Chapter 14
Sam, aka Leo, aka Saint
The young guy walking up the path with Willow looks like a fucking kid. An enamored, gooey-eyed kid who aims to win her over. His shoulder-length hair and paint-splattered clothes tell me he’s nothing like me, but I knew plenty of girls back in the day who fawned over artsy types.
I stretch my fingers, alleviating the tension tightening my spine and shoulders. She’s not mine. She’s far too young for me. I’m not even who she thinks I am. Yet the caveman deep within roars to bludgeon the horny adolescent.
I wasn’t always like this. There was a time I didn’t have a need to resort to violence when angry. But years of watching men die for lesser crimes, orchestrating the delivery of guns to monsters who kill and thrive, it’s all changed me. And I can’t say I like who I’ve become. All this anger. The vitriol twirling about inside makes throwing a fist or pulling a trigger far too welcome.
When you kill and you feel nothing, you’ve lost your soul.
Those words from a friend come to mind, and oddly enough, they deliver peace. I still feel. I recognize what I’m becoming, and I don’t like it. I haven’t given up. Not yet.
Willow laughs at something the long-haired pansy says. I bet the jackoff plays the guitar. He looks like that kind of guy. A total fuckwad.
The mass of wavy blonde hair bounces with her steps. Military-style boots peek out from her long white skirt. She’s wearing a thick cardigan that falls below her hips, but it’s undone, and beneath it she’s wearing a white tank top with scalloped edges that leads the eye straight to her perfect, youthful, pillowy breasts.
In truth, the two of them look like a picture-perfect couple. And a better man would step into the shadows and let nature take its course.
The second she spots me, awareness sparks. Those bright blue eyes widen and her steps falter. Her rose-pink lips spread into a timid smile, but lover boy doesn’t notice as he simply slows his pace, his attention solely on my wife. My gaze drops to her ringless fingers, where she’s fiddling with the edge of her sweater.
My teeth grind, and the chilly day permeates my clothes. Seeing her with another man shouldn’t piss me off. There’s nothing real between us. I helped her out because she was in a hard place. She’s way too young for there to be anything between us, even a fleeting thing.
I haven’t spoken to her in two weeks. But I have ensured her safety. Expanded security. Hired a goddamn chef. Watched each night to ensure she was safe inside before going to bed.
“Leo.” She says the name with an air of awe.
It’s not my name, and I’m not her husband, and we’re not real.
But unfortunately for this punk, I’ve got a role to play, and in that role, a syndicate leader wouldn’t be at all okay with his wife—even if it’s arranged as fuck—messing around.
“Wife,” I answer. I must be sporting a killer glare, because lover boy stumbles, nearly crashing to his knees.
“Oh…um…” He glances between us, speechless and totally out of his fucking league.
“Leo, this is Geoff. Geoff, this is my…” Those big blues question, as if uncertain. What the fuck is she uncertain of?
“Husband,” I answer for her.
She swallows, blinks, and places a hand on the motherfucker’s arm. My blood pressure might go through the roof.
“Geoff and I work near each other. He was out and about and was walking me home. He paints landscapes.”
He’ll find that very difficult without hands .
The thought comes unbidden, and I close my eyes. Jesus, the monster within is running rampant.
“Oh, well, you’re home now, love.” He flinches at his word choice, as he should. He holds up a white paper bag. “I’m gonna head on back now. Have lunch before I get back to it. Lovely to meet you both.”
“Nice to meet you,” I say, then place a palm on Willow’s ass and pull her against me, crushing my lips down over hers.
She tenses. Her lips are soft and unresponsive. I pin her to me so the fuckwad can’t see whatever shock is playing against her features. When I lift my head, I avoid her eyes and watch the fuckwad retreat.
“Thanks for walking her home,” I say to his withdrawing figure over her head.
“Right. Right. I’ll see you. Nice to see you.”
Willow wisely stands still, close to me. Her hot breath warms a spot of skin on my chest, but her muscles are tight and wound like a coil. He turns the corner, and the sound of his steps on cobblestone disappears into the mix of birdsong and city din.
She flattens a palm against my chest and presses. “I can explain.”
The heat from her palm radiates across my chest, and I take a beat to process what she just said. I expected a slap on my cheek or a solid reprimand for being an ass. Because I was out of line. But she’s expecting me to be worse than the men in her family. I suppose if I’d been Leandro, a cleaner would’ve been required.
“Let’s go inside,” I say, releasing some of the irrational rage with a change in direction.
“When did you get back?” She sounds chirpy, so I suppose she’s not going to rip into me for being a tool. She should. I deserve it.
“About an hour ago. I was going to come down and check out your studio.”
“You were?”
No, that’s a lie. I came down when I saw on camera that she left her studio. I wanted to see where she was going without John, her daytime security.
“Is the studio sufficient?”
“It’s fantastic. I really, truly can’t thank you enough.”
We pass through the lobby and to the elevator. The doors close on the two of us, and my gaze catches on her fingers.
