| |
Alicia
––––––––
I swear the clock is going backward every time I check it. At least Jeanine hasn’t brought up what we talked about last night. Although I shriveled when the first time I saw Cesare, he looked right through me as if I wasn’t even there. The fucker didn’t even acknowledge me. Then it happened again as he came back from lunch. It hurt, and it pissed me off. I don’t have the best temper—Bethany often calls me a bear once I’ve been set off. I’m at my absolute worst before coffee in the morning. Bethany has learned to, as she said, not poke the bear before I’ve had coffee.
Is that why at seven fifty-eight, as I watch the seconds tick fast on my watch, I’m in the peach dress? I wrap myself in a faux-fur coat that covers me from neck to ankle to hide the dress until the last possible moment. Did Cesare’s ignoring me poke my bear, and now I’m ready to poke back? I jump at the ringing phone. It’s the driver. I let him know I’ll be right down. I’m not in heels higher than two inches, only because I can’t walk in those things. Taking a deep breath, with a goodbye to Grover I lock my door.
The driver is different than the last time. He’s out of the car, holding my door open for me. I slide into the limo, glad to feel the warmth after the frigid cold of the night. I want to kick myself for the way my heart starts beating faster, and those damn bees start buzzing as I slip into the car. The back of a limo usually feels roomy, but not with Cesare in it—his presence fills every inch.
I fight a shiver as I feel his eyes run over me, grateful he cannot see below the coat. My hair is in a tight bun, mainly because I was all thumbs and after trying to get it to go into soft waves nothing else looked good. He nods, then his deep voice startles me with a single word. “Seat belt.”
Numb hands struggle to fasten my seat belt. We’re barely five minutes from my apartment when his phone rings. “Hello.”
A woman’s voice can be heard clearly. “Hi, is this Cesare Sabatini?”
“Yes.”
“Hi, this is Monica. I’m uh, I guess you could say the entertainment Rodney ordered for the night. Except he started early. He’s so drunk the guy can hardly stand. He kept talking about this dinner like it was really important, but I have to warn you he is not up to it. He passed out in the shower when he was trying to get ready.”
Cesare’s jaw tightens. “Thank you for informing me of Rodney’s status. Have a good night.” He rolls his shoulders as he cracks his neck. Then his eyes are on me. “It would appear Mr. Billings is not up to dinner. However, I am still hungry. I’ll leave it up to you. Would you like me to have Daniel return you home for the evening or continue on to the restaurant?”
The coward in me votes to run back home, but my stupid stomach growls loudly. I hadn’t been able to eat a full meal all day. He chuckles. “Dinner?”
I nod, shaken by the way my stomach flips in response to his chuckle.
Only a few minutes later the car comes to a stop. Seconds later the door is open, and Daniel offers his hand to help me out of the car. I need it as my legs are wobbly. The cold propels me toward the bright lights of the front of the restaurant. Porters is a place I’ve read about. However, I’ve never been here. A woman offers to take my coat. Without thinking, I nod then untie it and undo the five large buttons.
Once it’s off, I give it to the woman. Is that a growl? I turn to Cesare and I’m enveloped in a wildfire burning out of control. Cesare’s eyes are blacker than black, his face is still, yet savage anger emanates from him in waves that crash into me. A fear I can’t name has me stepping back from him. He sees it, and his jaw tightens. He blinks, and it’s gone, and I’m cold to my core.
“Miss?” The hostess is waiting, looking from me to Cesare.
“Sorry,” I whisper as I move to follow. Yet I feel like I should be saying it to Cesare, and I don’t even know what for.
We’re seated in a very private corner in the back half of the restaurant. I thank the woman for the menu then stare at it blankly. Cesare says something in a murmur I barely take in. It’s coming, I can feel it, it weighs down every second. The sound of a match striking and flaring brings my head up. Cesare is lighting a cigar.
“You can’t do that in here.” A lone eyebrow goes up as he taps the end into an ashtray in front of him. “You are so rude. I don’t want to breathe that crap in. If you want to kill yourself, at least leave me out of it.” Still nothing except another drag on the cancer stick.
It’s still there, the weight of the words I know he’s holding back. I can’t take it anymore. “Fine, say it, damn it.” I want to slap him when his only answer is the brief rise of an eyebrow, again. “I know you have something to say about the way I’m dressed, so just fucking say it already.” Nothing except another drag of the cigar. I hate the way I don’t feel like gagging to make my point.
