Chapter 45
Chapter Forty-Five
Sienna
The present
Two million in cash is now in my possession, but my next move seems as evasive as Saint answering any personal questions.
“Where’s Fabien?” I try instead, taking a bite of spaghetti.
Not that I care whether he’s here or not.
Or that I made this huge batch of spaghetti and meatballs, which just so happens to be his favorite meal.
In my defense, I needed to practice. It was an experiment to see if the current version of Sienna still likes to cook. She does, and it’s been added to the list.
“He’s catching himself up to speed with all his business endeavors,” Saint reports, returning his nose to a stack of documents whilst trying to eat spaghetti.
“This isn’t what I’d call a multitasking meal,” I comment when his meatball rolls to the other side of his plate after three missed stabbing attempts.
He sighs, placing his document down. “Mrs. Calvani, I appreciate the offer to feed me, and your food is delicious—”
I beam.
“But your husband is a jealous man. If he finds us having a meal together, it won’t be good for me.”
“That’s ridiculous,” I scoff, but then I remember who I’m married to. “He does know you swing for the other team, right?”
“He does,” he confirms.
I consider the enigma that is Saint. “How does one become a lawyer/evil henchman?” The homemade pasta is twirled around my fork, and I take a bite. Fine, so I made the damn meal for Fabien.
“Law school and passing the bar on the lawyer part; as for the evil henchman, I wouldn’t know,” he says in an amused tone, patting his mouth with his napkin.
“What happened to your husband?” I wonder. “When we first met, you had a ring. Now you don’t.”
His face reveals nothing. “I had a husband. Now I don’t.”
“You’d be a nightmare to interrogate,” I muse.
“One of the best compliments I could receive,” he says, sounding sincere.
“In that case, you’re welcome.” I rise and place my plate in the dishwasher, and get to work putting up the leftovers.
“Thank you for dinner, Mrs. Calvani,” Saint tells me, doing the same with his plate.
“Of course.” He lingers, and I’ve noticed he has a habit of doing so when there’s something on his mind. “Yes, Saint?”
“Whatever you’re planning, please don’t do it,” he begs. “Mr. Calvani deserves peace.”
“There’s a problem with your perception, Clark,” I inform him, all the while I’m reeling. Have I really been this transparent, or does Clark Kent have X-ray vision? “Thinking that I’m any man’s peace.”
He mutters something, walking out.
Clearing the kitchen, I flip off the light and paddle to my bedroom, wishing I had Lacey to snuggle with, but she’s on patrol with her handler. Feeling alone and weirdly vulnerable, I fall on my bed face-first, mulling over Saint’s words.
The problem is, I don’t know what I’m planning. But if Saint knows I’m planning something, does that mean Fabien knows too?
Here’s what I do know: I’m tired of evil plotting, and I’m bloated because I ate way too much pasta.
My face care routine does nothing to quell the unease, and then an everything shower only reminds me of that shower with Fabien. I give my razor a frustrated toss.
Stepping out, I wipe down the foggy mirror before I lather myself up with lotion and slip into my nightie.
Having run out of steam before the process is completed—namely drying and styling my hair—my damp head falls on my pillow as I flip off the lamp.
A rumble that rattles my bones has me flipping on the light in a panic. I hate storms, and I hate that Fabien’s not here. And I hate that I hate that he’s not here.
Punching my pillow, I slip out of bed and out into the hallway, nearly running into the man.
“Are you okay?” he asks, still wearing a suit.
There’s an electric feeling in the air, and it’s not just from the change in barometric pressure.
“I’m fine,” I lie, stopping myself from hopping into his arms on the next boom of thunder.
“Dammit, Sienna.” Fabien releases a frustrated breath. “You don’t always have to have your guard up.”
But I do.
“Heard a rumor of spaghetti and meatballs.” His hands slip into his pockets. “Please don’t toy with a man like this.”
I sigh heavily, acting like I’m put out. “Come on. I’ll heat you up a plate.”
“As much as it pains me to say this, could you put on a robe? I’m tired, and I’d rather not have to gouge someone’s eyes out.” His gaze roams my body, and it feels like he’s physically touching me.
With a long-suffering sigh, I tell him, “Give me a minute to save the eyes of our household.”
His look is so intense that it makes me squirm.
“What?”
“You said our household.”
“I meant my household. Do you want spaghetti or not?” I say crossly.
“Is that even a question? You know I love your cooking.”
“What if I’ve become a horrible cook since the last time you ate my food?” I challenge.
“Then I’d take some pregame antacid and hope for the best,” he decides.
With a laugh, I smack his chest before stepping inside my room. Grabbing the robe hanging from the back of the closet, I refuse to check out my reflection in the mirror. Because I know what I’ll see, and it isn’t hope. It’s worse than that.
A glimmer of happiness.
My mind churns as I rejoin Fabien, and he watches as I cinch my robe. “Better?”
“Better would be that scrap of silk and lace crumbled in the floor of our room, with you riding my cock until both of us pass out, but yes, it’ll do.”
Ignoring the image he’s painted, I say primly, “We don’t have a shared room.”
“Yet,” he says confidently.
“Presumptuous.”
“Guilty.”
“Of so many crimes, and yet here you stand,” I muse.
“Here I stand,” he agrees. “Until my wife orders me on my knees.” His voice drops to a seductive octave. “Ready when you are.”
