Chapter 17
Chapter Seventeen
Gossip Fodder
Raf
I knew that the blog blast would put me on AJ’s radar.
It was a necessary move to create a reason for him to seek me out.
It only took one cease and desist and threat of a defamation lawsuit to deter GG from ever making me or my life gossip fodder again.
It didn’t mean I didn’t know how to find her.
Or how to make her work to my advantage.
In hindsight, joke was on me, because as the old saying goes, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.
If I’d taken the whispers of my then-girlfriend’s indiscretions that wound up on GG’s radar a little more seriously instead of jumping to her defense in the most nuclear way, I probably would have saved myself from the humiliation that followed when our relationship imploded in the most spectacular fashion.
And yet here I am, going nuclear. Again.
This time in the name of justice for a firecracker with a sharp tongue and green eyes that shine like crystal and splinter the walls of my self-preservation.
I need to know if AJ is a willing accomplice to his father’s grand plans for Chiara.
Or if he has enough of a heart to spare her from the ruthlessness he’s made his entire personality.
I saw the determination and desperation in her face today.
This opportunity with Natalia is a lifeline, and I fear stripping it from her will be the last straw.
It would shatter every single one of her dreams into a million pieces, taking her along with it.
I alert my driver that we’ll need to leave in the next ten minutes, and then I quickly gather Chiara’s signed paperwork and put it in my tray so Sophia can complete the next steps to get it finalized.
My eyes snag on the sleek, matte-black box tied with a black Louis Vuitton ribbon.
I know I should return to sender, but my curiosity gets the better of me.
I snatch the box up like someone might catch me doing something that might reveal the truth—that the woman I claim is a nuisance has consumed more of my thoughts since the moment I met her than I am comfortable admitting.
That it’s taking all my energy to keep up the ruse of feigning disinterest. That my willpower almost snapped when she spread her legs like a temptress offering herself to me in lace panties and a bra the same shade of crimson red as Eve’s apple.
I pluck one end of the ribbon and untie the bow, eager to see the picture I know is in that box.
She didn’t take kindly to my praise after I insulted her by saying I didn’t care for the exhibition at all, but I stand by it: Chiara is an exceptionally talented photographer.
The pictures she had taken of strangers of various ages, races, and classes showcased her talent for capturing her subjects in a way that made all those things fall away, leaving an image that made you feel like you could see into their soul.
With trepidation, I lift the lid and push aside the tissue paper.
There’s a black envelope on top of a flash of red.
It’s addressed to me. I peel back the wax seal, marveling at her attention to details.
I pull out the textured card, noting how even her writing is alluring.
Dear Raf,
Please accept this replacement tie as an apology for ruining your other one and as a not-so-subtle hint that you need to up your tie game.
I know black is your default color, but I think red suits your personality far better.
P.S. I just took a guess for what inches I was working with, so I hope I got it right. For the record, your BDE is top tier.
Love always,
Chiara xx
I chuckle at her audacity and lift out the tie first, running the cool silk through my fingers.
I imagine all the other uses for it, namely wrapped around her wrists, my hands fisted in her hair.
Fuck. Get a grip, Raf. I silently berate myself for letting my mind wander to dangerous territory.
Again. Next, I lift the tissue paper to reveal the picture of me from the first time we met.
It’s been professionally framed, and the image of me striding through the hall has been turned black and white.
The composition and treatment make it feel like I’m in flight, every line and detail conveying the intensity of the movement but also dare I say of my personality.
Stoic. Determined. Impenetrable. The glint she’s captured in my inky eyes makes me consider if she can see it too.
The fire that bubbles under the icy exterior.
The same one she’s trying her best to crack through like a wrecking ball.
I pull out my top drawer and place the frame face down, then fold the tie neatly and put it in my leather briefcase to take home with me. An odd sensation blooms in my chest at the thought of having a piece of her with me.
My phone chimes to let me know my driver is ready for me.
