28. Baldo
Guilt.
Overwhelming guilt.
This heavy load of guilt has been weighing on me since Brook told me what happened to her that night.
I should have been there. I should have never asked her to run away with me. I should have left the house with her, not before her. I should have…
My head has been spinning with all the bitter, nauseating remorse swirling inside me. The endless should haves stripping me of control.
Sleep, food, and less whiskey might stop—or slow—the spiral, but they wouldn’t negate one fat truth.
I failed her.
I haven’t done this many transatlantic flights in… ever. There was an obvious benefit to not doing business in the States.
Not that I’m here for business. Though the trip is turning out longer than I planned. Fucking Mathison is on vacation, but at least I tricked him into talking to me.
So here I am, my plane taxiing yet again, en route to the Dominican Republic.
Chloe is pissed because she had to cancel her weekend getaway due to my unexpected trip. If she could shred my balls over the phone, she would have.
Another candidate to castrate me is probably Brook. It was a dick move to sneak out while she slept.
I had to act.
I couldn’t sit around and pretend her story didn’t impact me.
It’s our story, after all.
Not that she didn’t bear the brunt of it. Fuck, how I wish I could have taken all her pain and suffering.
I had to act.
As I watched her sleep, I realized how strong she has been. So resilient.
Yes, she had more time to deal with everything, but fuck, I’m proud of her. And the selfish bastard in me is pleased I could help her at least with the last pieces.
She was already put together and healed, but she needed me to seal the wounds, and I’m so humbled by that, I can’t even decipher what that means.
Her confession puts all her partying and living on the edge in perspective. How many times did I judge her way of life? Told myself I dodged a bullet not ending up with her?
Idiot.
“What can I get you, Mr. Cassinetti?” The flight attendant smiles at me.
“Whiskey, Tamar. Thank you.”
She brings it over and lingers. “Are you sure there is nothing else?”
I never fuck my staff—well, not since Chloe—but that doesn’t mean some of them don’t try. “Thank you, Tamar. I’m good. I need to catch up on some work.”
Her smile turns saccharine. “Of course, but if you need to relax later—”
“That’ll be all. Thank you.”
She finally leaves.
I should have called Mathison before I boarded my plane in Lisbon. Since when am I this impulsive? Goddammit.
Since Brook Lowe waltzed back into my life.
I’ve been obsessed with her since childhood, and having her around for real now is a challenge. Even before we unraveled the past.
Fuck.
It was easy to keep her at arm’s length before. When I was still blaming her for never showing up. But now?
Now I’m not so sure anymore. But first things first, I need to avenge Brook.
After we land, a car waits for me to take me to the address Art sent me. My phone pings with several messages.
Chloe
Personal business? I ran into Brook. You owe me a getaway with Mary.
I check my watch. It’s way too late there, but Chloe might still be on the floor at the club, so I call her.
“You’re such an asshole. You don’t cancel my plans via a text. And here I thought you needed time with your lovely wife. Where the hell are you?”
I guess she’s still up.
“What did you tell Brook?”
“You’re going to fuck this up, Baldo,” she warns.
It’s a fake marriage. But maybe she’s onto something. “What did you tell Brook?”
“She thought you were away on business, so I pretended I must have misunderstood. I don’t think she bought it. Maybe you shouldn’t have lied to both of us.”
“If you see—”
“Baldo, if you want to talk to her, call her. Not me. Besides, she went to Madrid.”
What the fuck is in Madrid?
“Why?”
“Again, call your wife. I have to go.” She hangs up.
I almost hurl my phone across the car, but I’m not adding another thing to my list of inexplicable behaviors. I rake my fingers through my hair. Madrid?
The car passes a large gate and pulls to a stop in front of a modern cube-like mansion. A red Ferrari and a sensible family-size Mercedes are parked to the side.
I tell the driver to wait for me, and before I reach the door, they are flung open. A blonde woman with bewitching brown eyes glares at me.
“Hello, I’m here to see Art Mathison.”
“I don’t appreciate you intruding on our family time. Art does not do business when we are here, and I hope your emergency is a matter of life or death because you don’t want me to be your enemy.”
I guess that’s his wife. She steps to the side, and I enter a huge open space. Across the room is a wall of windows that are open, merging the exterior with the interior. In the infinity pool, kids are jumping and splashing.
