Chapter 3
Three
Piper
H ow had I gotten twisted into this situation?
By attending my sister’s birthday party. That was it. That was my sin.
The birthday party was an apology, an attempt at groveling by her boyfriend Joey. The mobster.
Is that what we called them? Mobsters?
Not that titles really mattered at this point.
And at that point, the birthday party point, I didn’t know he was in any way involved with the mob. I knew he was an asshole, because my sister had been sitting on my sofa, crying into a tub of Chunky Monkey just last week over him. I made a rule to dislike any man who made my sister cry.
Which meant I disliked all of her boyfriends.
Daisy dealt with our daddy issues by choosing men who treated her badly, under the impression that she could turn them right. Fix them. Under the impression that by doing that, she’d somehow erase our own past, posthumously turning our father into a good man.
And those men, after treating her badly, cheating on her, standing her up, stealing from her—none of them had laid hands on her, thank God—would come crawling back. Because even assholes understood that Daisy Matthews was a catch. She was ethereal in her beauty, which had brought them in in the first place. Golden ringlets, wild around her heart-shaped, delicate face. Wide blue eyes, high cheekbones, full lips. Petite too, so even the smallest men—pun intended—felt big around her, strong. Her bones were slight; she barely had an ounce of body fat on her. She couldn’t, not to be a dancer.
Ballet. She truly was a talented ballerina. Worked herself to the bone to do it too. She was just starting to see the fruits of her labor, after graduating from Juilliard—I scraped together every penny I could to get her there, but even with scholarships it was tough—she had landed a job at the prestigious Waldorf Company.
Just the way she carried herself was magical, her steps light, graceful, her body moving to silent music. Watching her dance … transcendent.
And men, bad ones, seemed to gravitate toward her because she was good, she was pure, and she had a talent that they instinctively wanted to taint. To ruin.
I’d tried to protect her from them, tried to convince her that she deserved so much better, but that didn’t work. Not on deep-seeded childhood issues. Not with her trying to find a version of our father and fix him, prove he could still be saved. That he could love her. So I just watched, my heart breaking a little more every time I saw a man chip away at her brilliance, hoping that she’d put herself on a pedestal so high that none of these men could reach her.
Joey didn’t give me much hope.
Even if the birthday party he was throwing was at the exclusive Italian restaurant, Rosso, in Little Italy. I’d heard about it. How you couldn’t get a reservation unless you were connected to the right people, rich or famous. I was none of those things, therefore, I had not eaten there.
I was a huge foodie, had been desperate to dine there, but that didn’t mean Joey’s connections charmed me. The more bells and whistles a man of Daisy’s managed to pull off, the more red flags I saw.
Because a real, good man didn’t need fancy restaurants, expensive gifts or trips across the world to prove he was good.
Good men didn’t need to prove anything.
Well, at least that’s what I figured from books, movies and secondhand accounts from friends in healthy relationships.
I had not had one. A relationship. I had my own daddy issues. Daisy treated hers by throwing herself headfirst into any kind of relationship that promised love, while I treated mine by avoiding emotional intimacy like the plague. The men I did sleep with were all boring, unthreatening and more or less vanilla.
Even I recognized that I was a little jaded, so I let Daisy drag me to the party. And yes, the glee in my younger sister’s eyes helped. The hope. And selfishly, I did want to experience Rosso.
I’d tamed my hair—unlike Daisy, it did not fall delicately around my face in tight ringlets. It was frizzy, wild, chocolate waves that tumbled down my back and caused me great frustration as I tried every product on the market—within my price range—to tame it. Most of the time, I had it pulled back in a French braid. Easier for work anyway. Toddlers liked to tug on any loose strands.
But that night, I’d spent time, used a curling iron to help smooth it, rubbed product into it. I’d put on makeup—just a little mascara to frame my eyes. Unlike Daisy’s, they were not a vibrant blue, a woody hazel. My face was rounder than hers. Though I ran every day, I did not train for hours like she did. Nor did I monitor my diet. So my face was fuller, my cheekbones less defined.
It was still winter, so I’d worn a skin-tight turtleneck dress that went down to mid-calf but clung to my body like a second skin. I paired it with leather, heeled boots that were my one unreasonable, outrageous purchase. Daisy was in her usual soft pastels—a cashmere wrap cardigan, light pink slacks and delicate heels.
She was glowing. Happiness made her shine. I let myself believe that maybe this was the time. More than anything, I wished that for my forever romantic, forever hopeful sister.
