Chapter 35
Chapter Thirty-Five
Sienna
The present
We arrive at the regional airport and pass through security, with Saint parking next to a jet.
“Saint, are you sure Fabien’s allowed to leave the state? Isn’t he on parole?” I wonder.
Fabien grins, and I hate that he’s so sexy when he does so. “Aww, my wife’s worried about me. That’s sweet.”
“Hardly.” I scoff. “I’d just rather not catch an accessory charge.”
“Give us a sec,” Fabien tells Saint, and his loyal henchman exits the vehicle.
“No charges tonight, unless you plan on taking another man to our bed,” he warns, any hint of playfulness having disappeared.
“My bed,” I correct him, hating the way his murderous tone does things between my thighs.
“Sienna, I don’t give a shit who owns the mattress. You mess with another man, and it’s your turn to be the cuckold; you’ll watch me kill him,” Fabien promises.
“That’s not what a cuckold is; no wonder you’re terrible at it,” I say dismissively, all the while my clit throbs at the violent threat.
“Damn right I am.” Fabien grips me by the bun, yanking me in for a kiss.
My teeth capture his bottom lip, and I bite down hard.
Fabien hisses in pain, releasing his hold. There’s a dangerous glint in his eyes that sends a perverse thrill down my spine as he swipes the blood I’ve drawn with the back of his hand. “How much do I need to bleed before you’ll forgive me?”
Not having an answer to his question, I chose silence.
Fabien exits the vehicle and hustles around to my door, opening it for me. Ignoring his outstretched hand, I walk beside him to the stairs, where he ushers me inside the jet.
“Aren’t you the tiniest bit curious about where we’re going?” Fabien asks, leading me to the window seat.
“Nope,” I lie, buckling up.
Saint and a guard appear, carrying my lace project, placing it gingerly onto the coffee table in front of my seat.
“Is everything in order?” Fabien asks me.
I check my bobbins and pins; everything appears as I left it. “Why? Would it be your head if things weren’t?”
“Silver or gold platter?” He surprises me by grabbing my left hand and sliding the rings on my finger. “You always had a fondness for gold, that’s why I picked out this set.”
“Not everything that glitters is gold.” I slip the band and diamond ring off my finger and drop them in his jacket pocket, giving it a pat.
Fabien grabs my wrist, bringing my hand to his mouth. He presses his lips to my ring finger, my skin tingling from the contact. “You chose me once, piccola volpe. You’ll choose me again.”
“Arrogant.”
“Guilty.”
I jerk my hand away from his, and grateful for the excuse to ignore the man, I gather my bobbins and pins and continue weaving the pattern.
Takeoff is smooth, and soon we’re in the air. “Stop watching me.” My eyes remain on the lace, all the while I can feel Fabien’s eyes on me.
“I’ve never understood how you do that,” he comments.
“It’s like a puzzle: lifting one bobbin over its neighbor and putting it down, placing the pins. Four bobbins together make the stitch.” I demonstrate, placing each pin and tightening the thread in the process—a tip I learned from Miss Gail.
“You make it look easy.”
“Hardly. Now Miss Gail made it look easy.” I smile sadly.
“You miss her.”
If I’m being honest, I haven’t allowed myself to miss her, or anyone, but I remain silent.
“I’ll track down the rest of your bobbins.”
Refusing to look at him, I say, “You think finding those bobbins will magically stitch us back together?”
His arm extends over my seat, his fingers grazing the strands of hair that have escaped my bun. “Can’t hurt.”
I jerk my head away from his reach, and he chuckles softly.
There’s a buzzing, and Fabien retrieves his cell, answering on speakerphone. “Little sis, I’m so glad to hear from you. Sienna’s with me—”
“You and Sienna got married, and you didn’t tell me?” Alessandra shrieks. “Hi, Sienna.”
“Hi, Alessandra,” I call to her with a smile.
“Been kind of busy with getting out of prison and the whole Kirksey thing,” Fabien explains, and my ears prick up.
“Don’t get me started on that.” Alessandra groans. “I’m grounded for life, according to Angelo.”
“As you should be. You had no business coming to the hotel.”
Ah, so the Kirksey “fiasco” happened at the hotel. Good to know.
“Not you too,” she bemoans.
“Sienna and I are hosting a wedding reception at our home tomorrow night,” Fabien tells her.
“No, we’re not,” I interject.
“Yes, we are,” Fabien informs me. “Al, bring our boring ass brother and his girlfriend with you. Eight o’clock.”
Angelo, Remi, and I in the same room. This ought to be fun.
“So does that mean you and Angelo have settled your beef?” Alessandra presses.
“It’s being settled.”
“Why can neither of you give me a straight answer?” Alessandra cries.
“Calvani men seem to have that problem,” I mutter under my breath.
“Sienna, what can I get you as a wedding gift?” Alessandra asks me.
“A platter to display my husband’s severed head,” I tell her, and Fabien laughs softly.
