67. Kingsley
67
KINGSLEY
W hile Dante occupies the Lotus Building in one of the busiest streets in the Central Business District, I am located directly opposite him in the super secure VC Tower, where I reside in the Penthouse, with the two floors below for security, and a further two floors in which I conduct business. Not that I have any idea what to do, but that’s where my advisors come in. The selection panel has been stringent, with Claymore filtering through each and every candidate before he recommends them to Dante and Durian for their approval. Both men seem to be taking their vow to ensure my safety to the extreme.
Once we have a solid team going, they move into the tower and commence on their work, explaining and teaching me the ins and outs of business beyond what I had learnt during the years of my accelerated but rather limited college education. The advisors are well versed in letting me know what is expected of me (not much beyond decision making) and how to handle particular situations and different assets.
We haven’t heard a peep out of Tate, and Claymore, checking in on me every second day, assures me that he has people out hunting for him as well as others investigating his affiliations in an attempt to discover the identity of the mercenaries who had attacked Dante’s home.
And now to add to our woes, there is the matter of Tate being responsible for Rollo’s death. And his attempt on my father’s life. Which, if I am sure of anything, would not go unpunished. My father may be gone, but vengeance is well and truly alive.
Dante comes to see me a few days after I’ve settled into the Tower, striding casually into my office with his hands in his pockets like he owns the place. He wants to know how things are going, any issues I am having, and anything he can possibly help with. I can’t ignore how my stylist, in a corner of the room zipping up her portfolio, stops midway and stands ogling Dante. Yes, ogling.
“My Advisors are keeping my hands full,” I tell him, dismissing the stylist. She’d been foisted upon me against my better judgment. But I have to agree she has done wonders for my wardrobe.
I come around the desk and lean against it, my skirt riding up my thighs slightly. I watch as Dante’s eyes stray to the slit in the side of the fabric.
“Yes, I can see that,” he murmurs, his eyes climbing my body and skimming dangerously close to my cleavage before they rise to meet mine. “You have time for coffee?”
“I have a meeting in fifteen. How about dinner?”
“Done.”
“See you at my place at seven,” I call after him. He turns back and looks at me in surprise. He’d been expecting that we go out. I have other plans. He laughs and shakes his head before he walks out of my office.
There’s something to be said about living and working in the same building. The sheer convenience of it is remarkable. And having all the facilities I need inside the Penthouse makes life that much better. I do yearn for something more scenic, maybe some land with a quaint garden, but Dante has assured me this is only a short term arrangement until any and all threats have been contained. It makes more sense, he believes, for me to restrict my movements around the city to only those that are absolutely necessary. It helps that Dante is situated right across the road. If he doesn’t pop in daily, he at least calls, and we have fallen into a comfortable familiarity where we tap dance around one another every chance we get.
I make my way up to the Penthouse just after 6pm, showering quickly before throwing on sweats and a t-shirt and clipping my hair up high atop my head. Dante is punctual, a habit I find endearing for a man. He is one of the few I know who is so regimented when it comes to schedules.
“What do you feel like eating?” I ask him, picking up a menu. Another thing I love about the Tower is the 24-hour room service. The kitchen never closes, and no matter what I want, the food here is always amazing.
“Are you kidding me?” he jokes. “You invite me to your place for dinner, and you’re not even going to cook for me?”
I laugh with him and settle into the couch, folding my legs under me like I love to.
“For that, I get to choose what we’re eating.”
After we polish off our steaks and steamed vegetables with extra mash and gravy, one of my favorite dishes, Dante falls back into the sofa and extends his arms across the back, throwing his head back and sighing. Something which I know he picked up from me, because he’s watched me do it a hundred times before.
“I just want to know if doing that gives you as much satisfaction as I get when I do it?” I ask, genuinely curious. When I throw myself into the couch like that, I feel the giddiness all the way down to my soul.
“Probably not,” he says. “I think I took a leaf out of your book and over-ate.”
“I told you to stop eating.”
“I’m going out to the terrace.”
I give him a few minutes, rinsing out the glasses and placing them in the dishwasher, then follow him out to the terrace. His hands are clasped over the rails and he’s looking out at the city, breathing in the cool night air. It is so peaceful.
I stand beside him, leaning my back into the rails, and turn to face him. I study his profile, like I haven’t already committed every ridge and valley to memory. His whisky eyes still glisten with humor at every turn, his finely chiseled face angular and peppered with his 5 o’clock shadow. He never gets rid of it. He wears his black hair slightly longer in the back now, and I know if he didn’t cut it soon, it will be only a matter of time before it starts trailing down his neck. Tonight, he seems a million miles away, and I wonder what is occupying his mind.
“What’s going on with you?” I ask, cutting into his thoughts.
“Are you doing okay, Kingsley?” he asks, genuine concern in his voice.
“Don’t do that, Dante.”
“Do what?”
“Don’t answer one of my questions with one of your own. Don’t deflect.”
“I’m not deflecting.”
“Oh for fuck’s sake, Dante! Are we back to this now? Just tell me what you’re thinking, tell me what you’re feeling. Don’t avoid my questions and make the conversation about me. Again.”
I throw my hands up in the air, exasperated, and storm into the house. I have a mind to close the door and lock him outside on the terrace. But I won’t. Instead, I slump against the couch and hold a cushion to my stomach like it is body armor. Thirty seconds later, he follows me in, sitting opposite me and taking a deep breath. He hangs his head, perhaps thinking about what he wants to say, and takes forever about it as my anger continues to consume me.
“You can’t keep doing this, Dante. It’s like we’re running circles around each other.”
“I’m not doing anything.”
“That’s my point.”