Chapter 17 #3
She giggles and reaches out to squeeze my arm. “That’s a good thing.”
“Don’t get used to it.”
“Too late. I’m already composing the Yelp review. Five stars, would recommend kidnapping by this particular psychopath.”
I huff out a laugh despite myself and gesture toward the iron chairs. “Sit down and eat before I change my mind.”
We settle into the chairs and unpack the food between us. We’re comfortably silent as we butter our bread and select the fancy meats and cheeses to add on top.
It’s... nice. Peaceful in a way my life hasn’t been for a very long time.
Actually, in a way it’s never been.
“Okay, that one’s Orion,” Chantal says between bites of her food.
She points up at a cluster of stars. “You can tell by the belt—those three in a row. Did you know it’s named after the figure from Greek mythology?
Orion was this really huge, really handsome hunter.
He fell in love with Eos, the goddess of dawn, and the two had this steamy love affair on an island.
Then Artemis got super jealous and, um, sorta killed him. ”
I cock a brow. “How do you know all that?”
“I took a Greek mythology class in college.” She smirks, popping a piece of cheese into her mouth. “The professor was this really fine older guy. But also engaged, ugh. On the plus side, I learned the Greek gods were messy as hell. It’s like an ancient soap opera. So much drama!”
“You somehow manage to make it sound more entertaining than I’m sure it is.”
“No, Lochlan, you don’t get it—these people were a hot mess.
Take Cassiopeia—she’s the W shape right there in the sky,” she explains smartly, gesturing above our heads.
“That constellation is named after this vain queen who bragged about being more beautiful than the sea nymphs. The gods punished her by tying her to a chair in the sky for eternity.”
“Damn, sounds like something I’d think up.”
“Right? They were psychopaths too!”
I chuckle as she goes on to explain more, reminding me once again that while Chantal Banks comes across as some vapid, spoiled princess who only cares about designers and vacations, she’s no bimbo.
Her face is full of wonder and excitement as we share the warm bread and different cheeses and she tells me about the constellations and Greek gods like she’s spreading gossip.
If it were anybody else, I’d be fucking irritated.
But she makes it entertaining; she holds my full attention as she waves her hands and talks so animatedly she goes breathless.
It amazes me how relaxed and happy she seems. It makes me question once again if she could be like this permanently in my company; if maybe I could find a way to make this work while still getting my revenge and completing my mission….
“Your turn,” she says, interrupting my thoughts. “I want to know how a guy like you knows those fun facts about Georgia O’Keeffe and her husband. You don’t exactly strike me as the museum type.”
I shrug, reaching for my wine. “I’m not. But I respect art, even if I don’t always understand it. Creating something from nothing is an accomplishment no matter the field. It’s what my Grandpa Finn did with the family. It takes real guts.”
“Drawing parallels between artists and gangsters. There’s a comparison I never thought I’d see.”
“Guess we’re both surprising each other.”
“My mom was an artist when she met my dad. But he made it clear she could never really have a career pursuing it—his political aspirations came first—and she agreed. At the end of the day, the wealthier lifestyle was too tempting I guess.”
“Not surprising. Art doesn’t usually make for a lucrative career,” I say. “Maybe if I wasn’t born into the Irish mob, I would’ve pursued it myself.”
She chokes on her sip of wine. “Wait, hold up… what? Are you saying…?”
I shrug. “Art and PE were the only two school subjects I tolerated. I was a decent sketch artist. Better than most in class. It drove my father up the wall. He wanted me to focus on the family business, but for a year or two, I was more preoccupied with sports and my sketchbooks.”
“Oh my god, how didn’t I see it before? You’ve obviously got the brooding tortured artist vibe down!”
“Or I’m just a moody asshole.”
“Same thing,” she says. “You have to sketch something for me.”
“No.”
“Please? Just a little something. A flower. A sunset. My gorgeous face is always a winner.”
I shoot her half a grin. “Maybe someday, brat.”
“I’m holding you to that.”
We return to companionable silence as we finish our food and empty our wine glasses. The playfulness fades from Chantal’s face, replaced by quiet contemplation.
I’m lost in my own thoughts, still wondering if I’ve fooled myself to think I can have my cake and eat it too. I can keep my brat and get revenge on my family.
“You know what’s weird?” she murmurs, eyes back on the night sky.
“Sometimes when I look up at the stars, I feel like my mom’s looking back at me.
Kind of as if she’s up there somewhere, watching over me.
” She laughs, the sound more fragile than usual.
“That’s stupid, right? I’m a grown-ass woman.
I shouldn’t believe in stuff like that anymore. ”
I’m staring up at the sky too, her words stirring up feelings I’ve tried burying deep.
“A lot of people feel that way,” I finally say. “Doesn’t make it stupid.”
“Do… do you?” She turns to look at me, her eyes searching my face. “Do you ever feel like Eddie is... watching?”
My knee-jerk reaction is to get angry and defensive whenever he’s brought up. For me to scold whoever has the fucking nerve.
I still almost do as she poses the question. My features sharpen like I’m about to scowl, then I draw a deep breath instead. I choose to be honest and stop avoiding the subject.
“I like the idea,” I admit slowly. “I’m just not hopeful enough to believe it.”
She touches my arm. “Hope can be dangerous. It can hurt when it feels like a waste. But it can be healing too. Maybe you should try it sometime.”
“Yeah…” I clear my throat, aware how tight it suddenly feels. “Maybe.”
We return to studying the full moon and stars in the sky, spending the rest of our time sitting up on the rooftop terrace in silence.