Chapter 8
CHAPTER EIGHT
Valentina, AKA Landry
Deuce in a three-piece suit and a pocket square should be illegal.
Seriously. Who can pull off an outfit like that anymore?
It’s giving Al Capone, Cary Grant, Paul Newman, or Michael B.
Jordan when he won that Oscar vibes. After he closed up his boutique, I saw not one, not two, but three women nearly walk into traffic or a post because they were staring at him so hard.
For a man like that to reach forty-one years of age and still be single takes focus and determination.
I should know. I’m the same age and single too.
By choice, of course. Marriage in organized crime is rare due to trust issues and the high probability of dying.
But what’s Deuce’s reason for being single?
I don’t even hear Deuce calling me until his arm snakes around my waist and he chuckles warm and sensual in my ear.
“Landry, honey, you okay? Been calling you. We’re parked over here,” he says loudly, nodding hello as someone passes us on the sidewalk outside his boutique. When they’ve moved on, he growls in my ear. “Get it together, Valentina.”
I blink. Shit. I guess I do need to get my head back in the game. I smile over at him, realizing he’s definitely taller than me now that I traded the sky-high heels for sandals. I don’t like it.
“Sorry, honeybear. Just daydreamin’!”
Deuce’s smile tightens at the accent I’m still trying to nail. He steers me in the opposite direction and pushes me toward the matte-black Mercedes that’s over the top for a small town like this. He’d fit right in in the city, but Heaven, Mississippi, sees more trucks and SUVs than Batmobiles.
Deuce keeps up a steady stream of conversation on the way home, telling me all about his various customers today.
I spent very little time out on the sales floor, but from what I did see, the man knows how to run a successful business.
I wonder if that’s what I’ll do once things are cleared up in New York.
I haven’t given it much thought, but staying idle like I have the last year or so since retiring has proven boring.
As we’re entering his house, I miscalculate how much room I need to get through the doorway with my arms full of the binder Janie gave me.
Several sheets of paper slide out and I lunge for them.
The binder is bobbling, and as I try to steady it, I end up bashing my shin into the rocking chair that’s right beside the front door.
“Fuckity fuck fucknuts!” I hiss, now holding the binder and hopping around on one foot. My shin is smarting so badly I forget all about the papers that fell.
“Valentina?” Deuce doubles back and grabs the binder out of my arms, placing it carefully on a little table right inside the doorway. Then he grabs my arms and steadies me.
I look down to my abused shin and see that it’s already swollen and it’s also bleeding down my leg.
Deuce follows my gaze and instantly lets me go.
I lose my balance again and have to put my foot down to steady myself.
My shin sends up an SOS and I’m back to cursing as I hobble into the house following Deuce, the asshat who left me to fend for myself.
“Can you get some ice or something?” I snap.
I’ve had worse wounds before. Couple broken bones.
One burn that was unfortunate for the ends of my hair and a two-inch spot on my back.
But ever since leaving the Barzettis I’ve let my guard down.
I’ve become a bit complacent. When you’re not expecting violence every single day, you start to enjoy creature comforts.
A simple bash to the shin feels painful again.
I try to keep my foot lifted because the blood’s about to drip on the hardwood floors. Deuce turns around, takes one look at my shin, and turns whiter than a sheet. He spins back around and lists to the side before righting himself.
“Hello?” I ask with quite a bit of attitude. “A tissue or something would be helpful.”
I collapse into a chair at the small round breakfast table adjacent to the kitchen.
Lifting my leg, I settle my foot on another chair.
On closer inspection, I did some damage.
If Deuce doesn’t have butterfly bandages, I might have to stitch it up.
Fuck. I haven’t done my own stitches in years.
Hopefully he’s got whiskey on hand. I’ll need a few shots before I thread a needle through my skin again.
Deuce comes back in my direction with one hand clapped over his eyes and his other hand extended with a box of tissues. He clips his hip on the table and nearly falls into my lap.