“Okay, fuck it, I’m out of here. I agreed to a business meeting, not to being looked down on and ushered to death with second-hand smoke from you. I’d rather have the tuna fish waiting at home for me.” I push up from the table, emotions crashing hard and chaotic inside me.
“Sit.” The word is so quiet, it’s almost a whisper. I go still, not sure I heard it correctly, in time to see the cigar being stubbed out from each side, slowly yet thoroughly. His jaw clenches, a ripple of movement I can’t take my eyes off of. Then his eyes rise to mine. “Please.”
I tell myself it’s the please, but I’m sure even the slightest further entreaty would have my stupid, weak knees folding for him. “Thank you for putting out the cigar.”
The tip of his mouth goes up so slightly it’s barely discernable as he nods. Yet still, he says nothing as he turns to his menu. Frustration bubbles in me—I won, but I didn’t get what I asked for. I want to know I managed to poke him, to unsettle him. Hell, I don’t know. I want my reaction; without it I’m lost.
A waiter comes to take our drink order. I order a sparkling water, lost at the idea of wine. “I’m not much of a drinker,” I admit.
I don’t even recognize the wine he orders, but whatever it is makes the waiter practically giddy. “You should at least try a glass with your steak, it will enhance the flavor. Do you know what you want?”
Had he seen me staring at the menu in confusion? The closest I’ve come to steak is when meat was on sale and it was a skirt steak or a roast. I had actually been staring at the salmon to make everything easier. When I meet his eyes, they are patient—a first I’m desperate to answer. “I don’t have a lot of experience with steak. Although I would like to learn, especially if you’re going to have more dinners at places like this. Oh, I’ve heard of filet mignon.” He winces. “I mean, it is expensive—”
“If you would allow me to order for you, I think I would order something you will enjoy much more than a filet mignon.” His words are cautious, for the first time it isn’t an order.
“I would appreciate it, thank you.”
When the waiter comes, Cesare orders a porterhouse medium for himself and a rib eye medium for me. I try not pay attention that our sides are exactly alike. It was a small thing, it means nothing. Once the waiter is gone, it still bothers me like a pebble in my shoe. “Are you really not going to say something about the dress?”
For the first time since I took off the coat, I feel it: heat scorching my entire being. His eyes run over me from my face to the tops of my breasts that grow heavy below his gaze. How does he do that? My skin is too tight, my lungs have shrunk. Then it happens again. He blinks, and it’s gone. I want to scream for what I’ve lost; the pain is so sharp it stuns me.
“What is there to say?” A single shoulder moves up dispassionately. “You chose to wear what you want. You are well within your right to do so. This will, however, inform further dealings you and I have together. If you were my assistant, I would fire you. However, you are not my assistant. I will make my displeasure with you clear to Dante; in what way he chooses to deal with you is up to him.”
“Dante warned me about you. He told me to tell him if you made a move I found uncomfortable, that I didn’t have to put up with anything I found unacceptable.”
I don’t know why I said it exactly. Maybe it was the mention of Dante, maybe it was to voice Dante’s suspicion that Cesare would attempt to make a move on me. I don’t know if I said it to prevent him from making a move or to push him to do something, anything to make it clear what the hell I’m dealing with. I swear it’s not knowing what it is Cesare wants, really wants, that’s making me crazy.
Cesare sighs. I feel like a recalcitrant child. “In what way have I made you uncomfortable?”
I hate him. He’s going to make me say it while ignoring what he’s done. Asshole. “I just want it on record. Dante has already talked to me. I doubt he’d find me wearing this dress a firable offense.”
A humorless laugh rumbles from his chest. “No, I’m sure the fucker would believe I have received exactly what I deserve.”
From somewhere deep down where I long thought there was nothing left, I ache at the thin thread of pain in his words. Even as I tell myself I’m wrong, I know I’m not—the feeling is too familiar to me for me to be wrong. Pain was never something I would associate with Cesare Sabatini, so tall, so big. He looks indestructible to me, yet that thread of pain in his voice tells me he’s not nearly as tough as he looks.
“I’m sorry I wore the dress.” The words are a whisper. I mean it—no matter what I thought I wanted, I never wanted to see him looking so tortured. If I had it to do again, I’d never have touched the damn dress.