“But you don’t wear your rings.” I absentmindedly twirl the gold band on my finger. I’ve been wearing mine because anyone I meet might have heard I got married. The ring supports my story. It’s now a part of my cover.
“I don’t want to get paint on them.”
That’s a flimsy excuse, but there’s no point in arguing. The elevator shoots us up to the forty-first floor, and I resist the urge to hold on to the rail. No matter how many times I ride upward, I still feel the burden of rising above the Earth’s hold.
Natural light pours in as the elevator door slides open, and I push forward to the stairs into the showplace. There’s nothing in the entry other than a staggering London view, suspended black stairs above a gleaming polished concrete floor, and some decorative crap.
Nick’s sister, Lina, found this flat for me when I moved to work for him. A friend of hers decorated it. Then a special team hired by Jack’s firm came in and outfitted the place according to my specific needs.
I’ve watched Willow on the camera feed over the last two weeks while I’ve been away. She hasn’t snooped around. But there’s no denying bringing her into this flat bears risk. If she discovers a cache of weapons, identification, or a stash of bills, I’m betting it will feel normal to her, given the family she was raised in. In that regard, she’s a safe bet, but perhaps a bet I shouldn’t make. She might look too closely.
I shouldn’t be putting my cover at risk. The fake marriage ploy is a bad idea. She’s a bad idea. But I’ve always struggled with protective urges. Even as a kid with my younger sisters. Maybe if they hadn’t both needed protecting at times, I wouldn’t be like this. One sister bedridden, the other socially awkward. So what is it about Willow? Perhaps the protective urge arose because I saved her from being mauled. I have an undeniable soft spot for young women who need protection.
Upstairs, I stride to the windows and peer across the horizon. I don’t need to watch her because I sense her. The swish of her skirt, the soft pad of her boots. Through the glass, her reflection shows as a blur in the window, hovering at a distance.
“I won’t bite,” I say to her, although given my recent conduct, I can’t exactly blame her for wanting to distance herself from me. Still, her fear is not only unnecessary, it will drive me nuts to have someone afraid of me living under my roof.
“Maybe I want you to.”
That gets my attention. I turn and study the young woman. She’s backed up against the island, wide blue eyes filled with what? Fear? No. Challenge? Yes, that’s it. I suppose that fits. Something tells me if I hadn’t agreed to this arrangement, the wily woman would have found another way of circumventing her father’s plans to marry her to Leandro. Which means I put my cover at risk needlessly.
Brilliant.
“Have you had lunch?” The second the question crosses the room, I recognize it as a stupid one. She was walking home for lunch, and she just said she might want me to bite. I’ll disregard that remark. Nothing to be won with that exploration.
With a few brisk steps, I’m at the paneled refrigerator, scanning the contents. “Would you like a sandwich? Looks like there are three panini. Split one?”
“Sure. Do you want me to?—”
“No.” I gesture for her to back away. “I’ve got this. Heating panini is something I can do. Hence the reason I ask for them to be stocked.”
“When you’re home?”
The panini press clatters on the counter. She startles at the sharp sound. “Sorry,” I mutter. The cabinet door slams loudly. Everything I’m doing is too loud. “Can you pick some music?”
We need something to soften the quiet. Up here on the forty-first floor, there are no city sounds. No birds. The thick glass walls and metal support beams muffle the occasional jet that roars past.
“What kind of music do you like?”
I suppose her question is harmless. Can’t recall Nick ever asking about my music choice, although I’d bet he assumes I have a thing for country, given my theoretical Texas roots.
“Alternative rock. You?”
“Indie. World.”
She’s perched on the island like a big-eyed bird, inquisitive but on edge. I have the sense that if I stepped up to her too quickly, she’d flee.
“Play something you like,” she says.
I pull out my phone, set it on the counter, and select a recent playlist. Death Cab for Cutie falls into the first rotation. Ben Gibbard croons on about taking a picture to remember this by and a déjà vu sensation hits. Or maybe that’s not the right term. The sensation I feel is of playing a role in a film that will be over all too soon.
The cheese sizzles on the pan, breaking me from my somber thoughts. I go to pull out a knife and notice two walnut cutting boards propped against the counter. Those are new. I take one and place the panini on it.
“I like this song,” she says.
“It’s a good one. One of the band’s best.”
“What’s it called?”
“‘Pepper’.”
“I’m going to write it down,” she says. “Great lyrics.” I slide a plate with half a melted meat and cheese panini over to her. “Is that how you listen to all music? On your phone?”
The flat is wired with a sound system. I could easily hook up a service and speak out loud to an Alexa or Siri and have music playing through every room. But I’d rather not open myself up to a hack.
“You lived with your parents before me, right?”
Her lashes flutter, and I get the sense my topic change threw her, but she settles and smiles. It’s a soft smile, one that highlights her innocence and youth.
“I did. Well, I lived in Florence for four years. But yes, after I finished my art program, my father…he expected me to return home.”
“By the ocean?”
“Well, where we met was one of our seaside homes. The house I grew up in is farther north.”
