4. Chapter Four—Carlotta
Chapter Four—Carlotta
“Carlotta.” I blink, only just catching the blouse thrusted at my chest by my boss. “The client wants a medium. Be a doll and check the back, won’t you?”
Painting a waxy smile onto my face, I nod, making a beeline for the stockroom.
Finding it empty, I run my in-desperate-need-of-a-manicure nails through the racks of expensive cuts of silk hanging in the stockroom, taking my time searching for the correct size.
The peace and quiet, silent except for the hum emanating from the aircon, is a welcome reprieve from the constant overwhelming sights and smells of the shop floor.
Amid the stacks, I sink down onto the stool we use to reach the higher shelves, tipping my head back to rest on the wall and closing my heavy eyes for a heartbeat or two,
Every single day since Cristiano’s funeral three weeks ago, has felt like Groundhog Day.
I wake up with a gasp, sweat dripping down my back, the sodden bedsheets tangled around my legs, keeping me there captive; just like in my nightmare.
More times than I care to admit do I have to wipe at my cheeks, scrubbing away the crust of silent tears that have fallen in the night.
On autopilot, I shower and dress for the workday, skipping breakfast completely. I grab a coffee from the coffee shop on the corner, hardly speaking a word to the barista, before I hightail it out of there.
It’s a chore to portray a smile at my job as a personal shopper, to engage customers in friendly conversation while I lead them around the shop floor, picking and choosing articles of clothing, shoes and accessories here and there.
Finding words feels too hard.
How am I supposed to show interest in what my client is wearing to the charity gala next weekend, when I can’t feel a thing.
I don’t feel happy or sad, not anymore. I’m not even sure I feel angry, either.
Sometimes, when I’m alone, I can convince myself Cristiano is still alive and breathing.
But then the nightmares begin again—the image of him lying, eyes closed, in his white silk coffin swimming to the forefront of my mind—and I remember he’s dead.
“Carlotta,” Claire, one of my co-worker hisses, breaking the tranquil peace of my solitude by sticking her head through the door in search of me. “I don’t know what you’re doing in here, but Jane sent me to tell you to ‘hurry the fuck up.’ And…”
I sigh, pressing my hands to my skirt clad thighs and standing amid the racks of clothing and shelves of shoes. I guess my quiet time is up. “And?”
Claire glances over her shoulder and then back at me, her charcoal black lined eyes wide.
“There’s a man at the counter. He’s asking specifically for you.”
Winding my way past the fur coats, I furrow my brow. “For me?”
Claire bobs her head up and down quickly, chancing another glance over her shoulder.
Who on earth would be coming here just for me?
It can’t be a regular client, asking for my assistance personally, because Claire would have recognized them. She and I work most of our shift patterns together, so she knows my list of monthly regulars.
Could it be something to do with Cristiano…
No. The last words my mother spoke to me, over text message may I add, was that she would be handling the rest of Cristiano’s assets. Whatever that meant.
Too knee deep in my grief, I simply left the message on read.
Let her get her manicured hands on whatever was left.
The morning of the burial, I’d overhead the priest gossiping to one of the nuns about Cristiano’s lack of will. Not that I was surprised, he wouldn’t have, seeing as how he was still young, fit and healthy.
And with no partner or descendants, who would he even pen down as his beneficiaries? Me? Yeah, right. Mother? Highly unlikely, unless the two of them had gotten closer in the absence of my leave.
For the umpteenth time, the knot in my stomach tightens, reminding me that I hardly knew my brother.
At least, not the man he became. I still thought of him as the gangly twenty-one-year-old poised to take over the Bellucci affairs, when really all he was interested in was getting high with his friends and chasing skirts.
“Carlotta?”
Ignoring Claire’s soft eyes and the reach of her hand, landing quickly on my shoulder and giving it a quick squeeze in empathy, I yank open the door and slip out.
I don’t want her pity. It was a mistake to tell her about my brother’s death. I should have just kept my mouth shut.
Repainting the tight-lipped smile on my face, I leave Claire and stalk back across to my boss and her awaiting client.
“I’m so sorry.” I clasp my hands in front of me. “I couldn’t find any mediums in the back. Would you like to try on something else, we have some beautiful pieces over by the handbags. Brand new in just this morning.”
The client, a short brunette, nods with a grin, floating off to take a look.
“Where the hell have you been?” Jane grits out, eyes flashing with annoyance.
I blink up at her in an act of innocence. “I had to make a quick detour to the ladies.”
“Next time, make it quicker,” she snips.
“I’ll handle this client. There’s a tall man at the counter, asking for you.
He doesn’t look like he has the money to be shopping here, but still, looks can be deceiving.
” At this, she looks me up and down haughtily.
“Smile, Carlotta. Or do I need to break out the Vaseline?”
Shaking my head, I smile widely. For the first month of working here, I was made to smear Vaseline onto my front teeth so I wouldn’t be tempted to stop smiling. Have you ever tasted Vaseline? No? Well, I’ll tell you, it tastes disgusting. Greasy, too.
After a couple of weeks, the constant ache in my cheeks disappeared and the muscles in my face got the memo.
Turning my thin stiletto heel, I march my ass through the displays of clothing, lingerie and accessories, bypassing the changing rooms and veering a sharp left to the checkout counter.
I see him before he sees me.
Head bowed, he appears to be typing something on his phone, the device comically small in his broad hands, but he straightens up at the sound of my heels clicking against the hardwood floor.
Jane was right.
He is tall, with a shock of blonde hair, shaved shorted on the sides and longer on top. Easily long enough to pull with my fingers and—
My steps falter in surprise at the hot thrill of arousal shooting through my core. It’s the first thing other than emptiness that I’ve felt in nearly a month.
