Luca - His to Possess: A Ruthless Scion Novella Read online

  The smell of his cologne and the warm cinnamon-and-spice aroma of an apple pie hit my nose as he says, “Obviously, we both need dessert.”

  I kicked him out of my place, and Jake, who never eats carbs or sugar on the weekdays, came right back. With dessert.

  Jake and I are not huggers.

  Kissers? Passionate love makers? Sure. Sign us up. All day and all night. Huggers? No.

  Yet I throw my arms around his shoulders, squeezing him tight as I say, “I’m sorry, so sorry.”

  I hear his breath hitch with surprise…right before he hugs me back. The small bag with the pie bumps against my bottom as his long arms enfold my waist.

  Then comes a soft thump which I realize must be his foot kicking back against the door when I hear it click closed.

  “You’ve got stuff. I’ve got some stuff, too,” he answers. “I know neither of us likes to talk about our stuff. But I think you need to tell me what I said to set you off.”

  A reasonable request for sure. But it feels excruciating to admit, “It was when you offered me an apartment. My parents…they weren’t exactly an official couple. My mom was my dad’s mistress. He already had a family and two kids when he met her. But he put her up in an apartment, then eventually a house when she had me.”

  This is as close to the truth as I can get without violating a ton of WITSEC policies, so I leave it there, concluding with, “Anyway, that’s how I grew up. As this big old secret. I used to watch my mom wait by the door whenever my dad called to say he was coming for a visit. She was like a trained dog. And I swore to myself that would never be me. So when you offered to buy me an apartment, I know you were only trying to help, but...”

  “I thought I was being romantic, but I ended up triggering you. Good one, Ferra.” He sighed against the top of my head. “Sorry, baby.”

  “No, it’s not your fault. I should have talked to you instead of kicking you out. But like you said, I’m not used to talking about my stuff.” I sigh and say, “I love you, but I don’t ever want to feel like that. I don’t want to be somebody’s secret or possession.”

  He stiffens.

  And I suddenly realize I just admitted to loving him. Oh, God. Tell me I didn’t say that. Why did I say that???

  But before I can start backpedaling, he says, “We’ve only been together for three months.”

  “I know, and I—”

  “Shut up, Reynolds. Don’t start trying to qualify it, because I love you, too.”

  All the qualifications I was about to make on my original statement fall from my tongue, and instead I say, “You love me, too? Seriously?”

  “Yeah, I just wasn’t saying it yet because it felt a little…”

  “Premature,” I finish for him. “It’s stupid early in a relationship to be talking like this.”

  “Yeah, stupid,” he agrees. Then after a few moments, he says, “You know, Frank Sinatra was Italian, too.”

  “Okay,” I say, bemused, wondering why he’s broken out with that non-sequitur.

  But then he says, “Why don’t we do Somethin’ Stupid.”

  Six

  Summer Wind

  “I can’t believe you two moved in together!” Naima squeals two months later at the small party we throw to celebrate my graduation from law school.

  “You’re here in our place, so now’s probably a good time to start believing,” Jake answers.

  He’s only teasing Naima, but I can’t help the secret thrill that shoots through my heart when he calls it our apartment.

  Naima laughs at his rejoinder like Jake is the most charming man on earth. And I know I’m going to get treated to yet another whispered comment about how lucky I am as soon as he’s out of earshot.

  Which turns out to be sooner than expected. The arm he has slung around my shoulder goes stiff while I’m explaining to Naima about my plan to take a few months off to study for the New York State bar before beginning my job search.

  “See somebody I need to say hello to,” he says. Then he drops a kiss against the side of my forehead and takes off.

  “Girl, he is too fine,” Naima whispers under her breath nearly as soon as he’s gone. “And he’s supporting you while you study for the bar?”

  “Yeah, I’m lucky,” I answer, trying not to think about how fast he walked off. Even after we talked about how nervous I still am about navigating around his massive apartment. You trust him, I remind myself as I smile and nod in the direction of Naima’s voice.