No wonder Art was unwilling to take this meeting. Shit. “My apologies for the intrusion, Mrs. Mathison. You have a beautiful home here. I’m Baldo Cassinetti, nice to meet you.” I offer a smile and my hand, but my manners don’t placate her.
She frowns and folds her arms across her chest. “Related to Andrea?”
“He’s my brother.” Not sure how she knows him, but maybe it will score me some points.
“He’s an asshole, so I guess it runs in the family.” She shakes her head. “Forgive my lack of hospitality.” Her statement leaks sarcasm. “I really don’t like Art working when he’s here. His office is down the hallway to the right.”
“Thank you. And sorry, again.”
I follow her directions and knock on the door, but don’t wait for an answer. The office is a stark contrast to the rest of the white, airy house.
The blinds are drawn, swallowing the room in darkness, the only light coming from several monitors at a large desk.
The reflection illuminates Art’s face. His expression makes his wife’s welcome a pleasant experience.
“Art.” I nod and take a seat without him offering. This looks like an uphill conversation. “You have a nice place here.”
“Not to be intruded upon.”
“I’m sorry I insisted on seeing you in person. It’s a sensitive matter.”
He raises his eyebrow slightly, but keeps looking at me with a murderous expression. “Why do you think I took this meeting?”
I drum my fingers on my thigh. “Because I threatened you.”
I was desperate when I didn’t find him in New York, so I pushed for a meeting, suggesting I would expose his past to the media. A bluff.
I know little about his past, nothing tangible. I really took a risk with my threat to expose him.
“You have nothing on me.”
“Yet here I am.”
He scrutinizes me in silence, while an imaginary clock ticks off what feels like hours, not minutes.
“So I can say to your face that if you ever threaten my wife’s peaceful mind again, I will destroy you.” His promise is definite, and I have no doubt he means it. But if he finds the piece of shit, it’s all worth it. “With pleasure,” he adds.
Perhaps I went too far, threatening him. I have a feeling not many people dare to, but I doubt he invited me here just to deliver this threat.
Especially since I can hardly outsmart his skills. Which stinks a bit.
“What’s brought on your desperation?” he asks.
Ah, so it was curiosity that got me the invitation.
“A woman was assaulted. My woman.”
Not that I have a claim on her, but that’s irrelevant now.
Saying the words is like swallowing acid. They burn my throat and down my esophagus, slowly spreading into my already nauseated stomach. I haven’t eaten since I left Lisbon. Well, since breakfast with Chloe.
The calories in whiskey are not nutritious enough, but I’ll deal with that later.
He pinches the bridge of his nose. “I’m listening.”
I summarize all I know from Brook’s retelling, which isn’t much.
“That’s all?”
Art Mathison is the best when it comes to security and surveillance. Rumor is he got his billions as a hacker, but now deals in legal contracts only. Well, some are questionable.
Besides being the cyber security consultant for my business, he also takes care of the odd surveillance and information gathering project here and there.
Some of the people I deal with need encouragement before deciding what’s best for me and my business.
I’ve known the man for years, and never have I heard him say more than two sentences. He rubs me the wrong way with his entitled attitude, but he’s the only person who can get the job done.
Besides, the lack of information is a thrilling challenge for him, I’m sure. But I’ll indulge his bullshit for now. This isn’t the time for a pissing contest.
“Unfortunately, I don’t have more.”
“The victim—”
“Brook Lowe.”
“Is the subject we stopped following six months ago.”
“That’s correct.”
He cracks his knuckles. “Old flame?”
“My wife.”
The jerk of his eyebrows is nearly imperceptible. He’s surprised. It’s good to catch him off guard.
“Congratulations. That’s why you stopped the surveillance.”
I nod. No need to tell him I stopped checking up on Brook because I finally decided my obsession with her was counterproductive to my efforts to put the past behind me.
In hindsight, I would have known she was in New York and never traveled there.
“Women don’t appreciate being watched.”
He addresses the words to his keyboard, already typing away, and something tells me he’s speaking from his own experience. Did he spy on his wife?
He finishes typing and looks at me, folding his hands behind his head, his huge muscles bulging. A former illegal fighter, he still keeps in very good shape.