“Jesus! Watch where you’re going!” I snap, snatching up the tissues and dabbing at my leg before it drips onto the floor. What is his problem?
His fingers spread and I see two wide eyes peeking through his hand.
He makes a puking noise and then he’s falling.
It all happens in slow motion. It’s like watching a tree fall in the forest. One minute he’s standing, white as a ghost. The next he’s tipping backward, landing on the floor with a loud bang.
I hop to my feet, trying to hold a wad of tissues to my shin while I limp over to him. He had to have hit his head.
“Deuce!” I slap his face gently, then a little more aggressively because he’s not responding. “Deuce! You open your eyes right now.”
He doesn’t.
“Fuck,” I hiss. I stand quickly and hobble into the kitchen, grabbing two ice packs and crouching by his head. I slip one under his head and try the slapping thing again.
Feels kind of good to slap him.
“At least try to be nice, V,” I tell myself out loud.
Deuce groans.
“Deuce, wake up or I’ll kiss you,” I shout down into his face.
His whole face contorts, then his eerie green eyes open, fluttering a bit before they focus on me. “Hunh.”
Now that I know he’s alive, I pull the wad of tissues off my leg, seeing if I need a replacement wad. Deuce emits a strangled whimper and then his eyes roll back in his head. I gape at him.
The fucker passed out!
I switch out the tissues and head back for my chair. Deuce passed out because of blood? Are we five?? I prop my leg up again and dab at it before putting more pressure on it. By the time Deuce’s eyes start fluttering again, I’ve got the other ice pack on it as it’s done bleeding.
“Welcome back,” I drawl.
Deuce sits up and shakes his head slowly. “What happened?”
“You fuckin’ dropped like a stone when you saw my shin. You got a phobia of blood or something?”
Deuce tugs at his tie, loosening it before pulling it over his head and setting it aside. He makes no move to get off the floor yet. “Did you throw away the tissues?”
I snort. “Yes. Thanks so much for your help, by the way. Do you know you scream like a little girl when you faint?”
His gaze snaps to mine, some color finally coming back in his cheeks. “Shut up.”
I crack up, already forgetting about my smarting shin. “I can’t believe you faint at the sight of blood. I think I might tease you about this forever.”
Deuce picks himself off the ground carefully and sits across the table from me. I notice he doesn’t dare flick a glance at my injured leg. “I can’t believe you have panic attacks, but I’d never tease you over it.”
My head snaps in his direction, all humor gone in an instant.
He lifts an eyebrow. “Oh, you thought I didn’t know what that little incident was back there at the boutique?”
I sigh, realizing when it’s better to strike a deal than to continue the fight. “I guess we both have a weakness.”
Deuce leans his elbows on the table and crowds into my space. “Having a natural biological response is not a weakness.”
“Says you,” I snap back.
He rolls his eyes. “Now who’s acting like a child?” He sits back in his chair, still studying me. “I’ve always been bad with blood. One of the many reasons being head of the Barzetti crime family was not the life for me.”
“I had no idea. You must have hid it well.” We spent every summer together from age ten until seventeen. How did I not notice that he couldn’t handle blood?
Fuck.
Now I feel something akin to sympathy for the man. I know what it’s like to hide a flaw. It’s a weakness, no matter what he says about it.
“I started having panic attacks three years ago,” I say softly, tone turning sarcastic quickly. “Came out of nowhere. Nothing says strong leadership like wringing of hands and breathing problems.”
Deuce gets up and heads for the kitchen, coming back with a first aid kit. He tosses bandages at me, including the butterfly type that might have a chance of holding this gash closed.
“Is that why you stepped down last year?”
I shrug, taking the ice pack off and dumping the hydrogen peroxide on the wound. It burns and bubbles, making me grit my teeth. “Didn’t want to be in a tense situation and have an attack that ends up putting people’s lives in danger because I’m too weak to handle it.”