Joey had picked us both up in a limo—a little much, in my opinion—had flowers for Daisy, gifts. He’d showered her with physical affection—also a little too much, in my opinion—and had been overly polite and warm to me.
I’d bristled against his peacocking but hadn’t let it show. It was my sister’s birthday; it was about her being spoiled. She hadn’t had a man make her feel special in that way. Treasured. Maybe I was just seeing red flags because I didn’t know what else to look for. That’s what I’d told myself at the time.
All of her friends were at the restaurant. Everyone from the studio, from school. Some of our mutual friends too. And a lot of people I didn’t know. Mostly men. Joey’s ‘friends.’ All of them were in suits, all of them carrying themselves in a certain … way. I couldn’t explain it. There was just something off about them. Even though they smiled, were perfectly polite, and some were quite handsome.
I’d come with the intention of keeping myself open to a man. It had been a while. I hadn’t had sex, a connection. I craved it. But immediately upon seeing these men, my desire dried up. My warning bells sounded, honed from years of witnessing Daisy pick men just like these, years of being a single woman living in New York City. A childhood of living under the thumb of a violent man.
I had initially dismissed my thought that Joey was somehow involved with the Italian mob. I knew it was irrational to make assumptions based on my love of television shows and my general overactive imagination. Throughout life, I’d been known to create intricate scenarios in my head, get lost in daydreams and just generally believe the world to be a more fantastical place than it was. I believed in magic, practiced it in my own way, read Tarot cards for fun, and always carried a crystal with me. The amethyst ring on my finger was a mainstay, one of my only physical reminders I had of my grandmother.
I got swept up in stories, so of course, after watching a highly dramatized TV show, I would deduce that slick-looking men gathered in an Italian restaurant, wearing mid-range suits and looking … off, for lack of a better word, would be members of the Italian mob.
The more likely reality was that they were all criminals of some variety, maybe wannabe mobsters. Not entirely harmless but not members of the mafia. I was pretty sure it didn’t even exist anymore. The general party line was that organized crime’s heyday had come and gone, that the world was too small for criminals to act in the ways they had before the age of smartphones and technology.
Even so, I’d steered clear of the men the entirety of the party, instead mingling with Daisy’s friends from the studio, who unfortunately mentioned they’d seen less of Daisy than usual, and that she was missing practices.
My lips had pursed, my fingers clutching the stem of my glass.
I’d have to talk to her. Not there, though. Not on her birthday. I didn’t like having to chastise her in general, to act like her mother. But I was the closest thing to a mother she’d ever had. I didn’t resent the role, but sometimes I did just want to be the fun sister, one that didn’t follow her life so closely, that didn’t try to correct her mistakes.
Then again, it seemed that she was making a pretty big fucking mistake with Joey and his friends, whoever they were.
I went to the bar to get another drink—soda in a champagne glass. I couldn’t be bothered with questions about sobriety.
“You’re Piper.”
The words were punctuated with a hand on my lower back, the pressure light but still invading and uncomfortable.
My entire body had stiffened from the unwanted contact, even though I’d had to endure plenty of it throughout my life. Some of it seemingly benign from men, other times not. Men were brought up to think they could conquer the world—history gave them every reason to believe this—and that included the women in it. It was wild that something as simple as personal space was breached constantly by men who thought they had the right.
His voice was close. Too close to my neck. It might’ve been attractive. Low, throaty, masculine. It had all the right ingredients, yet it felt off. Before I even looked at him, I knew the man was trouble.
I sucked in a breath, steadying myself. Not only did I need to remind myself that this was my sister’s birthday party and not to make a scene, but that there were definitely some shady characters here. Offending one could be a lot worse than making a scene at a party.
I didn’t have a smile on my face when I turned, but my expression was as pleasant as I could force it to be.
Me turning meant the man was no longer touching my lower back, thankfully. But it also meant that we were face-to-face, and he was standing much closer than was polite. I could smell the sharp twang of his expensive aftershave, that again should’ve been nice, alluring, yet there was something off, something bitter about it that made me want to recoil.
“I’m Piper,” I had replied, looking at him in his murky-brown eyes, my voice sharp.
He smiled, looking me up and down in appreciation. My jaw hurt, I ground my molars together so hard.
He wasn’t ugly by any means. He was significantly older than me, communicated by the lines at the corners of his eyes and the silver streaking through his ash brown hair. His forehead was shiny, though, one of the telltale signs he indulged in a little bit of Botox. Everything about him seemed shiny. His flashy watch, the bespoke suit that almost completely hid the paunch at his belly but not entirely. The gleam in his eye that counteracted the warm smile. The gleam in his eye that sent my heart hammering in my chest. It was cold. Predatory.