Our eyes meet, and for the first time the heat there isn’t scary. The way it envelops me makes me feel safe, secure. “Tell me about yourself, Alicia.”
Out of everything I thought he might say, it’s the last thing I expect. It takes a moment to process the request; the way he says my name causes a tingle deep down low I have never experienced before. That light accent turns my name into something uniquely sexy as his tongue caresses the syllables. Normally, I have no problem admitting I’m boring, but right now I struggle to find the words. “I don’t know, there isn’t much to tell.”
“Not according to Dante, he mentioned you went to my alma mater.”
The information stuns me. “You went to the University of Illinois at Chicago?”
A brief smile stuns me into smiling back. “Why do you find that surprising? I’m also wondering how much research you did on our company. It’s common knowledge I went, even more so I wasn’t able to graduate until I was twenty-five, as I didn’t start there until I was twenty and working at the same time.”
“Maybe I should have done more checking. I guess I thought you went to some fancy school or something. I know Dante went to Northwestern and has a master’s from the Kellogg School there.”
He nods. “While I had won a football scholarship to the University of Michigan, I couldn’t leave Enzo and Dante. There was no one else who could take care of them. We only had one living grandparent at the time, my mother’s father in Florida who was in a care facility. Her brother had died years before and my father’s brother was in jail. Besides, we’ve always been close. I couldn’t leave them after everything that happened.
“I was busy working and taking care of Dante and Enzo. I got classes in when I could, which for a few years wasn’t often. Not to mention it wasn’t cheap, and sometimes we needed rent paid or a new drill more than I needed to pay tuition for a degree everyone kept telling me I didn’t need if all I was going to do was flip homes.”
“But you always knew you were going to do more than flip homes.” It’s not a question—it’s clear Cesare had his eyes on a bigger prize from the beginning.
His smile is brief. “Two-flats and condos were enough to pay the bills; however, I always had plans to do more. I knew there were things I didn’t know, and some of that knowledge would come from the street, but the rest would come from school.”
Since he’s being so open, I ask the question that’s been on my mind since I researched him. “Is it true? That your uncle helped you start your company?” His uncle Tony Sabatini is a known lieutenant of the Cappelli crime family.
I’m relieved the question doesn’t anger him. He shrugs. “It wasn’t my uncle, at least in the beginning, he was still in jail on murder charges at the time. His son, my cousin Dominic, was the one who helped me out. It didn’t matter that my father went to law school and became a prosecutor and decried his family. Once he was gone, family was family, and my cousin was the only person at my parents’ funeral who made me promise to call him if I needed anything. I promised, but I didn’t call.
“There was next to nothing left over after the estates were settled—my parents were living from paycheck to paycheck and from credit card to credit card. I managed to hide the cash we had around the house, which was almost seven thousand, and didn’t last nearly as long as I hoped it would despite us renting a two-bedroom apartment on the edge of Rogers Park before it was rehabbed.
“I kept working at the grocery store I’d been at for years and picked up another job bouncing at clubs on the weekends. At one of the clubs, a guy was drunk and wanted a fight. I was willing to give it to him. News got back to my cousin. Dominic offered me a job working for him as a collector, as his muscle. But I turned him down.
“If I had any idea just how bad things were going to get when Dante caught pneumonia three weeks later, I would have said yes right then. Once Dante got sick, I called Dominic. I told him I’d work, but I needed to keep my hands clean. There was no way I could get locked up on something that would have Enzo and Dante taken away from me. He offered me everything I never thought I wanted but needed at the time.” He shakes his head.
“What?” I barely notice when the waiter brings our plates. I’m annoyed at the waiter for waiting while we cut into our steaks and deem them perfect. Until I take a bite. “Oh my god, this is delicious.” I close my mouth as I groan at the succulent piece of steak. It has the perfect mix of fat to buttery rich, tender meat.
A flash of heat hits me, and my eyes go to Cesare’s. Oh damn, he blinks, and it’s gone. His eyes are down on his own steak. I can’t take my eyes off his hands—they are long, thick yet still somehow elegant. I want those hands on me. What? No, yes, oh crap this is bad. “What?” I blurt the word out—anything to keep my mind from going down a road where it has no business going. “What did your cousin give you?”