  “And this place—girl, I hope he described it for you…”

  “He did. It sounds like I’m missing out on a view of the river.”

  “And crazy high ceilings! How many bedrooms does this place have anyway?!””

  “Six—but Jake uses one of them as a home office.”

  I strain, hoping Jake and whoever he’s talking to are in hearing range. But no luck. All I can hear is the sound of glasses clinking, the hum of recently graduated law school students talking about next steps, and Frank singing about the “Summer Wind” over it all.

  “Okay, lucky is an understatement,” Naima informs me. “You didn’t just hit the jackpot. That guy is like the Powerball of dudes. Like one in a billion chances! I’m glad you finally let him in.”

  “Yeah, me, too…” I say, voice soft. Resisting, trying so hard to resist…

  “But what does a single guy need with a place this big?”

  “I guess it’s an investment property. His family owns it,” I answer.

  “What does his family do again?”

  Okay, I can’t do this anymore. “Nai, can you see who he’s talking to?”

  I hear the creak of faux leather as Naima turns to look off in the direction Jake went. “Oh girl, you don’t have anything to worry about. He’s talking to a guy.”

  Naima’s right. I have nothing to worry about with Jake. Absolutely nothing. Still, I ask, “What does the guy look like?”

  “Uh…big. Muscle-y. Looks like he like dyes his hair with black paint. Not to stereotype—but a total Italian. Maybe he’s one of Jake’s relatives? Didn’t you say they live in New Jersey?”

  “Maybe,” I agree, but my voice sounds distant, even to my ears.

  “Ooh, wait. Now he’s following Jake upstairs. Maybe to put down his coat? I should probably find a place for mine, too. It’s a little hot in here.”

  “Yeah,” I agree. “Here, give it to me and I’ll take it.”

  “You don’t have to do that. I can take it myself.”

  “No, let me,” I insist. “I’m still getting the hang of navigating around this place. I could use the practice.”

  “Yeah, that makes sense,” Naima agrees. “Have I mentioned this place is huge!”

  A few minutes later, I’m walking up the short set of stairs toward the front of the apartment with Naima’s jacket slung over my shoulder, even though I know there’s a perfectly suitable coat closet only a few steps away from the front door.

  But upstairs is the bedroom Jake converted into a home office, and Naima’s coat gives me an excuse for being up here if he asks.

  I chide myself for being silly all the way up the stairs. Then stop dead, gripping my walking stick tight. The argument is so loud I can hear their voices nearly as soon as I clear the top step. But I can’t understand their words. So I get closer.

  Eavesdropping, I know. But I’ve pretty much used up all my trust issue willpower this month on moving into Jake’s upper east side apartment. Gripping Naima’s jacket like a teddy bear, I get as close as I can to the door.

  “Jesus fucking Christ. You went after his moolie daughter? What would your dad say? After what his set did to us. After what he did to you!”

  “Look, I know what I’m doing. I pulled a message to her dad off her laptop a few weeks ago. So she’s got a way to contact him. Maybe he’ll even come out of hiding if he hears his only daughter is living with me now.”

  What’s crazy is I’m so confused at first. I’ve been playing the part of Am
ber Reynolds so long that I’d almost forgotten who I was when I still had my eyesight. And Amber Reynold’s parents died in a car accident. So it takes me a moment to realize who they’re talking about.

  Bella Peretti.

  The secret daughter of the Romano Crime Family’s head enforcer. The girl who used to bring the Italian meals her mother made down to the bad men in the basement. The girl who once tried to save a boy she knew didn’t deserve to die at such a young age.

  That boy’s name was Luca. And then the truth hits me like something I tripped over without my stick to catch my fall. Luca wasn’t his full name. It was Luca Jacob Ferraro. I’ll always remember WITSEC breaking down all the players in the tragedy that ended Bella’s life as she knew it, while I lay recovering everything but my eyesight in a hospital bed.

  Luca Jacob Ferraro. The name is close enough to Jake Ferra to spit at. And moreover, I recognize the voice of the guy he’s arguing with. Because it was the last voice I heard before the explosion that blinded me.

