Chapter 9
Chapter Nine
Remi
“Nola,” I call. Not having seen my cat since this morning, I’m starting to worry. And I’ve got enough things to worry about: like how I’ve made a deal with a mob boss.
I nervously chew on my bottom lip. Sure, I’m technically a criminal, but the itty bitty kind, not the organized kind. Hell, I didn’t even know the mob existed in New Orleans. And it doesn’t just exist, but thrives based on Angelo’s affluent lifestyle.
“Have you seen Nola?” I stop Corinne in the hallway.
“Not since she locked me in the pantry,” she tells me with attitude.
Without opposable thumbs, I’m not sure how that’s possible, but I don’t debate her as I continue down the hall.
My first stop is the kitchen pantry, just in case Nola’s the one who’s locked inside, but no luck. Closing the door, I glance out the window.
Nola’s frantically swimming circles in the deep end. She tries to pull herself out, but her claws have nothing to latch onto, and her head ducks below the surface.
My brain screams at me to go help, but my body won’t move. Paralyzed with images of the dead body floating, with the crippling fear that I could be that dead body floating…
Angelo appears, squatting down and reaching out his arms for Nola, but she’s too panicked to accept his help.
He stands, shrugging out of his coat and kicking off his Italian loafers before diving into the pool.
Surfacing, Angelo slices through the water to my cat, grabbing her by the fur on the back of her neck and holding her up.
Treading water with one hand, he works his way to the side, placing Nola onto the edge.
Angelo easily pulls himself out, his dress shirt and pants molded to his body. Moving calmly yet purposefully, he wraps a shivering Nola in the cashmere lining of his coat.
He bursts through the kitchen, and the part of my brain that was offline kicks back on. I hurry over to him, giving my cat a scratch under her wet chin. “Are you okay?” I ask her.
“Nola’s a strong swimmer; the problem was she couldn’t gain traction to pull herself out,” Angelo answers for her. “Come on, there’s a fireplace in the study.”
“What happened? You look like something the cat dragged in.” Alessandra appears in the doorway. Her eyes land on Nola. “Make that bobcat.”
“She’s not a bobcat,” Angelo and I say at the same time.
“Which of your classmates’ fathers is the veterinarian?” Angelo asks his sister.
“Rome’s dad,” Alessandra answers hesitantly.
“Get the boy to send his father over now. Nola needs urgent care,” Angelo orders.
“No, that’s okay. You don’t have to do that,” I say in a rush.
Angelo watches me intently before telling his sister, “Get the veterinarian here now.”
He takes off with Nola, with me chasing behind them. “You’re dripping water everywhere,” I tell him, but he continues to the study.
Gently placing Nola on the fireplace hearth, Angelo dances his fingers over her head before reaching to turn on the gas logs. To my shock, Nola butts his hand with her head, and he smiles, giving her another scratch.
“Angelo, she’s fine,” I argue as Nola’s purrs compete in volume with the crackling fire. “There’s no reason to get a vet all the way out here,” I implore.
“If you’re worried about the expense, you needn’t be. Of course I’ll foot the bill,” Angelo says, his voice laced with offense.
“Yeah, okay,” I tell him with a forced smile.
Angelo
“Nola will be fine,” the vet announces after the exam.
Nola’s clearly over being poked and prodded, based on her nonstop hissing.
“Remi, why don’t you grab Nola’s treat jar from the kitchen?” I suggest.
“Good idea.” She gives Nola a scratch on the top of the head before walking out.
Grabbing the intercom phone, I call Maks. “ Remi è in cucina. Bancarella. ” Remi is in the kitchen. Stall.
Now having bought myself some time, I end the call and instruct the vet, “Check Nola for a microchip.”
He pulls out of his bag a scanner, and I help hold steady a pissed off cat as he runs the device where Nola’s neck meets her body.
“Ah, there it is. Let me pull the chip number from the database.” He walks around to a makeshift workstation, typing on his laptop. “Pet name: Nola. Age: a year old. Breed: Savannah F3.”
“What does F3 mean?” I ask.
“Third generation. F1 being the first generation of domestics bred with African Servals. F2s: second generation, with a Serval grandparent. F3, like this girl, has a Serval great-grandparent. The F3 are typically smaller in size and have a more friendly personality than, say, an F1.” He holds up his clawed arms. “I say typically.” He glances back at the screen. “Pet owner: Sienna D’Amico.”
As suspected, naughty Remi stole Nola. But what I didn’t suspect was the name of the former owner.
He spouts off the address and phone number, both of which I already have.
Opening the study’s desk drawer, I retrieve a stack of hundreds. “Remove the chip and this visit from your memory.”
He eagerly accepts the cash. “Consider both removed.”
Remi
“Oh, hey, Remi.” Alessandra greets me nonchalantly, seated in a boy’s lap. The newcomer has the same shade of hair as Alessandra’s, although he’s wearing more black eyeliner than she is. “This is my boyfriend, Rome. He tagged along with his dad, the vet,” she explains.
He gives me an uninterested, “Whatsup.”
“Hi, nice to meet you.” I smile politely. “I’m just going to grab some treats for Nola.”
