Chapter 11
Willow
We have an arrangement .
Those words continue nonstop in my head like an intrusive melody. I itch to combine shades of red on a palette, drench my brush, and flick the paint for a blood spatter effect. What does it say about my mindset that I am aching to mimic blood spatter?
I didn’t pack my clothes, nor did I know anyone was in the suite when I opened the bedroom door. How could I have expected he would rip my wedding dress to shreds when unbuttoning the back? If he’d taken his time, the strapless dress wouldn’t have fallen to my knees.
The light pink Chanel skirt suit hanging in the closet taunts me. It belongs on a dignified, proper woman twice my age. The outfit symbolizes the woman my mother wishes for me to be.
I’ll donate it after we arrive in London, since it’s nothing I would choose to wear. My mother packed it, but I packed the trunks with my clothes that were shipped to England.
Yes, this is an arrangement, and an odd one. But I need to focus on the positive. I am officially independent. The good news about the airport outfit is that it shouldn’t be a problem for Leo. The sleeveless silk top is demure and the skirt skims my knees.
Leo did me a favor, and I’ll do him one. I’ll do everything I can to stay out of his way, focus on my art, and build a career for myself. With luck, the arrangement will continue until I’m financially independent and have distanced myself enough from the family that when Leo and I separate, there will be no talk of my returning to Italy.
I always believed my father would look out for me, and with this arrangement, he did. It’s not the ideal scenario, but everything will work out. Day in and day out, perseverance is my friend. With perseverance, the snail made it to the ark. Are there any other truisms to call upon? Things could be much worse. That’s another one.
The iron has cooled, and I wrap the cord and stow it away. I exit the bathroom to dress in my travel suit…which, by the way, Mamma, no one wears travel suits anymore. My toes squeeze into the front of the heels, and I have to suck in my breath to button the skirt, but this is the last time I’ll be required to squeeze into an outfit. Come to think of it, I should toss the wedding dress in the rubbish. It’s ripped, and it made me look like a doll wrapped in meringue.
Dressed, I press my ear to the bedroom door. There are no sounds, so I crack it open and peer into the living area of the suite.
“Leo?”
A folded blanket lies on one end of the rumpled sofa where he slept. I would’ve been willing to sleep there, but he’d insisted.
Intellectually, I recognize he’s a good man. He agreed to help me, after all. But he’d been furious. His brown eyes darkened and his lips pressed together, and I feared he would lash out to teach me a lesson. Of course, he’s never given me a reason to fear him. Scarlet’s stories are in my head. I barely know Leo Sullivan. He’s not in the Lupi Grigi, but people say the syndicate is worse.
His reaction last night terrified and mortified me. He made me feel repulsive and dirty.
I press my palms over the front of my Chanel jacket, smoothing it.
“Leo?” I call again.
A piece of paper catches my eye at the same time there’s a knock on the door. I read the scrap of paper on the way to answer the hotel room door.
Willow,
I have some business to take care of out of town. Matthew will pick you up from the hotel at ten, will fly with you to London, and deliver you to my flat. Judy, the housekeeper, can assist with any of your needs.
Leo
I check my watch. It’s five minutes after ten.
He couldn’t knock and tell me?
I open the door and explain I’m running behind, then rush to gather everything. Matthew waits patiently by the hotel room door, arms folded in front of him, like an obedient security detail. He’s tall with dark hair and an olive complexion.
“I’m sorry,” I say as I approach the door with my suitcase and handbag. His gaze flits to the pile of white draping over the circular trash can by the decorative desk.
He takes the handle of my suitcase and wordlessly holds the door for me.
In case he doesn’t understand English—although that’s doubtful, given his occupation—I repeat myself in Italian. He remains mute.
At the airport, he scans the crowd at all times, at least, that is, until our flight departs. We’re flying first class, but it’s a short flight and not particularly decadent. He insists I take the window seat, not with words, but with gestures.
There are buds in his ears, and I’m not sure if they are hearing aids or communication devices. He’s not carrying a weapon that I can see, but based on his build and the way his arms never quite rest until we sit, I suspect his hands legally qualify as weapons.
Security isn’t a new concept for me. His dark trousers, white Oxford with the top button undone, and a black suit coat remind me of the wardrobe choice of the security team my father employs. Given it’s clear he has no intention of carrying on a conversation, I recline my seat and close my eyes. I didn’t sleep well last night, too startled and undone by Leo’s reaction to me in undergarments. I had more clothes on than if we’d met up at the beach to go swimming.
My brother assumed he was gay, but he said he’s not. If he’s attracted to women, or if he has sexual needs, he clearly has no intention of sating those needs with me. When he saw me, his nostrils flared and he looked almost feral.
