Chapter 11
Chapter Eleven
Remi
I don’t tell Angelo the part where I was dumb enough to get involved with a mark, because I find myself on the brink of history repeating itself.
“My ex was a trumpet player in the house band at Hotel D’Amico’s lounge,” I tell him instead.
“I’d hang around listening to him play, and that’s how I crossed paths with Sienna. ”
“When was this?”
“A few months ago,” I answer. “Sienna’s husband gifted her a Savannah, and the woman hated the cat. Somehow, I got roped into being the pet sitter. My keyboard was gone, and I needed the cash, so I jumped at the opportunity.”
“What happened to your keyboard?” Angelo raises an eyebrow.
“My dad found it under my bed and pawned it the same day I brought it home.” I blink rapidly, fighting back the tears.
“Earlier that year, he’d already pawned MawMaw’s piano that I loved playing, but him doing the same thing to my keyboard?
That was it for me; I cut ties with him and moved in with my boyfriend. ”
“And Nola?” he prompts.
“I never had a cat before, but Nola and I clicked. She wasn’t bad, she just needed love and attention, neither of which she was getting from Sienna.”
Remi
A few months ago…
“This fucking cat has pissed on my custom chaise lounge from Milan!” Sienna shouts by way of greeting. “I’m going to kill her and mount her head over my desk!”
Nola, the queen that she is, watches Sienna’s tantrum with bored indifference from her perch on top of the non-soiled couch.
“Come on, Nola. Let’s practice pottying outside with your harness and leash.” I grab the treat bag from my pocket, and the cat bounds over. I squat down and get her situated, rewarding her cooperation with a little pellet. “Good girl.”
Standing, I clear my throat and address Sienna. “I was wondering if you had a chance to talk to your husband ? —”
“If there’s a chance not to talk to that man, I take it,” she says with a dramatic sigh.
“I meant, about me auditioning ? —”
“Remi, I’m sure you’re a good cornet player ? —”
“Piano. I play the piano,” I remind her.
“Piano.” Sienna waves her manicured hand. “My point is, this stage is the hottest in town. Every musician wants to play here, and you have to be the best of the best to make the cut.”
“But if I could only audition ? —”
“Real talk here, Remi. You’re too sweet for this cutthroat world. You’ll get chewed up and spit out.”
I go to argue, but she sticks her head out the door. “I need a piece of furniture moved to the curb yesterday! And someone call the cleaners to deep clean my office!”
“Come on, Nola,” I tell the cat, who’s bored with us and has decided now is the perfect opportunity for a grooming session.
Another treat gets her attention, and I lead her out and through the service entrance.
“Listen, I don’t blame you for peeing on Sienna’s furniture, but you’ve got to behave, okay? I’m afraid she’s going to put you down, for real.”
Nola meows.
“I’m going to hold you to that,” I tell her.
We begin our stroll, with the cat having quickly learned from our previous leash training sessions. “What a smart girl you are,” I praise. The cat is smart as a whip; that’s not the problem. The problem is her human.
I worry my bottom lip with my teeth, going over what I should’ve said to Sienna to land an audition.
Cutthroat world? Lady, I was trained to be a pickpocket at age eight.
I think I know a thing or two about cutthroat worlds.
But to tell her about my past would be to shoot myself in the foot. Who trusts a thief?
No one, that’s who.
“How you walkin’ a bobcat on a leash?” Someone calls, interrupting my thoughts.
“She’s not a bobcat.”
“Looks like a bobcat to me.”
“Well, she’s not.”
We reach the park, with Nola stopping in the grass to do her business. “Good girl,” I tell her when she finishes and buries the evidence. “See, going potty outside is so much better.”
She gives me an indifferent look as we continue our stroll around the park.
“Done seen it all now!” A passerby says with a laugh.
“Don’t listen to them,” I tell Nola as we reach the fountain and turn around.
“Remi, there you are,” my dad calls, and I ignore him, picking up the pace. “Hold up. Is that a leopard?” He catches up with me, eyeing Nola.
“She’s not a leopard. Or a bobcat. Or a cheetah. Or any other wild cat, alright?”
“Alright.” He holds up his hands. “Can we talk?”
“I’m working.”
“You’re walking a damn cat on a leash.”
Nola hisses at him.
“I’m working.” I grit.