With the jar in hand, I turn around to find the driver blocking the exit. “Oh, excuse me.” I try to slide past the intimidating man, but he slaps his hand on the door frame.
“Maks, why are you trying to scare my brother’s girlfriend?” Alessandra asks him.
“I’m not ‘trying’ to scare anyone,” he says with an accent I can’t place. “This the new boyfriend?” His cold eyes land on Rome.
The boyfriend tries to nudge Alessandra off his lap, but she wraps her arms firmly around his neck. “Yes, this is my boyfriend, Rome.” She lifts her chin.
“Rome wasn’t built in a day, but he can disappear in one,” Maks says in an eerily calm tone, his eyes never leaving the boyfriend’s.
“Uh, I’ll just wait for my dad in the car.” Rome jumps off the stool, nearly knocking Alessandra onto her ass as he hurries across the room.
Maks lowers his hand from the door frame but doesn’t move, forcing a wide-eyed Rome to squeeze past him sideways.
“Are you happy?” Alessandra hisses, crossing her arms.
“ You be happy it was me instead of Angelo in this kitchen.” Maks matches Alessandra’s stance with his muscular arms now crossed.
Her eyes narrow to tiny slits. “Like you won’t go narc to my brother like a good little lap dog.”
“I prefer attack dog.” He bares his teeth.
“Um, yeah.” I clear my throat. “So I’m just going to take Nola some treats.” I start for the exit, but Maks throws up his hand again, blocking me. “You want me to limbo? Because I’m not that flexible. Never understood how people can bend their backs so low.”
He doesn’t move.
“Remi, ignore him. The rabid lapdog has no house training.” She shoots Maks a death glare before turning her attention back to me. “Why did Nola need a vet? And why were my brother’s clothes soaked?”
“Nola loves to play in the bath, but it never crossed my mind that she’d get in the pool.” A feeble defense of my cat parenting skills. “Your brother found her stuck in the deep end, and he jumped in and rescued her.”
“My brother? As in Angelo Calvani?” Alessandra’s jaw falls open
“ Non far scorrere la bocca, bambina .” Maks cuts his eyes to her.
“ Non sono una bambina, ” she replies with attitude.
His phone buzzes, and he grabs it from his pocket. Without a word, he turns around and walks off.
“That’s right, go heel like a good boy,” Alessandra calls after him. “If anyone asks, I’ll be outside making sure Rome doesn’t disappear,” she tells me with a huff, stomping off.
“Guess it’s true: all roads do lead to Rome.” I take the treat jar with me, my stride faltering when I reach the study.
Angelo’s lying on the floor with his wet dress shirt and tie discarded beside him. Nola’s lounging on his chest, her paws kneading his bare skin as she purrs contentedly.
And my heart practically melts.
“There you are.” Angelo spots me. “She hated my wet shirt,” he explains.
Nola spots the treat jar and jumps off him, bounding across the room. Watching out of the corner of my eye as Angelo rises, I agree with Nola: hate the wet shirt.
Two Italian words span his broad chest: Puro Dispetto . Beneath the ink, a delicious smattering of chest hair. My eyes follow the happy trail below his navel, disappearing beneath the waist of his designer pants.
It’s Angelo’s turn to clear his throat, and my eyes snap to his, my cheeks flaming. “Thank you. Not for taking off your shirt. I mean, sure, it’s a nice, um?—”
“View?”
“Tattoo. I was going to say tattoo.” I pause, trying to get it together. “What I mean is, thank you for rescuing my cat.”
Nola meows .
“You’re not a cat. I didn’t mean she’s a cat.” Flustered, I sigh loudly. “Thank you for rescuing Nola.”
A smile teases the corner of his lips. He takes a step closer, and I take a step back.
He advances again, with me bumping into the door.
His arms cage my face as he leans in, his warm breath fanning my face.
“You’re keeping secrets, Remi, and I will find out.
” Not a threat, but in Angelo Calvani’s mind, a statement of fact.
“The hard way, or the easy way. Your choice.”
“Alright, I’ll tell you my secret, but you have to promise not to tell anyone.
” Dramatic pause. “I don’t like crawfish.
There, I said it. Yes, it’s sacrilegious coming from a Cajun.
But I cannot eat a mud bug while their little dead eyes stare at me, and then I’m supposed to suck out their brains? ” I shudder.
“Tell me where you got Nola,” he says, clearly unamused.
My heart thuds frantically. “That’s none of your business.”
“Everything about you is my business.”
“Are you this invasive with all your ‘houseguests?’” I deflect.
“I don’t typically entertain larcenist houseguests,” he answers dryly.
“How boring for you. We’re a much more interesting lot, us larcenists.”
Not even a hint of a smile.
“Trade you a secret for a secret,” I try.
“The problem with that offer, Remi, is that you have no bargaining leverage.”
“Oh, I think I do,” I inform him.
Understanding washes over his handsome face, and he drops his hands and searches his coat pockets for his missing phone.
“I’ll give it back, but only if you tell me a secret. What’s tattooed on your chest? And not just the translation, but the meaning behind it.”
“I’ll tell you, but only if you tell me how you came into ‘possession’ of Sienna D’Amico’s cat,” he counters.