Still, there’s no denying that he’s handsome, fit, and when he’s not angry, he’s approachable. If I hadn’t been so absorbed in my problems when we met, I would’ve noticed him. Heat and vitality come off him in waves. Golden brown eyes beneath straight dark brows. Glints of silver and gold in trimmed nut-brown hair, an angular, commanding jaw and broad shoulders. His skeletal structure would make him a pleasure to sketch.
When he’d been in only jeans and barefoot, I hadn’t been prepared for my body’s reaction to the sight of his taut chest and defined abdomen. My breathing slowed, and I couldn’t tear my gaze away. There’s no way he didn’t notice. My ex, Jules, had been skin over bones compared to Leo. Even Leo’s pale, bare feet extending beyond the denim held sex appeal.
Of course, if Leo’s like the Grigi men, he has girlfriends all over the world, and girlfriends is a kind descriptor.
It’s absolutely fine if he dates women all over the world. “Date” is probably another kind word. “Sexual relations” is more accurate. What he does isn’t my business, as we have an arrangement, one he agreed to out of kindness. Unless you plan to throw sex on the table. Obviously, I’m not. He didn’t sound like he wanted me to, either. He’d been angry.
But even angry, he didn’t threaten or belittle me. If Leo was like Vincent, Scarlet’s husband, he wouldn’t have ever offered to help me. He would’ve walked right by Leandro in the alley, or maybe stopped to watch.
But the nagging voice reminds me Vincent was polite and gracious when we first met him. Muscular, he filled out a suit well, and aside from his front gold tooth, his appearance didn’t match one of a mafia enforcer. When I first met him, I’d thought Scarlet’s mother had made her a desirable match. I’d believed Scarlet to be fortunate.
It’s a disturbing thought. The silent security guard beside me does nothing to settle my nerves.
If I arrive at Leo’s flat and it’s clear Leo suffers from a perverse nature, I’ll leave. I’ll call Scarlet, and she’ll help me. Unlike me, she trained with a fighter. She’s skilled. I should train.
If there’s a room in his house with chains or whips, or if there are body parts in the refrigerator, I’ll leave. I won’t call Scarlet unless he traps me. I’ll wait a suitable amount of time before returning to Italy so I’m not forced into a union with Leandro, but I will listen to my gut. If I don’t feel safe, I’ll leave. I packed jewelry I can sell. I have a credit card in my name and euros in my wallet.
Solitude leaves me with nothing but my thoughts. While my nerves become a live wire of uncertainty and determination, Matthew says nothing.
At a young age, I learned the security team puts their lives on the line to protect us, and I shouldn’t do anything to distract them or lessen their effectiveness. Therefore, I don’t talk to him, although conversation would be a welcome distraction from the thoughts whirling through my head.
When we land, Matthew escorts me through the airport to a black sedan with tinted windows. He opens the back door and, as I take my seat, the driver says, “Good day, miss.”
The driver pulls away, leaving Matthew at the curb. The driver’s focus remains on the road, and, like Matthew, he doesn’t say or do anything to invite conversation, so I follow his cue.
Traffic from the airport merges into a slow, stop-and-go stream. The passing buildings appear especially gray, as is the sky. If I were to paint the scenery, I would use a monotone palette with a mix of white and black, one marked by a complete absence of color, and the other scored by a saturation of all colors. Yin and yang.
Today is my first day officially free from the Lupi Grigi clan. How ironic the sky is bleak and I’m alone. Oh, and let’s not forget…safety remains a question.
The sedan meanders through city streets. It slows in front of a gate that slowly rises. The car dips down into a covered garage. I wasn’t paying close enough attention, but it appears we are in a covered area for an apartment building for multiple units. The spots are marked with unit numbers.
The car door opens, and an older woman with a splendid mix of white, steel gray, and black hair holds the door for me.
“Welcome to Stratford, dear. I’m Judy. Unfortunately, you’re arriving later than I expected, and I must rush off, but before I do, I’ll give you a quick tour of your new home.”
When I stand, I tower over Judy. The top of her head doesn’t reach my shoulder. Her gaze falls to my heels.
“We won’t have far to walk. The elevator is up ahead.” She leads the way, and I glance back at the sedan.
“Should I get my?—”
“John will get your luggage, dear. Your trunks have already arrived. I hope you don’t mind, but I took the liberty of unpacking for you. A few items were a little worse for the journey and I sent them off to be pressed.”
Judy’s steps are tight and quick. Even with my longer legs, I scurry to keep up.
“This building has twenty-four-hour concierge service. Your name and photograph have been added to the registry. Mr. Sullivan said you’re an artist. The building includes co-working spaces, and at Mr. Sullivan’s request, I have inquired about obtaining one for you to use as an artist's studio. Mr. Sullivan’s flat is a three-bedroom unit. He said to give you the two smaller bedrooms and to remove the furniture from the room if you’d like to create a studio in the apartment. I’ll need a list of the supplies you will require.” She presses the elevator button. “The kitchen is fully stocked. Cleaning service arrives every other day at present, but if you wish for a daily cleaning, simply let me know. There is a rooftop garden that you have access to.”
