Chapter 11
eleven
Over the past week, Vanessa and I have settled into an uncomfortable routine.
She’s gone before I wake in the morning, Doug and I enjoy our walks through town around sunrise, and we stay out of each other’s way during the day for the most part.
I’ve learned she opens the shop late on Wednesday mornings so she can attend early morning yoga with Rory, and she sleeps like the literal dead, so I’m not shocked she slept through a masked intruder invading her home.
Today, she made herself scarce while Breaker and I argued back and forth about delivery routes and bank accounts as discreetly as possible.
Several times today I’ve left the apartment to field phone calls from Matteo as he relayed information on how our plan is unfolding.
The men have managed to successfully win Luca’s trust, gathering information on his next delivery disruption and planning their own way to botch it without losing my product or blowing their cover.
I don’t want to endanger their lives any more than necessary.
After all, the men Matteo chose are my family, my responsibility, men who rely on me to make decisions they can trust. But this is the nature of the beast in this life. Nothing in Fortuna Nera is truly safe.
It’s nearly nine at night before I have a chance to calm my nervous system.
For the first time since I opened my eyes this morning, I actually feel the smallest amount of peace.
Vanessa sits on the couch across the room, typing away on her laptop with her legs tucked under her butt.
Her brow is furrowed in concentration, but every few seconds she steals glances at me when she thinks I’m not looking.
After the sixth time, I meet her eyes, and she gasps, her cheeks flushing as she looks away quickly. I suppress my laughter and focus my attention back on my computer, responding to several more emails. She continues peeking over the edge of her screen at me, and I break the silence.
“What are you doing, Vanessa?”
“Quarterly taxes, you?” She looks over at me curiously.
“Planning an assassination.” I don’t bother looking up, knowing I’m not joking. She can interpret it in any way she chooses.
She’s quiet for several long moments, mulling over the validity of my statement before deciding to press for more information.
“What is it you do exactly?” She asks with trepidation.
“Mind my own business. Ever heard of it?” I quipped.
Her expression turns sour, and she sticks her tongue out at me. Scoffing at her behavior, I can’t help the question that arises, even though I know the answer already from my extensive research about her.
“Really? How old are you?”
“25. Well…almost,” she replies instantly just as I take a sip of my coffee. I choke. Hearing the truth for the first time out loud somehow feels more jarring than I expected. Twenty fucking four years old.
“You alright over there?” She asks, raising a brow. I brush her off, regaining my composure quickly with a nod. “Why? How old are you?
“40. Today.” I respond without looking away from my laptop screen. I don’t know what possibly possessed me to tell her it was my birthday. Maybe some sick part of me actually loves to be tortured.
The room goes silent. My fingers hover over the keys as I chance a look over at her face. She’s staring at me, a creepy serial killer smile painted across her face.
“Yes?” I ask.
“Today is your birthday?” She prods, and regret swirls deep in my gut. I never should’ve let that piece of information slip.
“Don’t.” I snap, but she’s practically bouncing in her seat.
“Come onnnnnn!” She barely contains her excitement, chewing on the edge of her lip repeatedly like she’s going to literally combust if I don’t cave to her enthusiasm.
“I haven’t celebrated my birthday in decades, Vanessa.” Something like sadness fills her eyes, and I feel even worse. I want her pity even less than I want her festivity.
“That’s just depressing as hell, Sebastian.” Her brows pinch together in that annoying way they do when she looks at something she finds sad. I hate that I've become so observant of her that I can recognize these expressions.
“Such is life, I suppose.” I reply, continuing to work without looking at the sympathy on her face.
Something throbs in my chest, a heavy weight settling against my ribs.
I don’t want to think about the idea that I may have missed out on anything by not celebrating my birth.
I do not dwell on things like this, it’s a waste of my valuable time.
“Would you…I know you don’t want to celebrate. Will you stop me from celebrating?” She asks, her voice barely above a whisper as she peers over at me.
My fingers hover over the keys on my laptop.
I can’t remember the last time someone offered to do something to celebrate me.
Matteo tries to take me out to the clubs every year, but I’m not young anymore.
I’m far past the age of gallivanting until the sun rises the next day.
Shit, I don’t think I ever really had a phase like that.
I was too busy learning from my father, doing my best to commit the lessons he was teaching me to memory for as long as I could before he died.
“What are you going to do? It’s not like there’s much of a nightlife here in Grovewood,” I eye her suspiciously, wondering what she’s playing at here.
“I don’t know what you mean. The froyo place is open until 10:30 pm, Seb. What more can you really ask for?” She smirks, and I can’t help but laugh.
Seb. Only my friends call me that. It’s strange how Vanessa has begun to feel more and more like a friend each day, despite my better judgement.
I don’t want to enjoy her company. I don’t want her presence in my apartment to make me feel somehow…
lighter. But I do, and it does. Maybe I’m just feeling lonely for the first time in my life. A midlife crisis of sorts.
“Don’t ignore my question. What are you going to do?” Closing the screen of my computer, my work abandoned for the distraction Vanessa brings.
“Will you let me make you a cake?” She asks hopefully, her caramel eyes wide as she looks deep into mine.
“I don’t like cake.” I reply coldly. I don’t really want to be an asshole. But I’m being honest. Sweets aren’t my forte.