  Seven

  The World We Knew

  Big Italian Tony.

  The goon who killed my mother and set off an explosive in my house is in my boyfriend’s study. No, not my boyfriend. Luca Ferraro. Not Jake Ferra, the boy I thought I knew—the boy I thought I’d fallen in love with. But Luca Ferraro, the boy my father kidnapped and was planning to kill to teach his New Jersey crime family a lesson.

  I reel back with the new knowledge. Then turn in my tracks to run—only to walk straight into a wall! “Ow! Fuck!” I drop my cane, and the curse words fall out of my mouth before I can stop them.

  I can feel something warm and wet dripping from my left nostril. Probably blood. And I’m completely disorientated, which would be a problem for a sighted person but is an absolute disaster for me. My mind is spinning with what I just found out about Jake, but I need to find my cane, then concentrate on following the chatter of the party below so I can figure out which direction to walk—

  “What was that?” I hear Big Italian Tony ask.

  Okay, forget the cane. I put my left hand on the wall I ran into and start walking, holding my other hand out in a way that’s nowhere near the cool and capable look I usually go for. It doesn’t matter. I’ve got to get away! I’ve got to—

  The sound of the door opening. “Amber?”

  I walk faster. Have to get downstairs! Have to get to people. I command myself with an image of Big Italian Tony shooting my mother. Right between the eyes, one of the detectives told me. No reason to feel guilty about not getting to her before the bomb went off, another said. She was already dead.

  “Amber, your stick. You left your stick!”

  I keep walking. Pretend I don’t hear him.

  A hand catches my arm. Spins me around.

  “Christ, your nose is bleeding! What happened?”

  I can smell the overbearing cologne of another presence in the hallway. But he doesn’t talk. Which makes him all the more menacing.

  “Let me go!” I whisper to Fake Jake. “Let me go, or I’ll scream.”

  “Amber, what’s going on?” he demands. Still playing the part. Still playing me for a total fool.

  And that alone infuriates me enough to say, “Don’t you mean Bella?”

  I hear the quiet hitch of his breath. I also hear the crack of a gun being cocked. Unmistakable, because once you hear it in real life, there’s no forgetting the sound.

  “Don’t,” Fake Jake says.

  And I don’t know if he’s talking to his enforcer or me. Either way…

  “Amber,” Jake starts again.

  “Bella,” I hiss. I reach out and wave my hand in the air a few times before I find the cane. “Stop pretending!” I say to him as I snatch it back.

  “Bella,” he says with a heavy sigh. “Come into my office. We gotta talk about this.”

  “No, I’m leaving right now. Don’t try to stop me or I’ll scream, and there will be a lot of questions from all those people down there. Everyone who doesn’t know you’re really a mafia prince.”

  “C’mon, don’t do this. We can fix this. Just—”

  I don’t hear the rest of his words. I’m already headed back toward the party.

  Gasps sound from below before I’m even halfway down the stairs. “Oh my God, Amber, your nose is bleeding!” a voice calls out. It’s a girl from my Public Health Seminar. One of the ones who used to moon over Jake until he started sitting next to me for the rest of the semester.

  But right now I grab on to her voice like a lifeline. “Can you find my friend, Naima? She’s…um…” Dammit, I have no idea how to describe her. “She’s half-Dominican, half-Haitian…” I finish weakly because that’s the only physical qualifier I have for her.

  But in the next moment, a new voice calls out to me, “Amber! Amber! Oh my God! Are you all right?” The thump of hard heels shakes the stairs, and then Naima’s beside me, pressing a tissue into my nose.

  “What happened?”

  “Got disoriented and walked right into a wall,” I answer.

  “Oh my God. Where’s Jake? Want me to find him?”

  “No,” I say, fighting to keep my voice calm. Fighting to stay Amber Reynolds, even though I’m now aware there are at least two people who know I’m not really that girl.

  “Can you take me home?” I ask Naima. “Back to your place? I need to not be here for a while.”