“He offered me a bout in underground fights. I would get two hundred dollars each fight.”
My eyes are drawn to the nose Dante mentioned was broken three times. Dante calling himself and his brothers hoods. “You needed a job fighting?”
A shoulder lifts. “I needed to hit something.” The words are bleak. Dang it, there goes that ache from deep down again. “At the time I didn’t realize I was walking around with so much anger inside me. I believed I was fine, that I dealt with it all.” God, the horror of his father killing his mother before killing himself; how could anyone deal with something like that? “I was wrong.”
“I was angry at my mother for years. If I’m honest there are still times I’m angry at her for leaving my sister and me. I can’t imagine dealing with the anger, pain, and love that’s still there despite everything that your father did. The way he left you behind, trying to make sense of something so completely senseless.
“I used to ask my grandmother why my mother left us. The why drove me crazy. My grandma said because she could. She could, and she did, and I have to not focus on the why but what comes after. I think it would have helped to have something to hit for a while there. How long did you do it for?”
His smile is barely there as he studies me. I couldn’t look away if I tried. There’s a new feeling between us; a tension I wasn’t even aware of has gone. I find myself smiling back. “For seven months and fourteen fights. Gradually I got him to pay me three hundred a fight and ten percent of the take of a win. After a few months, I finally had serious money and was ready to put it to good use. My uncle came out of prison then, and he offered to sell me a two-flat my mom had talked him into buying for her so she could renovate and sell, only she never got around to it. He helped in that he sold it to me for only what he paid, which was a steal my mother had negotiated down.
“I had no idea what I was doing. I watched about a thousand hours of videos and earned about a hundred bruises. Enzo, me, and Dante worked our asses off, and after five months we had a two-flat that sold for twice what I paid for it. I immediately took the money we made and after paying bills, found a condo to rehab.”
“You guys set yourself apart by buying outright the properties you rehabbed. Why?”
“We didn’t want to worry about payments that ate into profits and the clock that starts ticking the minute you sign on the dotted line. It kept our jobs small and few, but it was a good thing—we were still learning with every property. I wanted us to be able to take our time, to do things right, and learn without freaking out about being on a deadline. It helped us to put out a quality product so that by the time we were on the ninth flip, we had real estate agents lining up the day it went on the market, and it was sold within six hours with a bidding war.”
“From there it was only up. I’m guessing commercial was your endgame?”
He nods. “It was. My uncle was the one who pushed me to commercial. The family had a large portion of commercial property—it was one of their few legal ways of making money in the lean times. The further I researched, I saw exactly what he was talking about and knew I wanted to go bigger than a condo or two-flat or bungalow in the ’burbs.” I swear he reads me better than I know myself. “No, after the initial sale of the two-flat the family has had no investment or anything further to do with Sabatini Properties. Both my uncle and cousin understood completely without any resentment.”
“You were lucky to have family who cared about you.” The words are out before I mean to say them. I’m not a whiner, the past can’t be changed—it is what it is and bitching about it isn’t going to change anything.
“Have you seen your mother since she left you with your grandmother?” His black eyes are concerned, and I hate it. I don’t like the idea of being pitied.
“Thankfully, no. She’s tried contacting Bethany through social media, but Bethany blocks her. Even when my grandmother died there was nothing. Probably because she knew she wouldn’t get anything. Not that there was much left when my grandmother died. She made sure of that—there was no way she was going to leave anything behind for me or my sister.”
“Your grandmother wasn’t kind?”
I shrug. “My grandmother was an unhappy woman. She felt like everyone did her wrong. She committed the ultimate sin in her family’s eyes by taking up with a Venezuelan professor at the small college she taught at. Only to find the professor had a family back home, and she was pregnant and alone. Oh by the way, the school didn’t want an unmarried pregnant woman working for them.
“She found a lower-paying job teaching at a public school. Then my mom was a pain since the day she was born, according to my grandmother. Mom was skipping school by fourteen, dropped out by sixteen doing drugs and not coming home. When Mom ran away from home, my grandmother said she was relieved until ten years later my mom showed up on my grandmother’s doorstep. My grandmother said she wasn’t surprised when after spending just one night, my mom snuck out in the middle of the night leaving me and my sister behind.”
“How did you live before you landed on your grandmother’s doorstep?”