It’s time to confront the only man with the pull to save Chiara from an arrangement that will spell the end of her dreams and promise a life of misery.
A bleak nightmare for a creative soul who dreams in color.
She may grate on my patience, but seeking justice for those who can’t do it for themselves is a part of my job I take incredibly seriously.
She deserves to have at least one person fight for her justice.
Except when I replay that thought, it sounds a lot more like, She deserves at least one person who will fight for her.
I slide into the back seat of the car and give my driver the location. The GPS says it will only take about eleven minutes to reach AJ’s address in Hudson Yards. I let Marco know I’m on the way and then address the text message I’ve avoided since the blog blast went out.
Seeing as I approved the final version blasted out, there’s really no need for me to click on the link again.
But I do, and just like the first time I saw the images they used, I marvel at the way Chiara’s body looks so small wrapped in my arms, her head against my chest like it’s a spot custom-made for her to slot into.
There’s another where she looks far more powerful than her stature suggests as she arrives at my office, but neither makes my body come to life with possessive need like the one of her wearing my clothes.
I thought it was a one-time thing when it happened initially, but the fact that a repeat look has set a flurry of tiny shocks rushing through my body tells me otherwise.
If I don’t get these inconvenient reactions in check, I’m liable to make more bad decisions.
And I simply cannot afford any more of those.
Especially since I made such a spectacle about only keeping our business strictly client and attorney.
Checking the waiting message from my father will surely serve as the reminder I need.
Dad:
Raf, have you lost your ever-loving mind? Of all the single women in the whole of New York, you choose the niece of a mafioso to break your dry spell? Have all my kids gone mad?
Not that it’s any of your business, but she stayed in the guest room.
Dad:
And why was she pictured leaving our offices this morning?
She’s a paying client.
Dad:
What in God’s name! You can’t sleep with clients.
As the paperwork will show, she was not a client at the time of that photograph.
Dad:
Semantics, and you know it. The optics are questionable at best.
Innocent until proven guilty.
Dad:
I hope you know what you’re doing, son. I have worked hard to build this firm into what it is, with a vision to pass it over to you.
Not everything is about you. I’ve got it handled. And for the record, I’ve worked damn hard too.
Dad:
That’s my point, son. I wouldn’t entrust it to anyone else. You’ve never given me reason to think you weren’t up for the job. This just feels very out of character.
I’ve got it handled.
And that’s when it hits me. I’ve been playing the role of the unaffected, serious, unfeeling lawyer for so long that even my own father couldn’t see past the character.
And yet in the space of four weeks, she found the hairline fractures and exposed my protective and possessive side that very few get to see.
The side of me I hadn’t entrusted to anyone since Victoria Williamson proved she had so little regard for the organ that only beat for her that she ripped it from my chest, stomped on it, then left me holding it, bloodied but still beating.
I knew with certainty in that moment that I would no longer have any use for it.
It became reclusive. Disfigured. A piece of shrapnel that remained inside me from the bomb she detonated.
I was content to let it be decommissioned.
Become defunct. Yet there is no mistaking the faint staccato stuttering through my entire body since Chiara’s arrival.
Thump. Thump. Thump. A sure sign of life.
Outside of my control. A state of being I despise, because control is the state of mind that gives me the professional prowess I’m revered for.
Made me the man I am. But maybe I want to be revered for more. Maybe I want to be someone’s man.
Marco’s voice pulls me back to the present. All ridiculous notions of being anyone other than an unaffected asshole flit away as I make my way to our meeting spot.
“We’ve got about fifteen minutes tops until Avery arrives,” he says as he calls the elevator, then side eyes me.
“I could have just set the record straight. I was the one who tasked you to take Chiara home. Though explaining the pics of her wearing your clothes and leaving your office this morning may have taken a bit more creative storytelling. Want to explain?”
I watch as Marco keys in the code followed by what I ascertain is the penthouse apartment given the very top floor lights up.
“I could ask you the same question,” I snap with more bite than intended.