“Come eat before the offer’s rescinded,” I tell him, taking off down the hallway to escape his sexiness.
No escape, being that he’s behind me.
Feeling Fabien’s gaze on me has a warm flush starting at my neck and creeping down my chest.
“I’d follow this perfect ass anywhere,” he murmurs.
“Keep it up, and I’ll lead you into traffic,” I warn, and that gets a chuckle out of him.
A crack of thunder has me jumping, and Fabien appears beside me with his hand extended. “You can take it; I won’t judge you for it,” he encourages.
No, I do plenty of that myself.
I find myself wrapping my tiny hand into his.
“So soft and delicate—”
“And breakable?” I fill in for him.
“And yet here you stand.”
The house rattles with a lightning strike that feels a little too close for comfort, and I find myself being wrapped in Fabien’s strong arms.
I lift my gaze to meet his. He’s looking at me like I really am everything. “I’ll never be your peace,” I blurt out.
For some reason, he finds that funny. “No, I’d imagine not.”
That rewards him with another chest smack.
With a grin, he takes me by the hand, leading us to the kitchen.
“Sit,” I tell him, feeling flustered as I go about fetching the leftovers and making him a plate.
I stick it in the microwave, and now with a lack of busyness to hide behind, I’m feeling exposed.
Fabien makes no effort to fill the uncomfortable silence, watching me as if his life depends on it. He doesn’t know that he should be watching me that closely, because his life may very well depend on it.
There it is again, that feeling awfully close to guilt gnawing at me.
“Something on your mind, piccola volpe?”
My spine straightens. “Not a thing.”
“Really? Because you seem pretty wound up,” he comments.
“It’s the storm,” I say with finality, wanting to shut down this line of questioning.
“I know a way to help you relax.”
That gets an exaggerated eye roll from me. “Let me guess: your cock is involved.”
“No. Do you want it to be?” He lifts an eyebrow.
I stick my tongue out at him, and he snaps his teeth. I’m too far away for him to reach me, and so I stick it out again for good measure.
“Stop waving the red cape at me,” Fabien teases.
“So you admit that you’re bullish?” I challenge.
He flinches. “Never been the smartest man in the room.”
“Fabien, that’s not what I meant,” I say softly.
His hand rubs the back of his head. “I know you didn’t. I’m just feeling overwhelmed, trying to get a handle on all the things I’m now in charge of,” he admits.
“I have faith in you,” I encourage him.
He eyes me for a beat. “Careful, wife. That’s the second time you’ve acted like you cared.”
“I’ve always cared, Fabien.” I frown. That’s the problem.
“You don’t have to look so happy about it,” he grumbles.
Thankfully, I’m saved by the timer.
“Eat your food before it gets cold.” I present his plate and fork, busying myself with putting the containers back in the fridge.
“Thank you, baby. This smells amazing.” He twirls a bite of pasta, bringing it to his mouth on a moan. “Better than I remembered.”
It’s ridiculous, but I flush from head to toe.
“This is what I’d pick if it were my last meal.”
“That’s a bit morbid,” I inform him.
“Is it my last meal?” Fabien presses.
I freeze. “I’m sorry?”
“When does part two of your plan with Kirksey go live?”
All the oxygen has been sucked out of the room.
Fabien’s fist rattles the table. “Answer me!”
But I can’t seem to find words.
He takes his plate, flinging it against the wall before storming out.
Wait just a damn minute here! I’m the one who has the right to be angry at Fabien, not the other way around.
I chase after my husband, shouting, “You always leave someone else to clean up the mess you made!” Hating that tears are streaming down my face, I swipe angrily at them.
“You want to know what hurts the fucking most?” He spins around. “Nobody in my life has ever believed in me, except you. And now I find out it’s a charade.”
I gasp. “That’s not true—”
“If you wanted revenge so damn bad, why didn’t you slit my throat? You’ve had more than your share of chances,” he spits.
“Because I still love you, and that pisses me off!” The truth of those words nearly choke me.
“Join the fucking club!”
He takes off to his room, and I take off to mine, doors slamming at the same time.
Except I’m not finished. The overwhelming desire for revenge seeps into my blood, and I have just the thing to bury Fabien once and for all.
I storm through the house to my work studio, grab the box of pads and take it to his room. Not bothering to knock, I barge right in to find him seated on the foot of his bed, still wearing his suit.
“You want to know why I tipped off your enemy?” I open the box, clutching the only reminder I have of him. “You want to know what hurts the fucking most? This.”
Fabien takes the ultrasound image from my fingers, his expression falling. “No.” His hands shake violently.
“Yes,” I say, fighting back the tears. “You had family business, so I went to my gynecologist appointment alone. My urine test came back positive. I called you, but you didn’t answer. They sent me for an ultrasound. It was too early to determine the sex, but—
“This is our son.”
So Fabien feels it too.
“Yes.” Despite my best efforts, the tears begin to fall, wetting my lips. “I was so excited to tell you that night, but then everything went to hell. The trauma from the rape…I miscarried.”
Fabien Calvani, boss of New Orleans, falls to his knees and wails.
Silent tears stream down my face as I retrieve the photograph and walk out. Not in victory, but in defeat.
Destroying Fabien hasn’t made me feel better at all.
Confucius got it wrong. It was never two graves, always three.