Closing my eyes, I shake my head. For me there was only the time after we moved in with my grandmother. The years before were too painful to recall and thankfully Bethany has no memory of it. “I don’t want to talk about it. We survived, some days were better than others.”
Cesare is still as a statue. I don’t think he’s even breathing. “Were you hurt?” The words are an exhalation of breath.
My own eyes go wide. I know what he’s asking. I shake my head, refusing to remember the close calls, the night I kicked and screamed until my mother came running into the room only to be slapped by her for “teasing” the man. Or the other nights when I locked Bethany and me in our room with a chair under the doorknob to keep men out.
I’m saved by the waiter asking how our meal is. I assure him it’s wonderful. He takes the time to fill my wineglass then swirls it for me. Bemused, I sip cautiously. Oh, it tastes a little oaky, not enough to be bad. I cut into the steak, chewing slowly, then swallow and sip again. Now I get it. After the slight wood-grilled flavor of the steak, the wine complements it all.
For a while, we concentrate on our food, which I will admit to being the best thing I’m pretty sure I’ve ever tasted. Even though I never ordered it, the waiter comes back with a small bowl of blackberry sorbet for both Cesare and me that is to die for. I groan a little bit and eat the whole thing even though I only intended a few bites not to be rude.
“What about your father?”
I shrug. “I don’t know who my father is. There’s no name on my birth certificate and my mom said she had no idea who it could be, which I believe. Around the time she got pregnant with Bethany there were three different men she brought to the apartment.
“A few years ago Bethany got curious and got one of those DNA kits. I really didn’t want to do it, but she was scared of doing it alone. Neither one of found relatives closer than fourth or fifth cousins. My DNA showed my father’s family was from the Jalisco region of Mexico. Bethany’s dad was from the Nuevo Leon region of Mexico. So my mom had a thing for Latin men, which I do remember many of the men being, although from time to time she would bring home a pale white guy in khakis and a checkered shirt and glasses. But they always bored her.”
“It must have been difficult to be so alone. You have done well for yourself. How did you come to making quilts?”
“I started from watching my grandmother. When she was making a quilt, it was as close to happy as she ever got. At first, she barely let me help with even the smallest thing. Gradually though, she saw me trying to make my own small quilt. She pointed out everything wrong I was doing until I was on the verge of tears, then out of nowhere told me it looked good for a first try.”
“I’ve heard be careful of selling something you take enjoyment in, that it ruins it.” It’s weird how he makes questions out of statements.
“Maybe. In the beginning, it was all work. There were times I was making what I thought were just the ugliest quilts that were a waste of my time and skill. Then I would deliver them, and the praise would be effusive and glowing. Also, I like creating something that people will use for years, and maybe even their children or whoever they pass it on to.
“It’s also a great stress reliever—the time it takes to plan then gather the fabric, cut then slowly watch it come together. It can be very soothing. Of course, there are moments and some quilts when it feels like nothing is going to plan and I want to start all over again.” I shrug. “I don’t know. I get more enjoyment out of it then if I were waiting tables or something like that.”
“You’re responsible for all your sister’s cost of living? Does she not have a job?”
I bristle at what sounds like censure. “It’s the way I want it. The program Bethany is in is very intense. For me, it’s far more important she focus on school than worrying about getting enough hours to cover what school doesn’t. And the state does cover her undergrad like it did mine because we were foster kids. But we can’t get loans or anything because of my mother’s messing our credit up. Besides, it’s better this way—she’ll graduate without owing her life. It will free her up to pick a place she wants to be, not where she needs to go to pay bills.”
He nods. “Dante says she is studying to be a physician assistant. Why not continue onto medical school?”
“Because one takes six years and the other twelve. She liked the idea of being able to work in clinics that can’t afford doctors. When she was young, she was always sick. The physician assistant at the clinic we went to made a huge impression on her. She knew what she wanted since she was young. I want to help her get there.” Slowly sounds are getting louder, and I realize it’s late. We are the only table left in the back. “I didn’t realize we were shutting the place down.”
Looking around, he nods. “I guess we are.” Seconds later, the waiter is back with the bill. Cesare slides a card into the black holder then gives it back. He pulls out his phone to let the driver know we’ll be right out.
“I’ll be right back, sir.”