He was large too, much taller than me with broad shoulders. But not just in size. His presence felt large, like I had suddenly been encompassed in a cold shadow.
I repressed my shiver.
“I thought Joey got himself a good one with Daisy.” The man nodded his head to where my sister was laughing, Joey’s arms around her possessively as they had been all night. The casual but somehow caging embrace had set my teeth on edge.
I didn’t look their way for too long, just a second. Everything told me to keep all of my attention on this man. You didn’t take your eyes away from a bear when it cornered you, did you?
Somehow, inexplicably, I would’ve rather been cornered by a bear right then.
“But it seems that there is another prize in the Matthews family.” He buttoned and unbuttoned his jacket, his long, manicured fingers moving fluidly.
His words were meant to be charming, I was sure. And along with the obvious wealth he flaunted, the air of power that threatened danger, they might’ve been charming to a younger, more na?ve woman.
But I was not charmed.
I smiled tightly, fingering my amethyst ring on my left hand. “I’m not sure that being called a prize is the compliment you intend it to be.” I was unable to be pleasant, to tread carefully even though I knew I should. My mouth tended to get away from me. Most especially when rich men referred to me as an object, one they presumed could be bought. Or stolen. “I’m a woman. Not a soft toy in an arcade game. I can’t be won. Or owned.” My voice was firm, bordering on hostile.
It was meant to repel this man, urge him to move on to easier prey. Less difficult. Men didn’t like difficult women. They always said they wanted strong, complex partners, but they merely wanted a plaything they could control, a voice they could snuff out.
This man screamed that he wanted a docile, submissive woman who knelt at his feet and didn’t dare say a word against him.
Surprisingly, he didn’t sneer or frown. His face was blank for a second before he chuckled.
The sound vibrated in my bones, and not in a good way.
“Not to be won or owned,” he repeated, almost to himself. “I like that.” He leaned in so our bodies almost brushed. I held my breath.
“But I’ll look forward to proving you wrong. You will be won. And owned.”
The statement was ridiculous, considering we’d only exchanged a few words. It was overly intimate, cocky and just … wrong.
It took everything in me not to bite out something else—obviously, my snark did not deter him, it interested him. I didn’t flinch away either. There was no need to show weakness since that would likely excite him too.
I held my ground, looked him in the eyes and tried to communicate that I would not be worth his while.
After a few tense moments that felt like eons, he stepped back, straightening his suit and smiling at me. The expression was slick, satisfied, somehow victorious, as if he knew something I didn’t.
“I’ll be seeing you, Piper Matthews,” he promised.
Then he was gone.
“Not if I see you first,” I muttered.
I didn’t even find out his name until later. Stone De Luca.
Admittedly a badass name.
But it didn’t sway me, not even with the knowledge of his vast wealth from Daisy, who had urged me to go on the date with him after he sent a designer dress, roses and a note with a time and place to meet him.
To her, the gesture was romantic, right out of one of her romance novels.
To me, it was controlling, possessive and waved every red flag in the book.
I sent the dress back—which had Daisy almost in tears, as she worshiped at the altar of couture—with a polite note saying I was busy.
I’d hoped it was enough.
There was a little voice inside of me telling me it wasn’t. That for whatever reason, this man eyed me as a prize, and that he was used to winning.
And it didn’t stop. There were more lavish gifts, more invitations. Phone calls. Enough to make me sick.
And it did. I’d spent days unable to eat, sleep, my body tense, feeling as if I was essentially being stalked.
I’d done what I thought was the most logical thing in an admittedly crazy situation. I’d said yes to a dinner so I could speak to him face-to-face and gently explain that I wasn’t interested.
I didn’t wear the dress he sent, yet another one. But it was lovely. Blood-red, buttery fabric that I just knew would fit me like a glove. And the shoes. Red-soled, leather, delicate straps crisscrossing up my thighs. Sky high. They’d be uncomfortable. Same with the dress. Beautiful but constricting. Made to contain me.
I didn’t bother to think about how he’d known my sizes. It was too scary.
Instead of the dress and heels, I’d worn black jeans, low-heeled boots and a cashmere sweater. A little underdressed for the fancy restaurant but not in an offensive manner. Just enough to make a statement.
I’d expected Stone to take it as an insult, a mark against me—it’s what I’d wanted, after all. But he’d merely smiled, leaning in to kiss the side of my cheek, too close to my mouth.
