Chapter 29
Twenty-Nine
Rowen
I slowly sipped what had to be my third—maybe fourth—Campari spritz of the day, because it was better than doing shots.
Or just grabbing an entire bottle of liquor.
Or laying down on any given street and letting a swarm of Piaggios run me over.
I’d hoped drinking would help me stop caring about discovering I was nothing but a pet project to Giano. Instead, it had done something far worse. For the past several hours—too many to count at this point—I’d grown disgustingly sentimental over a man I apparently knew nothing about.
You know him, Rowen.
Shut up, Rowen.
“I forgot how fucking weird you look with black hair, carrots.” Mick muttered before taking a swig of his Peroni. “Like that villain from Despicable Me…”
“Gru was bald, you moron!” I snapped, loud enough to cause a few of our fellow day-drinkers to tear their bleary gazes away from the football match on the flatscreen to give me some side-eye.
Judge all you want, assholes.
You’re all locked in here with me.
Unbothered as always by my outbursts, Mick shrugged and took another sip. “Same vibes, though. Same attitude problem.”
Instead of adding homicide to my extensive rap sheet, I fixed my gaze on the oversized mirror behind the bar, hand-painted with the name of the English-style pub we were randomly drinking at.
Ye Olde Existential Crisis.
Mick had dragged me here after we dyed my hair—in case I needed to go on the run after all—claiming my “attitude problem” was messing with the creative aura of his apartment.
I was glad to be out of there anyway, partly because he had no central air, but also because he and Franz had apparently finished off whatever booze he’d had in the house.
I also suspected nasty sex was had on the premises, and the last thing I needed was to be thinking about Daddy Pinstripes getting bent over an easel or whatever.
Of course, what I couldn’t stop thinking about was the decidedly not nasty sex recently enjoyed on my end—most shockingly, by me.
It was shameful, really—a disgrace—that I of all people would not only allow someone to make love to me, but insta-come from being told to trust them?
Me, trusting a fucking billionaire hiding his own agenda. Me?!
Clearly, I’d lost my goddamn mind.
Luckily, that temporary insanity was officially over, along with whatever situationship we’d pretended to have over the last couple weeks.
Now, it was back to business, as it should have stayed in the first place.
All I had to do was hold up my part of the bargain—returning Giano’s art—then decide what the hell I was going to do with the exorbitant amount of money promised to me.
On top of the black card he never took back…
I hadn’t realized I was still holding onto Giano’s infamous trust fund card until I was in the car to Mick’s, but by then I’d received a mile-long Signal message from Mr. Moneybags himself, outlining the specific expenses “approved” by his mother, so me using it wouldn’t raise any red flags.
The list was heavy-handed as hell—and brought up emotions I did not want to deal with—with the only clear purpose seeming to keep up appearances as frivolously as possible.
Along with not wanting to accept the charitable handout, I also had no intention of being just another dead-eyed consumer, cranking the capitalist cog until the end of days.
Well… maybe a few more treats wouldn’t hurt…
Courtesy of Mommy Luxford.
My gaze drifted from my admittedly lifeless expression to the $54,800—because, yes, I looked it up—Code 11.59 Piguet I couldn’t bear to leave behind as I slinked away from Giano’s hotel room.
I deserve it after what I’ve been through.
Even with myself as the only witness to my inner rantings, my indignation rang false, but I was still in no mood to examine what I was really feeling, so instead flagged down the bartender to bring me another refill.
“Ya know… you could just admit you’re worried about your boyfriend, Rowen, instead of sulking about it.”
Maybe I could get off with a charge of manslaughter…
“My BOYFRIEND?!” I sputtered, uncaring that a few patrons were now giving me more attention than the game.
“When have you ever known me to have a boyfriend, Mick? In the nearly twenty years since you and I randomly ended up in the same household, do you recall me wanting to be so much as seen with the same person more than once?”
“Never,” Mick replied, smirking into his beer bottle like a man who wanted it broken over his oversized head.
“That’s why I know what a momentous occasion it is that you were cuddling with your boyfriend in hotel bathrobes, watching movies and eating room service and sleeping over in the same bed when there was a whole other bedroom in the attached suite—”
“It was just a fuck, Mick, Jesus…” I grumbled, cringing worse at my own lie than I had when Giano had refused to go harder and faster like I’d wanted.
