Chapter 12
Chapter Twelve
Sienna
It’s two days until my next portrait appointment. I dedicate the intervening time to my surrealist work, mundane errands, and deliberately not thinking about Nico. At least, that's my intention. I attempt to block him from my thoughts, focusing on anything else. But it proves challenging.
I continually anticipate his call, text, or unexpected appearance, despite explicitly communicating my disinterest. When he touched me in the car, it was like letting go for the first time in my life. I didn’t need to think or feel.
His touch radiated heat. Something intoxicating permeated that fleeting moment of belonging to him. Just for that instant.
On the morning of my latest portrait – a painting of one of Gianna's friends – Gianna calls. "Honey, I'm so sorry."
"What's up?" I ask, eager to get to work.
Not eager to see Nico. Not eager to discover if he can unearth anything about Mom's death. Not eager to feel his touch against my skin again, to experience the electricity when our bodies connect.
"My friend cancelled, and I have to rush into town for a business meeting."
"Ah, so no work this morning, then?"
"I do need a painting of Nico in the garden. I think that would look absolutely magnificent. Perhaps you could do that instead?"
"Isn't he busy?"
"He can spare the morning for this."
I nibble my fingernail. Is Gianna doing this on purpose? Is her nickname Cupid, or is she merely being considerate?
"Have you asked him?" I say.
"No, but if I explain the circumstances, I'm sure he'd be delighted to assist."
"No – that's okay."
"If you're sure..."
"No – I mean yes. Call him. Let me know his response."
I end the call, toss the phone onto the bed, and stare vacantly like a fool. When anything involves Nico, my cognitive abilities seem to evaporate.
A minute later, my cell phone rings again.
"He said he's delighted to help."
"He said that?" I ask, contemplating the fact that he hasn't attempted to contact me, even though I specifically told him not to, and have no legitimate reason to harbor resentment about it.
"Yes, then," I say hastily, because...
Well, I need the work. I'm going stir crazy without something to channel my energy into. It's hardly my fault Gianna's friend couldn't make it, and this is the next best alternative. I promised that one night was all it would be. He's honoring that.
I should be grateful.
Oh, the stories we tell ourselves.
"I'll arrange a car like last time," Gianna says.
"Thank you. Will they text me when they arrive? There's been some... stuff."
"Stuff?"
"Nothing crazy. Just people loitering, dealing, blasting music, intimidating passersby."
"Ah, I understand, that sort of trouble. Yes, they'll text. Thank you for being so accommodating."
I prepare my supplies, meticulously checking everything to ensure I'm ready for the painting session. Am I thrilled to be painting Nico despite my resolution to sever all connections with him?
Absolutely not.
Or perhaps that's a big fat lie.
I concentrate on the immediate task. Paint tubes are organized into a sealed tin, sorted by hue for easy access later. Brushes – immaculately clean and dry – slide into a canvas roll I secure tightly. Palette wrapped in wax paper, nestled flat between sketch pads. I pour a measured amount of solvent into a screw-top jar, double-checking the seal. Rags, pristine and precisely folded, go into a side pouch.
Anticipation ripples through me as I contemplate seeing Nico. My body still aches with the aftermath of our encounter.
My cell phone rings. A call, not a text. An attentive driver, evidently.
It's Nico. My breath catches. Catches what, exactly? A severe case of holy heck, I can’t wait to see him again .
Attempting to regain composure, I answer, "Hi, Nico. I'm waiting for the driver."
"And he’s arrived."
"How would you know?"
I'm convinced I can detect his smirk through his tone. "Because I'm your chariot, Cinderella."
"You're giving me a ride?"
He hesitates. Perhaps he's contemplating my wording too, the implication of the word 'ride,' the tantalizing prospect of straddling his lap, feeling his desire pressing through his clothing, rather than traveling to his mother's home for a painting session.
"When Mother called and requested this, I figured I might as well commit completely. Is that a problem?"
I remember my promise. One night. That night is over, so now it’s time to be good.
"No. Why would it?"
He chuckles softly.
I carry my bag of art supplies over my shoulder, clutching my easel against my side. Nico approaches from the opposite end of the street. A group of men at the corner, perched on their car hood with music blaring, watch us as Nico advances toward me.
"Let me help," he says.