I was frozen still until he pulled back.
“You’d look stunning in the dress I sent, but this is fine too.” I tried not to grimace when he looked me up and down as he pulled the chair out for me.
My teeth gnashed together as I fought against the slimy feeling of his presence and the thin spike of fear shooting up my spine.
I’d done as much research as I could do on Stone De Luca. I was a kindergarten teacher with friends who were teachers, receptionists, graphic designers, stay at home moms. None of them were ‘in the know.’ I didn’t have connections anywhere. All I had was a laptop and an internet connection.
Searching Stone’s name didn’t tell me who exactly he was, but the news stories about him and the businesses he owned gave me the sense that he was a dangerous man. Nothing outright saying he was a mobster, except for one journalist who had gone so far as to write a scathing piece on his control of the ports.
That journalist had gone missing two weeks after the story went to print.
I might’ve been a little too interested in true crime and somewhat of a sensationalist, but I knew that Stone had something to do with the disappearance.
And if I didn’t tread carefully, that could be me. Every instinct I had screamed that at me. I refused to succumb to my mother’s fate.
“I’m not a doll you can dress up and prop up in chairs,” I informed him after he sat across from me.
Tread carefully , my inner voice reminded me.
Stone chuckled again, leaning over to pour wine from a decanter into my glass. “Ah, you are no doll. Even though you are as perfect as one,” he said, the liquid sloshing as red as blood.
I kept my hands fisted in my lap.
“No one has given me quite as much trouble as you have in order to get them sitting across from me.” He set the decanter down.
“I’m sure.” I forced my breathing to steady. “I’ll say it plainly, so we don’t have miscommunication here, and so I don’t waste your time. I know it’s valuable to you.” I had to stroke his ego, I reminded myself. “I’m not doing this to play hard to get or to make myself seem more interesting. I’m not. Interesting. I’m a kindergarten teacher who likes a boring, quiet life. This…” I waved my hand around at the restaurant, “world is not for me. And you, although very handsome and successful, are not for me either. I’m sure you can find a thousand women better suited and willing to sit across from you.”
Stone leaned forward to grasp his wine glass, swirling the liquid around pretentiously, leaning forward to inhale, making a big song and dance before taking a demure sip.
“The wine is sublime,” he declared as if I hadn’t even spoken. “There are only fifty bottles in the world left.” He glanced at the decanter. “Forty-nine, now.” He nodded his head. “Try it.”
“I’m afraid it would be wasted on me.” I tried to sound polite, not moving my hands.
Engaged in a silent standoff, he stared at me then the wine glass, still smiling but now with an edge. He was trying to intimidate me into drinking. And if I were younger and hadn’t been through what I’d been through, it would’ve worked.
I didn’t like making people uncomfortable. I’d been a people pleaser all my life, starting because that was the only way to survive. But I no longer pleased people—especially men—if it resulted in harming myself. Even a little.
Once it had become clear that I wasn’t going to obey his silent command, Stone blinked, another slow smile moving across his face.
“There are definitely a thousand women who I could have sitting across from me, wearing a dress, heels, drinking wine.” He took a sip of his wine. “And they’d be more than willing. They’d be boring. All the same. I don’t want them, Piper.” He put down his wine, placing both hands on the table, leaning forward. “I want you.”
There it was, plainly put. Said almost like a grumpy toddler might say it, or worse, a petulant child king. As if want equaled having .
My body tensed as what I’d been fearing had come to fruition. There was no gentle, polite way out of this. Maybe I could relent, eat dinner, have sex— gross —with him and show him that I was nothing special, I was easily had. He’d lose interest.
Maybe.
But then I would’ve sacrificed a very important piece of myself.
No way.
I pushed back my chair, standing.
“I apologize for wasting your time, for giving you the wrong idea.” The false apology melted on my tongue. I had nothing to be sorry for since I most certainly didn’t give him the wrong idea, and he was the one wasting my time. “But you can’t have me, Mr. De Luca. I’m not something to be had, and I am, respectfully, not interested. I wish you well, and I’d appreciate it if you didn’t call me again.”
I turned quickly, but not before I saw a cold determination cover his features. Replaced by that quick, oily smile. It sent the world tilting for just a second before I hightailed it out of there.
I’d known that wouldn’t be the last I’d see of him, known I was in trouble, but I never in a million years could’ve predicted where I’d end up.
In a car, going God knew where with a man who most definitely was a murderer.