“I’ll do my best.” He glances toward the door, dismissing me.
“Thank you.” I stand up and extend my hand.
He shakes it, but before I turn, I can’t help it. “Why is she in Madrid right now?”
He smirks. “Interesting.”
The fucker. I glower at him, and he chuckles.
“You would have it in your monthly report,” he taunts, but runs his fingers over his keyboard. “She took an evening flight and went straight to a hotel where she joined someone in their room.”
I should be concerned how quickly he got that information, but I’m too riled up by the facts to contemplate that.
“Whose room?”
He smirks. “You should talk to your wife.”
* * *
The flight back to Lisbon is fucking long. Too long. My blood sizzles with unanswered questions.
It will take time before Art finds Brook’s assailant. If he finds him after all this time with no police reports. If the nickname doesn’t lead to the real identity, I might never face the man.
But that was something I anticipated.
Brook sneaking to Madrid, on the other hand…
By the time the pilot announces our landing, I’m practically vibrating with energy. And not the good kind.
I want to murder someone. It doesn’t help that I haven’t slept well for almost three nights. Or eaten properly. My lovely wife will be the death of me.
My driver pulls up to my building. It’s before lunch, and the crew is probably just finishing the club’s clean up.
Normally I’d check on everything and head to my office first, but today I take the back entrance and head upstairs.
She’s not here. Fuck. For all I know, she’s still in Madrid.
I trudge downstairs to my office, hoping for some quiet time to collect my thoughts.
“Well, look who’s back.” Chloe smirks from my chair.
So much for peace and quiet. “Get out of my seat.”
“Oh, and he’s in one of his famous moods. Lucky me.” She tilts back into the leather backrest and puts her stilettos on my desk.
“Chloe,” I growl.
To her credit, she reads the room and stands up. “In case you’re wondering, everything ran smoothly in your absence. I took the meetings you decided to miss, and I hope I can go back to Paris now.”
She rounds the desk with a fake smile.
“Have you seen Brook?” Yes, I’m that desperate.
She quirks her eyebrow. “She has a phone. It’s a mobile, by the way, which by definition means she probably has it with her. You should try to dial it.”
I sit behind my desk. “Have a safe flight home, Chloe.”
“You’re welcome. It was a pleasure to cancel my plans so I could step in.”
“Okay, I hear you loud and clear. I’m an asshole.”
“Spa certificate and an extended weekend for me and Mary.” She drops her demands and saunters away, slamming the door behind her.
Fucking hell. I rub my temples and force myself to look at some spreadsheets. But it’s a lost cause—I’m tired, fucking mad, and constantly listening for the goddamn elevator.
Why don’t I call her? If only I knew the answer to that. It feels like something people who trust each other do.
People who have a normal relationship. Not people who sneak out on each other during the night.
It’s almost nine when the elevator rumbles in the background. I take a deep breath, lock the office, and punch the button as soon as it stops on the upper level.
When I step out of the steel car, lights are on everywhere, but I don’t see Brook.
I drop my keys and phone on the dining table beside her laptop.
“Oh, you’re home.”
Her voice startles me.
Whipping around, my gaze collides with hers. She is in the bathroom doorway. Breathtakingly beautiful. She has the kind of presence that is heart-stopping.
I want to tell her I missed her. That I’m sorry I didn’t explain where I was going. I want to tell her I’m glad she’s back in my life.
“What did you do in Madrid?” is what I say instead. Yep, protect your heart, asshole.
She frowns. “How do you know I was in Madrid?”
“Chloe told me.”
“When?”
She eats the distance between us. Her scent infiltrates my mind, and I want to kiss the shit out of her. Fuck.
“When I called her.”
She glowers and throws her arms up in exasperation. “So you had time to call Chloe, but you didn’t bother to call me?”
“What did you do in Madrid, Brook?”
She grabs her phone. “You’re such a hypocrite.” She marches to the elevator. “Since I’m here mostly alone, I went to meet with Saar. She had a shoot there.”
Fucking Mathison.
Exhaling, I scratch my nape. “Brook—”
“I’m going downstairs to have a drink. Don’t bother joining me unless you’re ready to talk. To really talk, Baldo.”