  Eight

  That’s Life

  “You’re up! Let me pour you some coffee from the machine Naima got us for our 30th anniversary,” Mrs. Almonte, Naima’s mother, says with a thick Haitian accent when I walk into the kitchen of the family’s Queens duplex the next morning. The Alexa device quietly going over today’s headlines is soon drowned out by the talking push button coffee machine as it grinds beans to produce a single serving of quality coffee.

  I hear the scoot of a chair underneath it all, and then Naima’s in front of me, saying, “Hey girl, table’s over here.”

  I have my stick, but let her guide me to a table that is clear of clutter or any of the other knick-knacks you might find in a fully-sighted family’s kitchen. From what Naima told me when she showed me to the couch last night, the Almontes live in a very humble home. But it doesn’t feel that way to me. It’s refreshing to visit someplace other than my apartment with completely clear pathways everywhere I walk. Naima even removed the kitchen door for her parents, so all I had to do was walk right in when I woke up this morning.

  Naima still lives with her parents. She says it’s because it doesn’t make sense to pay someone’s landlord thousands to pile into an apartment with a bunch of roommates. But I suspect she doesn’t want to leave her parents alone in the house, even though from what I can sense, they’d get along perfectly well on their own.

  Naima’s Dominican father, Mr. Almonte, is already at the table.

  “Hola, mami, let me lean that stick against the table for you,” he says, taking my mobility cane from me. “It is good to have you here in my home.”

  I get the feeling Naima’s already filled her parents in on how her hysterical friend insisted on spending the night at their place because she was so overcome with embarrassment.

  As if to confirm my suspicion, Mr. Almonte says, “You know I was very idiot man this winter. Went out without my stick. Slipped on the ice in front of the whole neighborhood. Could hear the kids laughing as the women sent for an ambulance. Broke my leg in two places. Now they have me on this PT. Really, you have no reason to be embarrassed in front of that rich boy.”

  “And if that rich boy’s serious about living with you outside the scripture, then he should at least become educated about how we be,” Mrs. Almonte adds, setting a coffee in front of me with a soft ceramic tap.

  The coffee from the Almonte’s machine is infinitely better than the stuff that comes out of my Keurig, but I can barely enjoy it because I’m wondering what I’m going to do. Obviously, my plan to take the New York Bar is done for. I’m going to have to conta
ct WITSEC and figure out how to get another identity. Then probably move. But how hard would it be to find a blind black lawyer in this country? And how much help would I be to people if I didn’t officially register as a lawyer for the blind?

  My life is a pile of ashes now, all because I finally let myself get serious with someone. Falling in love didn’t just hurt me as I suspected it would. It’s ruined my life.

  Again.

  Bella… Amber… a wave of depression washes over me as I realize I’ve gone through two lives in less than 25 years.

  The doorbell rings and Mrs. Almonte says, “Alexa what time is it?”

  “8:28 A.M.” Alexa answers.

  “Your therapist is 30 minutes early. You having an affair, old man?” Mrs. Almonte asks, her voice laced through with French suspicion.

  “Sure am,” Mr. Almonte answers. “She is working me out. Gives me all the things an old woman like you can’t.”

  “Things like what? The STDs?” Mrs. Almonte shoots back.

  “Mom! Dad! It’s too early for this routine of yours,” Naima says. She sounds weary. “Plus, we’ve got a guest.”

  “Then tell your padre to stop flirting with all these scandalous women that come by the house!” her mother answers.

  “Tell your mère to stop hating on my game! Is it my fault I am such the smooth player?” Mr. Almonte answers, sounding like a put-upon saint.

  The doorbell rings again.

  “Mom, are you getting the door or am I?” Naima asks.

  “I will get this door,” her mother answers. “Abraham di sètase. It is time to let this girl know about herself!”

  “I’m so sorry,” Naima says to me with an exasperated laugh. “My parents have no chill switch when it comes to acting a fool.”

  “It’s fine,” I assure her, laughing too.

  But our laughter comes to an abrupt stop when Mrs. Almonte yells back to us. “Naima! There is a man here who says he has your jacket.”