Like I’d thought I wanted…
“Do your fuckboys usually buy you fifty-four-thousand-dollar watches?” he added, digging his grave deeper.
Never mind that my first instinct was to yell at him about referring to my billionaire as a “fuckboy,” I turned on my barstool to fully face the object of my irritation. “How the hell do you know how much my watch costs?”
Mick rolled his eyes with an annoyed huff, finally matching my mood. “That’s a starter watch for some of my clients, and no matter how good of a dicking I give any of them, ain’t nobody buying me a Piguet.”
I huffed, tipping the bartender heavily when he delivered another spritz. “Maybe your dicking could use some work then, hmm?”
He snorted and saucily tilted the ridiculous fedora we’d convinced Franz to hand over to disguise me on the way out of the hotel. Of course, Mick had claimed it as his own at the first opportunity, and was oddly pulling it off.
Not that I would ever tell him that.
“I dunno, carrots. I sure didn’t get any complaints last night.”
Ew.
“Please spare me the details of you and Daddy Pinstripes.” I fake-gagged. “Who, need I remind you, high-tailed it far away from both of us along with you-know-who.”
Mick’s face fell, which had uncomfortable empathy bubbling to the surface once again. A rare apology was on my lips when he turned to face me, but apparently, my longtime partner in crime hadn’t lost the ability to ignore my personal jabs.
“Do you really think that’s what’s going on here, dummy?” he scoffed, with pity instead of anger, which was ten times worse. “Franz left because you-know-who is his family. Maybe not by blood, but neither are we, and that doesn’t change how Luce and I see you… whether or not you feel the same.”
Ouch.
By some goddamn miracle, he didn’t expect me to answer that rudely pointed question, which was fine, because I sure as shit didn’t trust myself to speak.
Why is everyone so intent on making me feel things?
“And I don’t know how the hell you don’t understand that Mr. Buys His Fuckboy Boyfriend a Piguet wasn’t forbidding you from joining him because he was breaking up with you. He did it to protect you…”
Protect me?!
I’d never needed anyone to protect me—not when I was just another unwanted kid at St. Anthony’s too old to be “cute,” when I was thrown into an already overflowing foster home, when I struck out on my own in the criminal underworld, or when I fucked up and got myself caught by the goddamn FBI.
I’ve never needed anyone.
Right?
I opened my mouth to continue arguing like an asshole, but then realized Mick’s attention was on something behind me.
“Turn it up! Hey Dante…” he snapped at the bartender to get his attention before launching into a babble of Italian I couldn’t understand.
I turned in my stool to see what the fuss was about, my chest growing tight when I found an achingly familiar face on CNN’s breaking news report, alongside the TV volume bars being steadily turned up to the max.
Malicious compliance, everywhere.
“...reporting live from Questura di Firenze, where American billionaire Giancarlo Luxford is facing unspecified charges allegedly related to his recently stolen art collection. Correspondents from news outlets around the world have been camped out on Via Zara awaiting a statement, and it looks like Luxford is about to deliver just that.”
WHERE THE HELL ARE HIS LAWYERS?!
I gripped my spritz glass so tightly, it nearly shattered when all I saw was a hatless Franz standing behind Giano, glaring at his “little brother” so disgruntledly, any still lingering jealousy immediately evaporated.
Yeah.
That’s family right there.
It was clear Daddy Pinstripes didn’t approve of what Giano was up to, and while I was equally concerned—not that I would admit that out loud—I had to assume my billionaire knew what he was doing.
I hope…
“It has come to my attention that I’m facing some fairly serious accusations.
” Giano cleared his throat and adjusted his tie, despite every stitch of his clothing being immaculate, as always.
“Unfortunately, my lawyers have advised me not to address anything related to that until they arrive from New York.”
The uproar from the surrounding reporters was instantaneous, but Giano simply held up his hand, his recently-serviced Calatrava catching the light, instantly quieting the crowd.
Hot.
“While I will say I have nothing to hide when it comes to the location of my mother’s missing art collection, there is an entirely separate area of my life where I have not been completely honest with the public, and I would like to address that now.”