Wading through the unsteady and unpredictable sea of grief, I haven’t been in the mood to do much of anything, really. Unless, crawling into bed, staying up late mindlessly watching reality TV shows to block out the cavern of what-ifs in my mind, counts.
I haven’t been in the right frame of mind to be visiting Nameless; dodging Sir’s text messages and phone calls at every opportunity.
I don’t even know how he got my number, but I know it’s him.
He makes sure to sign off every text—just because I haven’t been answering, doesn’t mean I haven’t been reading the messages—so it’s impossible for me to forget.
Once or twice, I thought about telling him what was going on in my life, only to type out my message and erase the whole thing a minute later.
It’s none of his business and I don’t want his pity.
Just like I don’t want Claire’s.
At the sight of the handsome blonde in front of me, my body perks up, blood rushing warm through my veins, rising to the surface of my skin until I can feel my cheeks beginning to prickle with heat with the intensity of his stare.
The tall, muscular length of him is dressed head to toe in black, a tight fitting henley visible beneath his open wool jacket, dark wash denim jeans, and a pair of casual sneakers on his feet.
Those eyes of his, brown, I notice, once I come to a stop in front of him, trail down the length of my body before bouncing back to my face.
A rush of heady confidence runs through me at the knowledge he’s checking me out, while a boyish smirk crawls across his plush looking lips when he realizes, he’s been caught red handed.
“Can I help—” I start before the air is knocked from my lungs. “It’s you.”
The floor feels unsteady beneath my feet, just as it did on the day of Cristiano’s burial, when I stood for hours in the pouring rain, the sodden grass tickling my bare toes.
I hardly felt the harsh cut of the wind against my flesh or the whip of the freezing rain, until the bodily warmth of somebody else had sparked a small fire in the pit of my stomach.
Holding an umbrella for the both of us, the man had spoken, voice low and gruff, but I’d taken no real notice of him.
Until right this second.
He stands before me, looking entirely too calm for my liking.
“It’s me, indeed.” He grins, showcasing the twin dimples in his cheeks.
I can’t quite decide if I want to tumble into his arms or if I want to rake my nails across his handsome face.
Neither is the typical, rational response to bumping into somebody familiar.
But recently, I haven’t been feeling very rational about much of anything.
“What are you doing here?” I bite, crossing my arms over my chest. I catch the way his eyes dip down to where my breasts are pushing up, visible through the top two undone buttons of my white shirt, before he remembers himself.
Instead of answering my question, he reaches inside his jacket, pulling out a standard size manila envelope.
I stupidly take it when he hands it over to me, peering down at the lack of writing on the front.
“What—”
“Goodbye, Carlotta Bellucci.”
With his last words dying on his lips, he turns, stalking away. The strides of his long legs eating up the space, until he rounds the corner and out of sight.
I start forward, thinking of following him. I’ll take off my heels and run if I have to. It’s not like the crowded streets of New York City have never seen a shoeless woman running and shouting before, but I’m stopped by the waft of expensive perfume telling me that my boss is right behind me.
“Did he buy anything?”
Wordlessly, I shake my head. My lips, my hands, my body, everything feels entirely numb.
“Did he schedule an appointment?”
Again, I shake my head.
“Well, what did he want for God’s sakes?” Jane spits out.
I pop my shoulders, eyes still fixed on the spot where he disappeared.
“I have no idea. None at all.”
I still feel entirely numb as I finish the rest of my shift, the unmarked envelope burning a hole in the bottom of my handbag where I’ve stuffed it for safe keeping.
The moment I clock off, spilling out on to the bustling street of fifth avenue, I fish out the thick, cream card, accidentally bending the top left corner in the process.
Hands rippling with a slight tremor of apprehension, I rip into the envelope without preamble, yanking out the single card hidden inside.
The loud, busy streets of the city, a light with a wash of golden color emanating from the store fronts, billboards and honking yellow cabs fade into the background as I begin to read.
Miss Carlotta Bellucci,
In recent light of your brother, Cristiano Bellucci’s untimely passing, you are now requested to overtake his role as a member of The Thirteen.
You are ordered to meet at Euphoria—Saturday 21 9 p.m.
EUPHORIA
Grand Street, Manhattan
NYC
Weapons are to be left at the door.
Don’t be late.
The Thirteen.
Somebody bumps into me, forcing me to pitch forward slightly, only just catching myself in the front of my heels before I fall. They shout something. A profanity, probably. But I hardly hear them; their voice sounding low and watery as if underwater.
Heart racing wildly, I hightail it down the street, my breathing coming in uneven pants with every step.
Curling my fingers around the card tightly, I swing my gaze left and right searching for…him. The tall, blonde, Viking of a man who hand delivered the card in my fist and knew me by name.
I swallow thickly, my tongue stuck to the dry roof of my mouth.
With his height and shock of blonde hair, he would be easy to spot, even among the crowds milling about the block.
Unless, of course, I realize with a sickening lurch of my gut, he’s in disguise.
A heavy pulsing, in time with the beating of my heart, begins to thrum behind my temples, making my vision become spotty.
Ignoring the ache in the back of my calves, I pick up speed, practically jogging around the corner. It would be easier to catch a cab back to my apartment, faster too, but my skin prickles at the very thought.
I don’t trust anyone right now, not even an innocent cab driver.
By the time I cocoon myself in the safety of my empty apartment elevator, coat slung over my arm, blouse and skirt stuck to my skin with sweat and my feet aching with the pressure from my stilettos, do I know one thing for certainty.
Somebody is watching me.