“You need a bowl instead of a platter; a severed head is a lot more bloody than you think and would sort of ooze off a flat surface.”
“Thank you, Al. We’ll see you tomorrow night.” Fabien ends the call with an amused breath.
“Alessandra forgot that she wasn’t supposed to tell me about the you-know-what,” I say with a wry smile.
Fabien watches me, rubbing the palm of his hand over his chest.
“What?” I say wearily.
He shakes his head.
A heavy sigh escapes me as I find a good spot to take a break. Placing my bobbins gently down on the coffee table, I glance over to him. “If you and Angelo are at war, is an out-of-state ‘date night’ the smartest move?”
“We aren’t at war; not anymore.” He returns his arm over the top of my seat, and I shift to avoid his touch.
“Then why did he kidnap me?” I press him.
“Leverage. Angelo thought I was gunning for him; I thought he was gunning for me.”
“You weren’t? He wasn’t?” I raise an eyebrow.
“Yes and no,” Fabien admits. “My brother and I are working on the details of a truce, and I’m working on finding my backstabbing former cellie.”
“Who?” My eyebrows lift, playing dumb, but this has to be the Kirksey connection.
“Name’s Kirksey,” Fabien confirms. “He thought he could play me; as his prize, he’s won a bullet with his name on it.”
“Why would he cross you?” I wonder, curious about their dynamic.
“Kirksey thinks he’s going to take over NOLA.” Fabien snorts. “Not fucking happening.”
That remains to be seen, but I keep my Kirksey connection to myself. “So there isn’t peace yet, and your enemy hasn’t been taken out yet,” I sum up. “That’s a lot of yets.”
Fabien lifts a shoulder. “Yet I’m a patient man.”
That elicits a chortle out of me. “Since when?”
“Since I’ve had nearly a decade of practice.”
I’m reminded why he had nearly a decade of practice, and I dart my attention out the window.
“Despite it all, I’d still put that bullet in Ringer’s head,” he promises.
“It doesn’t change anything.” I swallow the lump in my throat.
“It changes everything,” he counters, jerking me by my chin to meet his gaze.
“You didn’t ask me if I wanted a wedding reception.” The only thing I can change right now is the subject.
“Do you want a wedding reception?”
I shrug out of his hold. “No.”
He chuckles. “That’s why I didn’t ask you. How do you know Remi?”
“Who says I know Remi?” I challenge.
“You made a face when her name was mentioned.”
I sigh heavily, hating that Fabien can read me so easily. “A few months back, Remi’s boyfriend was the band leader at the hotel, and she began working for me.”
“As a call girl?” Fabien lifts an eyebrow.
“As a cat sitter.”
He flashes a questioning look.
“It’s a long story.”
“I’ve got the time.”
“Since I don’t know our destination, there’s no way for me to know if that’s true.” I dodge his incessant need to excavate the skeletons in my closet.
“New York. I’ve got us front row seats to your favorite designer’s show.” He gently caresses my cheek, but this time, I refuse to lean into his touch.
“It’s fashion week, and you let me leave the house looking like this?” I cry, glancing down at my work tee and leggings.
“For the record, I think you’re perfect, but come on.” He unbuckles himself and then me, before grabbing my hand and leading me to the bedroom.
“You really think I’m going to spread my legs so easily?” I snatch my hand away, the warning more for myself than for him. Don’t be that starry-eyed, eighteen-year-old fool.
Fabien chuckles, flipping on the light and closing the door. “You’re so damn stubborn, I don’t think I could pry those sexy legs open with a crowbar.”
That’s when my eyes land on the designer bags and boxes littering the bed.
For some unknown reason, I let slip, “It’s easier for me to hate you.”
“You’ve never been one to take the easy route.” With the swat of my ass, he saunters out.
He’s right, but whether that’s a good thing remains to be seen.
Unbagging and unboxing yield me quite the wardrobe selection to choose from, including my old boots.
They were always my little form of resistance, and God knows I need every ounce of resistance against my husband.
Current husband.
Fabien
The present
Sienna practically bounces in her seat with excitement as we wait for the show to begin. She uncrosses and crosses her sexy legs, wearing her old boots I brought along just in case.
“Don’t get any ideas.” She catches me staring.
Too late. I’ve got ideas. Lots of them.
A man in cartoonishly oversized sunglasses is seated on my other side, holding a tiny dog draped in a ridiculous turtleneck blanket that looks like peacock feathers. The dog yaps, catching both mine and Sienna’s attention.
“Good thing Lacey isn’t here; she’d have a new squeak toy,” I whisper to Sienna.
“Peacock feathers flying everywhere,” she whispers her agreement with a giggle.
I smile at her. She smiles at me. Until my wife remembers she hates me, and scowls.
“Damn, you’re beautiful, even when you’re scowling at me. I need to write that down.”
“Pretty words mean nothing, Fabien,” Sienna says dismissively.
“Words backed with action; I get it.”