The elevator slides open. She places a plastic card against a pad and presses the number forty-one. The doors close, and my stomach freefalls as the elevator ascends.
“I’m trying to think what else you will need to know. The bathroom is fully stocked, but if there is anything you need, please let me know. Message me, and I’ll have items delivered as quickly as possible. I’m Mr. Sullivan’s home manager, but I also manage the properties for four others in this building, so if you need anything, don’t hesitate to message me. In all likelihood, I’ll be close by.” She peruses my body, and my spine straightens.
The lift stops and the doors slide open. Light reflects off a polished concrete floor. Wide metal stairs lead up, and glass walls with an expansive view of the city line two walls.
“I take it Mr. Sullivan doesn’t suffer from fear of heights.”
“Oh, dear. Do you?”
“No,” I answer, but a slight dizziness takes hold. It feels like I could step to the edge of the concrete and fall to my death.
There’s a bike with thick wheels to one side, propped so perfectly it could be part of the decoration. A pot with a plant with green fronds sits on the far side against a concrete wall. The bike and the plant are the only two items in the entry.
“If those spikes are hurting your feet, please feel free to take them off. This is your home now, love.”
Judy has removed her black leather shoes and holds them in one hand. She’s wearing thick wool socks that jut out below her loose-fitting trousers and a pale pink blouse. A gold cross dangles from a short chain around her neck.
I bend my leg and remove one heel, then the other. Judy charges up the stairs without a backward glance.
The concrete is cool against the bottoms of my bare feet. My dizziness increases as I climb the stairs.
“If you’re afraid of heights, they say it helps to focus on either the floor or the inner part of the building.”
We arrive at what I presume is the main floor. It’s smartly decorated. In fact, it’s so perfectly decorated that it doesn’t feel lived in. There are rooms like this in our family's home. Formal rooms that no one spends time in, but to the far side of this room is a kitchen. The design, like the rest of the flat, is modern with slate gray panel cabinets and a heavily streaked marble inset behind the stovetop and matching countertop. Twelve mid-century modern chairs surround the long, narrow wooden table below gold-rimmed circular lights.
The mid-century modern decor incorporated into the mix of contemporary furnishing infuses a touch of warmth. The white pine floor offsets the dark elements, and crisp white walls lend a Scandinavian aesthetic.
Monochrome art evoking Picasso, Ritcher, and Degas adorns the walls. Two black sculptures perched on pedestals catch my eye. Veils cover the women’s faces, but their breasts are exposed. It’s an interesting choice, and I can’t help but wonder how Leo interprets his art. What does his attachment to monochrome mean? What kind of human prefers a world void of color?
“Down this hall are two bedrooms. I placed your wardrobe in the bedroom closest to the primary suite. If you wish for anything to be moved, simply let me know. Okay, love?”
I nod.
“The closed door at the end of the corridor is Mr. Sullivan’s suite. Through the galley in the kitchen is Mr. Sullivan’s office, and the door remains locked.”
She steps into a bedroom, and I follow. The floor-to-ceiling glass wall is too much from this height. As if reading my mind, Judy sets about pulling the cream floor-to-ceiling drapes closed, narrowing the view outside to a thin strip of horizon.
“The mobile charging on the side table is yours. My number, John’s, and Mr. Sullivan’s, are pre-programmed. If you need to leave, you can call John and he’ll ensure a driver is readied.” She claps her hands. “I believe that’s it. Remember, anything you need, simply message me. Are you quite all right, love?”
I open my mouth, and she says, “Oh, and food. I don’t currently have a chef scheduled, but if you would like one, simply let me know.”
“No, I’m good…I can cook for myself.”
“Oh. The menu drawer. Follow me.”
I do so, and she pulls a drawer filled with menus.
“These all do take away, and some do delivery. I’m sure as you get settled in, you can figure out what you’ll be needing.”
“Yes.”
“Have a goodnight, dear. I hate to rush but must be off.”
It’s midafternoon, but I don’t correct her as I watch her leave. The faint swish of the lift doors wafts up from the entry below.
I wander back down the hall to the bedrooms. Lightheadedness has replaced the dizziness. I sit back on the bed, hungry but not hungry enough to do anything about it. I was curious about unpacked clothes, but too stunned with this turn of events to open the closet door.
The mobile vibrates. I startle and stare. The screen lights with a bright gray, then dims to black.
I stretch across the bed, reaching for the device.
Leo Sullivan
If you leave the flat, take John with you. It’s not safe for you to go out alone.