No.
Is he…
Is he about to come out on CNN?!
If I wasn’t already sitting in my barstool, with a death-grip on my spritz, I may have ended up on the floor, but then Mick’s enormous hand was gripping my shoulder, holding me steady.
Just like family—
“Ooh, carrots. Maybe your boyfriend’s about to propose…”
“Back the fuck off, jackass!” I elbowed my idiot foster brother, so he’d stop breathing in my ear. “Nobody’s proposing to anyone.”
I really fucking hope not.
“There are those who have questioned why someone of my… considerable means would want, or need, to sell an entire collection of art painstakingly curated for decades by my late mother.” Giano lifted his chin, and I could practically feel the defiance exuding from him, even through the screen.
“The truth is, I was hoping to use the funds from the Sotheby’s auction to purchase a property in upstate New York.
It’s an orphanage facing foreclosure—St. Anthony’s Home for Lost Children—and although I was ardently opposed to Luxford Holdings buying it and turning the property into luxury condos, I was outvoted by my fellow shareholders. ”
OooOOOooo… someone’s spilling the tea!
Unsurprisingly, the gathered reporters erupted in a flurry of new questions and my heart swelled with a weird sort of pride.
Giano had clearly been raised with manners, and I assumed it would be considered fairly “uncouth” to put your company partners on blast on an international stage.
So it went without saying that I was loving this little rebellion of his, although I had no idea where he was going with it.
What is his endgame here…?
Again, Giano effortlessly commanded silence with a single gesture, before gripping both sides of the podium he was standing in front of, as if steadying himself, making me sit up straighter in my stool.
“I’m sure you may be wondering why someone like me, whose entire legacy was built on such real estate maneuvers, would care to stop this deal.” He paused, looking genuinely nervous this time, and I wished I was there—even just in the crowd where he could see me.
See me supporting my billionaire fuckboy boyfriend.
“The reason I want to save St. Anthony’s is because the orphanage carries great personal significance for me.
It was… It’s where I was adopted, as a baby, and therefore given this privileged life through sheer luck and circumstances, and I cannot imagine taking that opportunity away from another child. ”
My entire world—starting with my cracked leather barstool in this random English pub in Florence, Italy—tilted wildly. Suddenly, I was on my feet, my foolishly dyed black hair clutched in my fists as I gaped at the TV screen above my head.
What the…
What.
The.
Fuuuuuck?!
“Well, shit!” Mick hooted, pounding his fist on the bar. “That’s some… What’s the word our girl Anne Shirley always used?”
“Serendipity…” I whispered, savoring how the syllables rolled off my tongue.
Just like “our girl,” Anne.
“That’s the one,” he chuckled before turning to a visibly unimpressed Dante. “Another Peroni, my good sir, to celebrate this momentous occasion!”
My drink was long forgotten, but my head was surprisingly clear as I watched Giano quickly wrap up his impromptu press conference and lead a noticeably shocked Franz back into the police headquarters.
Franz didn’t know…
He’s carried this secret by himself all this time.
My mind instantly went to the mysterious “something” he’d wanted to tell me the night of the heist—a conversation that never happened thanks to me getting jealous and putting distance between us.
And he just told the world on live television…
Including me.
For as long as I could remember, I’d considered myself a lone wolf, even with my foster siblings—my earliest partners in crime—constantly by my side. With Giano, I’d continuously pushed him away, convinced he couldn’t possibly want me as I was, as “less than” him.
But he never saw me that way.
Because we’ve always been the same.
For the first time in my life, I realized what a fool I’d been to believe I was better off alone, especially with who I already had in my corner.
Wolves thrive in their packs after all.
And they don’t leave one of their own behind.
Mick knew me well enough to give me time to process, so by the time I slid back onto the stool beside him, he turned to me expectantly, with a sly little smirk twitching his lips.
“We need to help him,” I stated decisively, daring him to reject the illegal chaos I was suggesting—as if he ever would. “He needs me.”
And I need him.
“Sure thing, carrots,” he nonchalantly replied, chugging the rest of his beer and slamming it down on the bar for no good reason. “Let’s get Luce on the phone so your family can get to work.”