I barely have time to get nervous before the waiter is back with the bill. As I stand, I’m grateful for my straight back as I head toward the front of the restaurant. There’s only one other table left as we make our way to the front. I feel Cesare behind me. Back in the warm coat, I don’t bother buttoning it—simply tying it closed as I make my way outside.
The drive home is too fast. Cesare doesn’t say a word the whole way there. Tension is rising inside me slowly. Something twists low as the limo draws up outside my building. It’s a four-story brick walk-up in the Wrigley Park area. The building is better than I could ever have afforded if it wasn’t for the owner of the condo, who only charges her monthly payment with maintenance fees.
Everyone here is nice and looks out for each other. There are only about thirty or so people with some of the condos being bought to make larger homes, taking it from the one-bedroom, one-bedroom with offices, and two-bedrooms into larger three-bedrooms because they love the building so much they didn’t want to leave.
“I’ll see Ms. Jeffries up to her apartment, Daniel. Give me a few minutes.”
“You don’t have to.” I’m embarrassed at him seeing my small apartment that until Bethany went to school fit both of us tightly.
“I know I don’t. However, it is how I end the night with any woman, Hannah included if you feel the need to remark upon it to Dante.” His voice is drier than the Sahara.
Fine. Jerk. I open the first door that opens to a vestibule for someone to call up to the apartment they want so the lock can be released by the press of a button in our apartment. Unlocking the door is something that needs to be done with a wiggle of the key.
Cesare frowns. “That should be repaired.”
Rolling my eyes. “It’s not a big deal, there are other things that are more important.” My apartment is on the second floor. Once again he’s at my back, and even though with his long legs he could eat up the floor in a few strides he gives me space as I fight not to struggle for air on the stairs. My knee twinges like it always does on the last few steps.
“Are you hurt?”
“I have a bum knee, it’s nothing.” I’m overheated. Without thinking I untie the coat as I make my way to my door, unlocking it before I turn to tell him goodbye. He hasn’t moved from the top of the stairs—he’s almost twenty feet from me. God, he’s so still. For a moment I can barely tell he’s breathing. Is it the way he’s so cold that makes me lash out? I don’t know; what I meant to say was thank you for a surprisingly nice evening. What comes out is, “You really aren’t going to say anything about the dress?”
Oh my, I have truly poked the bear. A growl comes from him, low and guttural. I blink, and he’s in front of me, pushing me back against the door with his body. That can’t be what I think it is, then he moves, and oh my god it is. Holy crap, I blush at the way my body floods to prepare to take him inside even though I haven’t the faintest idea if he could fit. One large hand is burning me through the dress on my left hip, the other is around the back of my neck, lifting me up to him. His touch on my skin burns hot as any brand, marking me as his. Blacker than black his eyes swallow me whole as heat sweeps over me down to my toes.
“You want me to say something, Alicia? You want me to say you are so beautiful you make my entire body ache and my cock so fucking hard I swear the lightest touch would break me? You want me to say that the moment you took off your coat, I wanted to take you like an animal on the floor right where we both stood because my blood called for you? Do you want me to say that every time you chewed on that bottom lip of yours tonight, I wondered what your mouth would look like stretched around my cock?
“Or that the first time I saw you I wanted to fuck you up against the wall of the elevator, your legs wrapped around my waist and me sucking on that bottom lip as I fucked you hard and rough. That last night I dreamed of doing just that as I have several times since that first moment I saw you. Is that what you want me to say? It’s true, every fucking word and so many more.”
Oh god, so dirty, so hot, so fucking unbelievable, except I don’t doubt him for a second as he’s practically vibrating leased emotion. His words have melted every bone in my body, causing me to sink into him. The hand at the back of my throat tightens. I’m plastered against him, it’s my every dream come true and better than any I ever imagined it.
Yet fear mingles deep inside, not of him despite his almost feral behavior. The fear is of me, from me, how much I want him, want this moment to never end. “I don’t know.” I’m not even aware the words come out of me in a shaky whisper. I hear them from far away. Instantly, Cesare lets me go. My knees give way, and he catches my arm in a hard grasp to keep me standing. I grab the doorframe, embarrassed.
“Once you know, then we can go from there.” I blink, and he’s gone. His steps echo on the stairs.
Well, now I know what Cesare Sabatini wants. But what the hell do I want?