Dashing? Undoubtedly. Striking? Without question.
He's dressed in a shirt with sleeves meticulously rolled up, no jacket, showcasing his sculpted arms. His hair is slightly disheveled, as though he's been continuously running his fingers through it while awaiting my arrival.
He takes my bag and easel effortlessly, carrying them toward his car. Two men from the group saunter over, probably intrigued by his expensive-looking car. A flicker of apprehension touches me. That's a familiar sensation in this neighborhood.
“Nice wheels, old man," one remarks. He's young, with two sleeves of messy tattoos, grills on his teeth.
"Walk away," Nico says dispassionately.
The man coughs out a derisive laugh. “Say what?"
"Walk away," Nico reiterates, his tone unwavering.
The man is about to retort when a third approaches. He's older. When he catches sight of Nico, unmistakable terror floods his expression. He whispers something to the tattooed man, and instantly, the tattooed man's expression mirrors the same dread.
"We won't bother you again," he says, glancing between Nico and me. "Either of you. Uh, enjoy your day."
Nico replies through clenched teeth. "Likewise."
In the car, as Nico pulls away, I ask, "What do you think he said?"
Nico's hands grip the steering wheel tightly. He's reluctant to talk about it. "No idea."
"It must’ve been related to who you are. Don't you think? You are connected to the mob."
"I don't know, Vignette."
"Hey – none of that, remember? That chapter is closed."
"I have no way of knowing what he said."
"One second, he looked ready to rob us, then suddenly, he looked terrified. Did you see his fear?" When he remains silent, I keep going, "Or maybe you're accustomed to people looking at you with such terror. Maybe it doesn't even register."
"What do you want me to say?" he growls. "I thought you wanted to go back to our old dynamic. You're merely a painter. I'm simply a hedge fund manager. Remember?"
I fold my arms. He glances at me: my face, then my chest. My folded arms accentuate my chest, and he appears thoroughly captivated by that.
A spark of electricity dances across my skin. I maintain my position. I savor his attention, even while knowing I should pretend not to.
"They likely recognized me," Nico says after a pause. "They intended to start trouble, then wisely reconsidered."
"Because you would hurt them."
"That's their assumption."
"Is it wrong?"
At a red light, he doesn't merely glance at me. His gaze sears into my soul.
"What would you have me say, Vignette? That I would have beaten those men bloody had they tried to hurt you? That the thought of you living in such an environment sickens me? That I yearn to protect you? Or perhaps you need me to embody a monster so you can maintain your resolve; so, you can ensure nothing happens between us again."
A car behind us honks impatiently. The light has changed.
"I just want to focus on my work."
"Then quit with the interrogation."
His tone irritates me, primarily because I want to comfort him. The contradiction only compounds my... well, my confusion. I'm doubly perplexed.
"Have you heard anything about my mom? Have you investigated?"
He looks at me incredulously. "I've done some light digging."
"But?"
"Are you sure you want to know? I thought we were pretending I'm merely a hedge fund guy."
"But?"
He exhales deeply. "I'm certain that the intended target was Italian, which suggests the gunmen were most likely Russian."
My mind revisits the restaurant, those Bratva men. Any of them could have pulled the trigger.
"Thank you," I murmur. "Will you let me know if you uncover anything else?"
"Certainly, but?—"
"Just because I want to know what happened to Mom, that doesn't mean anything can happen between us."
He rolls his eyes. His frustration is mounting. Can I fault him? He's probably contemplating how I'm selectively acknowledging aspects of his mob connections that serve my purposes.
"I mean it, Nico. Thank you."
"Sure," he says.
I watch the scenery transform through the window as we leave the neighborhood behind. Boarded-up windows yield to freshly painted storefronts. The fractured sidewalks become smooth, and the liquor stores and pawn shops give way to cafés adorned with string lights and expansive windows.
Guilt surfaces as the silence stretches. Perhaps it's unfair, but I can't help it. "And thanks for sacrificing your morning. I've been itching to work on something."
"It's no inconvenience."
"Truly? You must be busy."
He laughs gruffly. "I was being polite. It took some maneuvering, had to reschedule several meetings. But I'll catch up this evening. You're worth the effort."
That excites me more than it should. I attempt nonchalance but fail miserably.
I'm worth it.