“Look, baby girl, I’m sorry. I fucked up, alright? Please come home. I miss my partner in crime.” My dad’s so charismatic, every time I say I’m done with him, he pulls me back into his orbit.
But not this time.
“I bet you do. Let me guess, you’ve been evicted. Again.” I had more addresses growing up than a military brat.
“It’s just a temporary setback.”
I scoff. “It always is.”
“Listen, I’ve got us a hustle lined up that’ll get you back your keyboard and then some. I’m talking big bucks.” He rubs his hands together.
“Bye, Dad.”
Nola and I shake him on the way back to the hotel. “Yeah, that’s my dad. He’s a real piece of work.”
She meows in agreement.
We reach Sienna’s office, but something doesn’t feel right. I lean my ear against the door.
“Oh, fuck yes, Sienna!” Ellis moans.
I silently push open the door to find my boyfriend fucking my boss on her desk.
“You stole Nola to give her a better life,” Angelo guesses.
I shake my head. “I stole Nola because her owner fucked my boyfriend.”
His head tips back with laughter.
“It’s not funny!” I cry. “ I was completely devastated when I walked in on Ellis and Sienna fucking.”
“Remi, I’m not amused by your pain, but by your resourcefulness.” My body stills when his thumb brushes my cheek ever so softly. “Good for you, exacting some payback.”
Swallowing the lump in my throat, I tell him, “It’s not like I really ‘stole’ Sienna’s cat. You’ve met Nola. That cat isn’t going to do anything she doesn’t want to do. She chose me as her human, so no, I don’t feel bad about taking her.”
“Nor should you. And what happened to this pitiful excuse for a boyfriend?” Angelo presses, any trace of softness disappearing.
“Nope. C’est tout. I’ve told you the story of how I came into possession of Nola. Your turn.”
He crosses his foot at the ankle, a formal move for a barefoot man. And not that I’m a foot fetish kinda girl, but he does have nice-looking feet. But that’s not surprising. The man’s polished within an inch of his life.
“What?” He catches me staring.
“You’re too formal, even when you’re trying to be informal.”
“And that’s a problem?”
I shake my head. “Not a problem, but a symptom. You definitely need more joie de vivre. ”
“Again with your professional psychic opinion?” he mocks.
I grab his large hand, flipping it over and tracing his life line. “Be nice to your houseguest, and I might give you that palm reading. After you tell me about your tattoo.”
“ Puro Dispetto. ” The lovely Italian rolls off Angelo’s tongue. “It means ‘Pure Spite.’ I run the family business, but it wasn’t my choice.”
“What do you mean?” I ask, hanging onto his every word as I trace the lines of his palm. It’s doubtful Angelo lets many people touch him, and secretly, I’m eating it up with a spoon.
“I was in my final year of college on the East Coast when I was summoned home to my father’s deathbed. He strong-armed me into continuing his legacy,” Angelo says, lost in thought. “My back was to the wall, and here I am.”
“But Alessandra said your father passed away, so why don’t you get the choice now?” I wonder.
He runs his free hand through his inky black hair. “It’s complicated.”
“Mob business sounds like it.” Realizing my mistake, I drop his hand, slapping both of mine over my mouth.
Angelo silently rises and crosses the room to the wet bar. He pours himself a finger’s worth of whiskey, kicking it back. The empty glass is being gripped so tightly I’m afraid it’ll shatter.
“I didn’t think you drank alcohol,” I comment, for lack of anything else to say.
“I indulge in one drink a week,” he answers in a clipped tone.
“I’d hardly call that an indulgence.”
He returns to the couch, leaning forward and tenting his fingers. “You’re right. But what is an indulgence is my softness towards you.”
I make a show of looking around. “Is the softness in the room with us?”
Angelo’s so damn fast; his hand is already banded around my neck as his thumb rubs lazy circles over my pounding pulse. “You’ve heard the expression ‘curiosity killed the cat.’”
“Nola’s an exception to that rule,” I whisper.
“And you think you’re an exception to my rules? My ‘family’s’ rules?” The sharp edge to his voice cuts like a knife.
“Why can’t I be? You’re the boss, so you get to make the rules, right?” I whisper, my heart beating against my ribcage like a snare drum.
“I do make the rules, Remi,” he says, his voice cold as an arctic blast. “Best you never forget it. My phone.” An order, not a question.
“In Nola’s treat jar.”
He releases his hold and crosses the room, retrieving his phone before stalking out.