Chapter 22
CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO
Valentina
I’m so not ready for Monday morning. Not after the busy weekend, the friends we had over, and the house fire we almost caused.
I could do with a day to just rot on the couch.
But Deuce is going into the boutique, stating that he left poor Lottie alone on Saturday with the onslaught of shoppers, and he needs to help out today. Which means I’m going too.
Why, you ask?
Because, apparently, I’ve grown so fond of this man that I can’t stand to sit around his house all day when he’s not here.
In a move to show that I can work as a team, I offer to look over his books while he opens the shop.
He gives me strict orders not to start doing anything shady.
I’m slightly offended. I know exactly how to cook the books to evade the Feds, line my own pockets, and make it look legitimate, but I’d never do that to Saint’s Suits. I know what this place means to Deuce.
I’m blinking with surprise as I scroll through his spreadsheets.
The man has let me into the entire backend of his store from inception to last week’s sales.
It’s like giving the password to your cell phone to someone.
It’s a level of trust I’ve never given anyone else, so to have it extended to me is…
unsettling. Also really nice, if I’m being honest.
“You’ve got some explaining to do, young man.”
I raise my head away from the laptop and crane my head to see out the open door to the sales floor.
I can’t see anyone from this vantage point, but I heard that woman’s voice crystal clear.
It had the tone that makes your spine straighten and your “yes ma’ams” come out.
Getting to my feet, I move to the doorway, wanting to see what the deal is.
I’m sure Deuce can handle it, but I don’t care to hear someone dressing down my—
Well, fuck. What is Deuce to me? My boyfriend? My friend? My person?
Yeah, let’s go with that. My person.
Birdie must have seen movement because her gaze swings from Deuce to me, her eyes wide and her energy crackling as bright as the red pants she’s wearing. She’s got gold sandals on, and if they came in a high-heeled version, I might be tempted to pick up a pair for myself.
“You!” She points at me, large rings on every finger clinking and sparkling.
My hand involuntarily goes to my chest. “Me?”
Deuce shifts slightly, putting himself between me and Birdie. It’s cute the way he thinks he needs to protect me from a little old lady. Although, with the way Birdie’s glaring at me, I might need backup.
“Don’t you act all innocent, little miss. I was told by a gentleman on Saturday that you’re not who you say you are. He said you’re part of a crime family!” Birdie hisses that last part, like she’s not sure she should even say the words out loud.
Deuce darts a look at me, then focuses back on Birdie. “Now, Birdie, who you been talking to?”
She barely spares him a glance. “I told you. A man. A man who says he knows Landry very well. So well, he knows her specialty is stabbings.”
Shit. She’s not wrong. I do prefer knives to guns. That’s no secret.
Well, here in Heaven, that should be a secret, but looks like the cat’s out of the bag. I step forward, right to Deuce’s side. I put a hand on his arm, hoping he knows what I mean by that quick touch. I’ll take care of this.
“Is this the kind of person you brought to our sweet little town, Deuce? A mobster? A knife-wielding psychopath? I thought you left all that stuff behind in New York.”
“Birdie?”
She zips her lips and shifts her gaze to stare me down as she waits for someone to respond. I don’t like her accusing Deuce. He’s done nothing but be kind by housing me and protecting me.
“It’s true. My name’s Valentina Ricci. I’m from New York, and while I was the head of the Barzettis at one time, I’m retired now.
There was some commotion out there and Deuce’s mother thought I needed to hide out.
Deuce has been kind enough to keep me hidden and protected.
The man you spoke to on Saturday was probably the same man who’s been threatening me and put a brick through Deuce’s window. ”
Birdie gasps, her bejeweled hand going to her throat. “He did what?”
Deuce takes over. “We thought he was gone, but looks like he’s not done trying to get to Valentina. Would you be able to describe him? Any remarkable facial features? Did you see what he drove? Anything you can tell us would be helpful.”
Birdie pulls herself up to her tallest height and I instantly recognize the strategy Deuce is going with. He’s redirecting Birdie to being helpful instead of being shocked at my identity. If we can get her focused on the man she spoke to, we can make her an ally in our cause.
“I didn’t see much of him since he had on a hat and sunglasses, but he was dressed in a polo and shorts.
Looked like every other man out here.” She pauses, then taps a finger to her lips.
“He was fit though. Filled out that polo like it was made for him, you know? Looked like you, Deucy, just shorter by six inches and wider by six inches.”
Deuce nods, then puts his hand on her shoulder. “Can we rely on you to keep this quiet for now? I need to keep Valentina safe and I can’t do that if everyone in town knows who she really is.”
“Oh, you can count on me, darlin’. After all that hubbub with Mary London last year, I wouldn’t dare be gossiping about this. This is too important.” Birdie pats his hand.
“Thank you.”
Birdie turns to me with a sly smile. “I can’t believe I hired a mobster to run the Battle of the Boutiques.” She winks. “You did good, kid.”
Her compliment means more than the scant few I’ve received from Bettina. “Thank you. I do have more useful skills from my time with the Barzettis than just torture techniques or money-laundering tactics.”
Deuce rolls his eyes, and I know what he’s thinking. Don’t bring up mob details in front of the town gossip, but it’s not like she doesn’t already know, or can at least guess that’s what I was involved in.
“Think you could teach an old lady how to throw a knife?”
I grin from ear to ear. “Definitely. Could show you how to use a throwing star too, if you’d like.”
Birdie’s penciled-in eyebrows dance up and down. “Oh, I’d like.”
Deuce puts his hands on her shoulders and spins her around, gently guiding her to the door of the boutique. “If you think of any other details about the man you spoke to that might help us, please call me, okay?”