“I can make tons of different desserts, Sebastian. My sister Aria went to culinary school back in Miami. She let me help her every time she was perfecting a recipe. I promise I won’t kill you. Not by accident, at least.” She gives me a devious smile, and I feel a chink in my armor.
“I like…” I pause, feeling exposed. I don’t give anyone personal details about myself. It feels too vulnerable, like I’m opening myself up to be too known, too seen. I hate it.
“Tell me. I promise I won’t use it to plot world domination.” Her smile is wide and beautiful, her tan skin practically glows with excitement that she could learn even an insignificant detail about me that no one else truly knows.
“Tiramisu. I like tiramisu.” I grumble.
The grin creeping across her face is criminal. I can see almost every one of her pearly white teeth as she bounces in her seat on the couch.
“Stop,” I say dryly, looking away from her. I don’t want to admit how fucking cute she looks right now.
“You mean to tell me, out of every single dessert on the planet you could possibly love, you love COFFEE CAKE?!” she shouts the last part, and I can’t help but bark out a laugh.
“Not the same thing!” I reply, jabbing a finger through the air in her direction. “Coffee cake is a cake. Tiramisu is a religious experience.”
“Oh, my apologies. I’m so sorry to offend you, m’lord.” She bows, making a huge show of being dramatic. I don’t want to find her funny, but I do.
“You should be sorry. You can make it up to me though. With tiramisu.” I smirk, and she claps her hands, giddy with excitement.
“With my over-roasted espresso? Done and done.” She winks back at me, scurrying away to the kitchen.
“You know, if you start that now, it won’t be ready until midnight?” I tell her, and she nods.
“I’m aware. Past your bedtime, gramps?” She quirks a brow, and my face falls, all humor gone from my expression.
“I’m nowhere near old enough to be anyone’s grandfather.” I tell her, and she shrugs.
“Actually, in theory, if you had a kid when you were twenty, she would be twenty right now. And she could have a kid of her own. So logically, you could be a grandpa very easily.” she says as she lines bowls up on the kitchen counter.
My stomach twists, a sick feeling building there. I don’t need any more reminders about the vast difference in age between Vanessa and I.
“That’s enough of that talk, thanks. I’ll be back.” I tell her, standing and walking out the front door, leaving her looking dumbfounded as the door closes behind me.
I need to put some fucking space between us.
This woman clouds my mind every time she’s near me.
I can’t think about the fact that she’s sixteen years younger than me or only hanging around me because she needs something from me.
I can’t think about anything but those full lips, her luminous tan skin, and gorgeous caramel eyes.
I can’t fucking focus on the reason I’m here in Grovewood to begin with.
Because my empire is standing on shaky ground at best. Doing something as stupid as entertaining my feelings for a quick fuck is the stupidest decision I could ever make.
Walking through the town square, I breathe in the cool night air.
It’s November, the chill moving in earlier and earlier in the evenings and throughout the days.
I miss the Mediterranean climate. I want to go home.
Italy is calling my name louder than it ever has before.
In my line of work, I’ve traveled constantly, never spending so much time at home that it truly felt like enough.
Miami satiates my need for activity, for constant motion.
Spain fulfills my desire for family, my mother’s roots running deep there and the culture always welcoming me with open arms. But Italy holds my heart. What little of it still exists.
Looking around this city, the small southern American charm saturating every inch of every street, my bones ache for home.
I want to drive with the top down through hundred-year-old vineyards for miles until no one can find me.
I want to eat pasta made by women who keep recipes like secrets they're willing to die for.
I want to listen to old men argue as they pull swordfish into their gozzi and steady myself on the uneven cobblestones of my homeland.
My world may be the dark underbelly of Italy, but I still make time for all the things that make the country truly beautiful. Being so far away is stifling.
My phone vibrates for the hundredth time today in my pocket, and I answer without hesitation.
“What is it this time, Teo?” I sigh, feeling heavier than I have all day.
“You need to come home.” He replies, his tone clipped and serious.
“Funny, I was just thinking the same thing.” I scoff.
“Luca hit two of our distribution warehouses. Of course, there were minimal supplies being kept there because we had knowledge these attacks were coming. But he knows. He knows there's a traitor in his operation, and he’s going off the rails, Bash. He’s threatening people’s lives.
The elders are talking. There’s too much upset going on, they need to see your face.
” Matteo sounds worn out. I hate the toll this is taking on him.
“I can’t keep hiding like this. It looks too weak. This isn’t the way I’ve ever ruled before, it’s not the leader I’ve ever been.” Breathing in the cool night air, I resign myself to what I have to do. There are no other options for me.
“I have to admit, I’m scared for you. But you’re right. You have to show your face, or he’s going to run rampant over this family. Fortuna Nera isn’t his playground, and you have to show him.” Matteo covers the speaker, speaking in hurried Italian to someone in the background.
“I’ll be home before the end of the week. Tell no one, I will make my own plans.” I tell him, leaving no room for discussion.
“I look forward to seeing you. Oh, and happy birthday, Bash. It’s a big one, old man. Don’t spend it holed up in that apartment alone.” He quips, and I end the call without another word.
Old man.
Fuck him. There’s nothing old about me. I’m in my fucking prime.
A flash of caramel eyes blazes through my mind, taking up space where it doesn’t belong, and I force it out.
Vanessa makes me feel years younger than I have in a long time, but I could never admit that to her.
It would feel too much like admitting a huge defeat.