even a meditation garden on the east terrace. Perfect for your morning yoga."
Her frown deepens. The warmth drains from her face.
"What's wrong? Talk to me."
"I don't want to discuss this right now."
The traffic light turns red. I ease the Bugatti to a stop, stealing another glance at her profile. The muscles in her jaw clench tight.
"Have I offended you somehow?"
"No, I just- can we drop it?"
Silence fills the car like a physical presence. Even the engine's purr seems muted. I rack my brain for what could have triggered this reaction. Did I move too fast? Is she worried about leaving her parents? Or perhaps...
The light changes. I guide us through the intersection, considering my options. Direct questioning clearly won't work. Neither will listing amenities like some overeager realtor.
Maybe if I share something personal first? Open up about my own fears and vulnerabilities? But what could I possibly say that wouldn't reveal too much about who - and what - I really am?
The steering wheel creaks under my grip as I search for the right words. Something honest, but not dangerous. Something that might encourage her to let me in.
"See that corner?" Aileen's voice breaks through the silence. Her finger points to a small grocery store with a faded green awning. "Mr. Rossi used to give me free candy when I was little. Said I reminded him of his granddaughter in Sicily."
I slow the car, following her gaze across the familiar streets of Little Italy.
"And that bench? Mom and Dad had their first kiss there. Dad claims he was smooth about it, but Mom says he knocked their gelatos over and ruined her favorite dress." A soft laugh escapes her lips. "They still argue about it."
We pass a small park where children chase each other around a rusty playground.
"I learned to ride my bike there. Skinned both knees so bad, but Dad wouldn't let me quit. Said Marellas never give up."
Her voice carries a weight I've never heard before. Each word feels heavy with memory, with connection.
"The whole neighborhood pitched in when we couldn't afford a new pizza oven. They organized a block party, sold tickets. Even old Mrs. Catalano, who complains about everything, bought ten tickets."
I pull up to the curb outside her building. The brick facade of Papa Marella's glows warm in the afternoon sun.
Aileen turns to me, tears glistening in her green eyes. "I've lived here my whole life, worked in the Pizzaria my whole life... I can't leave. My parents need me."
"Someday you'll need to cut the umbilical cord and head out on your own like an adult."
The words leave my mouth before I can stop them. Aileen's face hardens, tears forgotten.
"Excuse me?"
"I only meant-"
"No. I know exactly what you meant." She snatches her purse from the floor. "You think I'm some child who can't make her own decisions."
"That's not-"
"I thought you understood me." Her voice cracks. "Now I wonder if you understand anything at all."
The car door slams behind her. Through the tinted windows, I watch her storm into the restaurant, shopping bags forgotten in my backseat. The late afternoon sun catches her hair, turning it to fire.
My stomach churns. The image inducer itches against my scales, a physical reminder of how alien I am to her world. To her life.
The Bugatti's engine rumbles as I pull away from the curb. Each block between us tightens the knot in my gut.
"I screwed that up." The words taste bitter in my mouth. "Badly."
The express elevator shoots up to my office, but even its speed can't outrun my dark mood. I slam through the door, yanking off my tie.
"Welcome back, sir. I trust your afternoon was-"
"Skip it, Teletran. Status report."
Teletran's holographic head materializes above my desk. "We believe the enemy has deployed a covert agent into the field. Like Veritas, they have surmised the safest route is to use subterfuge rather than brute strength."
"Details. Now."
"Our intelligence is limited at present."
"Limited how?"
"We have detected traces of Grolgath energy signatures across the city, but nothing concrete enough to-"
I slam my fist on the desk. "What's the point of all this surveillance if we can't even track one lousy shapeshifter?"
"Sir, if I may suggest-"
"No, you may not." The image inducer clicks off, relief flooding through my scales. "New project. Draw up a business model for expanding a family-style restaurant into a global franchise."
"Like Kentucky Fried Chicken?"
"Exactly like KFC."
"Sir, about the Grolgath-"
"The Grolgath can wait. This is more important."
"A pizza franchise is more important than-"
"Just do it, Teletran."
"Project the numbers again." I pace in front of the holographic display, my true form reflected in the glass windows. "And add a projection for international expansion by year five."
The figures shimmer and reorganize. Profit margins scroll past my eyes in neat columns.
"At this rate of growth, Papa Marella's would surpass Pizza Hut by 2030." Teletran's voice drips with sarcasm. "Assuming, of course, that Mr. Marella agrees to this radical transformation of his family business."
"Why wouldn't he? Look at these numbers." I gesture at the projection. "The signature sauce alone could generate millions in licensing fees."
"Sir, if financial security is your goal, why not simply provide Miss Marella's family with-"
"They're proud people, these Italian Americans." My claws tap against the desk. "Sam Marella would never accept charity. But he might embrace the idea of having more money than a small country."
"Fascinating." Teletran's holographic head tilts. "In all my years of data collection, no Vakutan has ever gone to such lengths to seduce a human female."
"Print the advertising mock-ups."
"The Grolgath threat-"
"Now, Teletran."
"Very well. Creating mock-ups for 'Papa Marella's Pizza - The Franchise.' Though I must note this behavior is highly irregular for a Veritas operative."
"Just shut up and print."