I recall seeing the Gagliano estate on a map. The satellite view shows mostly trees, roads, and some significant buildings. The secure compound rests on a higher elevation with a cliff bordering the ocean.
“How is London treating you? Missing Italy yet?”
She loops a golden curl behind her ear. Sitting on the stool beside her, I’m higher than she is. She parts her hair down the middle of her scalp, leaving a clear dark line on both sides of her dyed blonde strands. But the smile on her face, it’s genuine.
As she talks about the differences between London and Italy, I can’t help but wonder why she’s smiling. What lights her up from the inside? Is it that she’s been lonely here for two weeks and she’s relieved to have someone to converse with? Does her excitement brim from living in a new city, or from living on her own?
“What brought you to London?” I have a mouthful of panini when she asks, which buys me time.
“Job,” I answer. Anyone she asks will corroborate, as it’s the truth.
“And how does London compare to America?”
Oh… My first thought is of California. The Pacific. But then I think of Asheville, where my sisters are. And Rocky Mount, the small town I grew up in. It’s a different place these days. All the places I’ve spent time in keep changing.
“That’s not an apples-to-apples comparison. You’d need to pick a city within America and almost any city other than New York City is big-time smaller. London’s energy, the variety of neighborhoods, the history, there’s nothing in the United States that’s comparable. New York, perhaps. But London beats it on the history front by centuries.” Of course, I like it as a base for pragmatic reasons. “London is convenient for travel.”
“You travel a lot?”
I have this urge to brush my finger across her nose. To tease out that smile that fell behind a cloud. “I do. Nature of the beast.”
She brushes her hands off. She only ate the top bread and cheese and left the meat behind.
“Are you a vegetarian?”
“Pescetarian.”
“Interesting.” Sloane, my sister, once attempted veganism. Didn’t work out well for her.
“Well, I suppose I should get back to the studio. Unless…” She pauses, plate suspended, “Did you want to do something today?”
“No.” It’s a weekday. Email is piling up as we speak. The job Nick hired me for is quite real.
“I’m not sure. I just…what do you want from this arrangement?” She sets the plate down on the stool and faces me with one arm crossed over her belly. The cardigan gapes open, and my gaze drifts to the silhouette of a perky nipple beneath the outline of the flimsy tank.
Jesus, I’m a pervert.
I push off from the barstool, lift my plate, and collect hers.
“Nothing.” I’m one step past her when I realize I lied. “No, that’s not true.” I set the plates down on the island. “This business of going around town without security has to stop. You need to be safe. I expect you to coordinate with John.”
“I know how to be safe.” Her spine straightens, and her hands fall to her side.
“You’re in a new city.” Nick sends regular updates on Leandro. The fact he’s made it into our status file doesn’t sit right, but there’s no point in scaring her. “Just be smart.”
Her chin tilts up, defiant.
“What’s that look for? I can’t imagine your father let you walk around without security.”
“I absolutely did.”
Ah, fuck. She probably did. If anyone laid a hand on her, they knew they’d die shortly after. Everyone except the capo’s brother.
“Well, you’re not in Italy anymore, sweetheart. You chose to come here.”
“You’re right. I did. And I’m appreciative. But I’m also confused. Why won’t you tell me what you want in return?”
A grin breaks out. This version of Willow is much better. The strong-willed version who will go toe to toe is much more to my liking. I’m about to tell her to get back to her art when a vision of lover boy strikes. “What’s with that kid?”
“Kid?” she asks with enough petulance I half-expect her to stomp her boot. “You know, I’m in my twenties. So is he.”
“Barely,” I counter.
She’s too fucking young, which is one more reason this farce is a bad idea.
“Just say what you want. You don’t want me to date? Wasn’t planning on it. Although…have you been celibate these past two weeks? Because what’s sauce for the goose is sauce for the gander. Isn’t that the saying?”
I rub my jaw, hiding my smirk. “What’s good,” I correct.
“Excuse me?”
“The saying. It’s what’s good for the goose is good for the gander.” I scrub my fingers through my scalp. What we’ve got going on is an ill-conceived arrangement, and this conversation is pointless because I will not promise my fidelity. It sets expectations. But then I think about that kid. Jesus. “If you care for your little friend, watch yourself with him.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
I’m talking like a thug, but what the fuck? It’s the role I’m playing, and it’s a language she should comprehend. “It’s exactly what you think it means.”
She huffs and stomps off to the stairs, her pale hands balled into tight little fists at her sides. Her boots thump against the concrete.
“You should really take your shoes off inside,” I call after her. Am I taunting her? Yes, I am. There needs to be some benefit to this fucked up role-playing.
She doesn’t slow down but raises an arm and lifts her middle finger. I bark out a laugh. This reminds me of fighting with Sloane.
“I’ll have dinner for us. Be home by six,” I call to her retreating back.
“Yes, dear.”
She never looks back as she descends the stairs, and I just grin. Yeah, it’s stupid, and I’m out of my mind taunting a Gen Zer that I will never, ever touch, no matter how tempting she is, but it’s fun. She’s fun.