Deuce stands, takes off his suit jacket, and rolls his sleeves up his forearms. He’s still in his fancy vest that highlights the V-taper of his torso.
His forearms flex as he grips the back of a chair and my brain instantly goes in the gutter.
Well, shit, that’s an even better look on him.
I refocus on my injury, pulling out several steri-strips and smoothing them on my skin.
Deuce loads a piece of gauze with ointment and lays that on top.
I get tape in place and stand, good as new.
“It’s not a weakness, Valentina.”
His statement hangs between us. I want to believe it, but I know it’s not true.
“I got anxious about one of our illegal business arms and ended up shutting it down after some Feds came sniffing around. No arrests were made, which is good, but I also lost a bunch of money from folding early. Some people were pissed at me for it. I think they took it out on my replacement and they might be who’s behind this current coup.
” I fold my arms over my chest. “So yeah, it is a weakness.”
Deuce doesn’t argue with me this time, he just stares at me. I have no idea what he’s thinking, but I’m pretty sure he can’t hate me anymore than he already does. Hopefully in a month or so things will be figured out in New York and I can leave Heaven. He never has to see me again.
Deuce’s arms fling out to the side suddenly and then he’s pulling me into his chest. His arms band around me and I feel every single lean muscle of his press into my body.
“I’m sorry that happened to you, Valentina,” he whispers in my ear, rocking me side to side.
I stare in horror at his collarbone. His very sexy collarbone.
Deuce is hugging me.
And it feels really fucking nice.
This isn’t a hug meant for others to see and believe our cover story. This is just a hug because…well, I don’t know why he’s hugging me. Why does anyone hug anyone? Because we’re friends? No, that can’t be right. Because he wants to be nice to me? That definitely can’t be right.
Ah.
I understand now. This is a pity hug.
Well, fuck that. I don’t need a pity hug from anyone, let alone Deuce St. Legare, the guy who just fainted from the sight of my blood.
I wedge my hands between our chests and push him away.
His arms fall away from me and he steps back.
I drop my hands, acutely feeling the loss of his touch.
It’s almost enough to make me want to step forward and bury my face in his chest once again.
My eyeballs burn the longer we stare at each other in this weirdly charged silence. What the hell is happening to me in this town? I’m suddenly telling my secrets to my mortal enemy and wanting to give him a hug.
Pull your shit together, V.
My nails bite into my palms as I make two fists by my side. I already have panic attacks. I can’t let…whatever that was…also become a weakness of mine. One weakness is already one too many.
“I’ll slit your throat if you tell anyone about my panic attacks,” I growl. “And I mean it this time. You blab about me again and it won’t be a harmless jab to your ribs.”
Deuce’s mouth falls open. He looks both angry and hurt. “I have never blabbed about you. Ever. I may faint at the sight of blood, but I don’t snitch.”
I snort. “Okay, whatever. If that’s your story…”
He rolls his eyes and starts to clean up the mess I left on the table. “It’s my story because it’s true. Now do you want steak or chicken for dinner? I have both.”
I take our ice packs back to the freezer. “Steak sounds good.”
“Great. You start making the salad and I’ll get the grill going.”
So, I guess that’s it. We have some sort of truce going. We each have something we’re hiding. I know I’ll take his weakness to my grave, but I’m not so sure of his ability to keep my weakness a secret. His track record is piss poor.
When he pulls out his phone and takes a call, quick to head outside where I can’t hear the conversation, my misgivings grow. Why is he always so secretive about his phone calls? Not really the markings of an innocent man, if you ask me.
I take lettuce out of the refrigerator and get to washing it. Salad and grilled cheese sandwiches are the extent of my cooking abilities, so I’m glad Deuce has skills in the kitchen. He’s surprised me with his life here in a small town in the middle of nowhere.
I just don’t know if he can be trusted.
Bettina swears Deuce will protect me, but I think she might be blinded by the fact that he’s her son.
I’ll just have to watch my back.
For outside threats.
And for Deuce.