Birdie pauses at the doorway to reach up and pat his cheek. “Oh, I will, don’t you worry. Might even do a few patrols around the neighborhood to see if I can find him.”
She walks out of the boutique with a bounce in her step while Deuce groans.
“She’s gonna get herself killed.”
I shrug and walk up to him, my hand sliding across his muscular back. It’s nice to be able to touch him anytime I want. “Yeah, but she’ll do it having fun at least.”
After Lottie came in to handle the late afternoon shoppers and closing the shop, we headed for Marcel’s condo. Deuce acted sheepish about it, but I could tell he wanted to show his father the trophy he received from winning the Battle of the Boutiques.
“I saw it, son.” It takes a bit for Marcel to push out of the recliner, but he wants to stand while he hugs his son. Honestly, it’s adorable to watch the way these two interact. It makes me wonder what it would have been like to grow up with a father of my own.
“You did? I thought you weren’t feeling well.”
Marcel sinks back into the recliner. He does look worn out.
Then again, he’s in the middle of chemotherapy treatment, not exactly a walk in the park.
“I know, but I couldn’t miss it. I had Tommy come over with that wheelchair he used when he broke his hip two years ago.
He wheeled me over close enough to watch. Here, look.”
Marcel pulls out his cell phone and turns the screen to me and Deuce.
Sure enough, there’s a shaky video recording of the moment the mayor announced Deuce the winner.
He looks so handsome in his fancy suit taking the trophy into his hands.
And then he calls my name in the microphone, claiming I’m somehow partially responsible for his success.
I elbow Deuce. “You shouldn’t have called me up there.”
Marcel’s face lights up as he looks at us. “He’s a smart man, my son. Knows it’s always a good idea to keep the good ones by your side.” He turns to Deuce. “I’m proud of you, son.”
I glance at Deuce and see that his eyes have gone glassy.
Instead of elbowing him again, I snuggle into his arm, dropping my head to his shoulder.
I’m so happy for him. For winning this year, but also because his father got to see it and then tell him how he feels.
It’s so dang sweet it’s making my tear ducts overreact.
If roles were reversed, would Bettina be proud of me? For some reason, I don’t think she would. She’d think the Battle of the Boutiques was a distraction from the shit that really matters. The threats, the money laundering, the power plays…that’s all that matters in Bettina’s world.
Deuce clears his throat and tells his father what’s going on with the man around town.
We throw out a few guesses as to who the man is, but Deuce seems to think it’s just some goon following orders, which it probably is.
We need Bettina to find out who’s behind this latest coup.
Cut it off at the head. Marcel nods along, used to hearing about the ways of the mob, I guess.
“She told me she wants me to take over the Barzettis again,” I add.
Deuce’s head whips in my direction. I can’t read his eyes, but they cut into me with their intensity.
Marcel turns his tired eyes my way while Deuce clenches his jaw.
“Don’t you let Bettina tell you what to do, honey. That woman’ll run your life until you’re both in the grave.” He lifts his gnarled hand, finger extended to the ceiling. “Or until you stand up to her and mean it.”
His green eyes, so like Deuce’s, make me want to tell him the truth. The way kindness emanates from him is so enticing, I can’t help but lay it all out there.
“I don’t really know what I want,” I admit.
Which is strange because I’ve always known what I want.
I wanted to follow Bettina’s marching orders.
I wanted to make money, retain power, see fear leak into a person’s eyes when they saw me.
But now I’m wondering if that’s what I wanted or simply what was expected of me.
Marcel pats my hand where it lies on his son’s arm. “Then you need to take some quiet time to reflect and search for who you are now and what you want to be. It’s okay to change, Valentina. Okay to choose something different.”
He sits back in his chair and rocks slowly. “Take it from an old man. You don’t want to die and have regrets.”
“Papa,” Deuce interjects, but Marcel holds up his hand.
“I’m not saying I’m dying right now, but it’s inevitable for all of us. Why, when this life has a definitive end point, do we waste even a day doing the crap we don’t want to do? Why do we wait to love? To spend time with those who make our cheeks hurt from smiling so much?”
I don’t know what’s happening to me, but ever since I got to Heaven, something is rearranging in my chest. A restructuring that can’t be seen with the naked eye, but is happening internally nonetheless.
Maybe it’s the realization that I’m getting fatherly advice for the first time in my life.
Or maybe it’s the realization that there’s a whole other way to live one’s life than the one I was brought up in.
“You sure you weren’t an English professor, Marcel?”
He turns watery eyes my way, a trace of a smile on his weathered face. “If I could do it all over again, maybe I would. The good news for today is you still have half your life to live, honey. You can be whatever you want to be.”
I let that rattle around in my brain while Deuce and his father discuss the week ahead and what doctor appointments Deuce will be going to with his father.
I wonder what Valentina Ricci wants out of life if she’s not a knife-wielding mob boss.
Could I move to a place like Heaven and be happy?
Be fulfilled instead of bored out of my goddamn mind?
Could I make real friends? Find someone to love?
Deuce slides his arm out of my grasp, but finds my hand, threading our fingers together.
It’s an absentminded touch, but I stare at our entwined digits, wondering when touching like this became normal.
When did I go from hating him to craving his presence?
To not only tolerating his touch but yearning for it?
Is that love?
Because if it is, it doesn’t have the adrenaline shot that comes from getting into a knife fight with someone who wants you dead, but it does leave me warm and tingly all over.
And I think I could get used to it.
I think I could come to depend on it.
I think I might want it.