by Xavier Neal
“No.” To no surprise, my fiancée’s expression matches mine. “Not her.”
He closes the window and promptly pulls another. This video is of a dirty blonde who also has a young, innocent face, although her age is much closer to thirty than the last one. Ember Kinnaman’s bikini-clad body leans in closer as she plants a kiss on her father’s cheek. “Happy Birthday, Dad!”
“That’s her!” Chantal squawks while pointing at the phone. “That’s the voice I heard! She was the one who whined about not knowing she needed to bring a gift!”
“Why didn’t we make them bring gifts?” Miko ponders to himself. “We had to bring one to see Shay. The least they could’ve done is-”
“Silenzio,” I chomp prior to directing all of my attention to my fiancée. “You’re sure this is the voice you heard?”
“Yes.”
“Absolutely sure, Mia Bella?”
“Sì.” Anger rips through her stare as she defensively folds her arms across her chest. “Now, I’ve said it in both languages, making it extra true.”
Doubt dances its way around my expression, infuriating her further.
“Why don’t you fucking believe me?” The pain in her voice creates a matching one in my chest. “Why don’t you think I’m telling you the truth?”
“Because Ember is as dumb as a bucket of sand,” Miko replies for me and resumes eating. “I watched one of the other girls convince her that craisins and raisins were the exact same fruit just dyed different colors.”
Chantal flashes him a cringe.
“She also let them convince her that the squawking sound she was making was proper Peacock and that if she made it at Prince, he wouldn’t attack her.”
Another wince is presented.
“She has the intelligence of a fucking mannequin.” He swallows down more of his sandwich. “Stupidity aside, her father has reach but not the level it would take to kidna – er – steal you from under our noses, sell you online, and ship you out of the fucking country.”
“Why was she ever a fucking candidate, then?”
“Obedience,” I casually inform.
“Get a dog.”
“Probabilmente sarebbero ancora più brillanti di lei,” Miko snickers.
They would still probably be brighter than her.
“She’s not bright but…easy to manipulate and control.” All of a sudden, a theory slaps me so hard in the face it stumbles me backwards. “What if Mia Bella really did hear her?”
“I did! I swear I fucking did!”
“What if Ember’s just not working alone?”
Their eyes glide to mine.
“Remember, we were told by the mercs who handled her transport they spoke with different women during the process.” The continued silence pushes me to point out. “What if they operated like a pack?”
My second’s head tilts in an obvious request for more information.
“One hyena isn’t likely to take down a lion, but a pack can.”
His sandwich tumbles down to the plate on a grunted, “Conseguenze.”
Consequences.
I hesitate to agree, yet eventually sigh, “Sì.”
Chantal inserts herself into the conversation with a snap of a finger. “Can I get a few more footnotes over here?”
Miko’s blue glare dives into mine demanding I be the one to explain the possible discovery. My stare swings to the love of my life, and I quietly outline, “The women who were gathered here to…compete for my attention-”
“Like a dog show.”
“Yes. They are daughters to very powerful men. Men who, on their own, couldn’t successfully remove you from my life so easily but who, collectively, could make it possible. Whose reach perhaps did make it possible. I don’t believe the Dons themselves would make such a profound mistake to cross me; however, their daughters…women who feel wronged for being robbed of an opportunity they have been bred for, might.”
Her jaw cracks open on a scoff of disgust. “A ho’ coup?”
“Isn’t that a poem?” Miko immediately ponders on a chip crunch.
“That’s a haiku.” I roll my eyes prior to pushing onward. “They might’ve come to the conclusion if they worked together, they could remove the threat,” my hand motions to Chantal, “and return to competing. ‘My enemy's enemy is my friend.’ Unusual alliances in times of war are not unheard of.”
“Are you implying that being with me is an act of war?”
“In a way,” my best friend answers for me, grabbing her gaze. “Beni made a conscious choice to go against the precedent. He was warned repeatedly – by me – that there would, inevitably, be consequences. You can’t piss off five heads of families and expect them to go quietly. I assumed there would be some sort of financial fall out. Not that their daughters would assemble a slutty Avengers squad to take your ass out.”
“We don’t know that they did…,” his stare rotates back to me, and I add, “yet.”
He instantly nods in understanding of what I’m commanding without vocalizing it.
“Start with the day Chantal landed on the island. Work backwards.”
Miko nods, again, grabs a handful of chips, and exits the room.
A heavy, unsettled sigh is followed by my arms reaching out and winding around my future wife’s waist. “I believe you, Mia Bella.”
Her arms curl around my frame.
“I believe the voice you heard was Ember’s, and I am so proud of you for hanging onto that tiny detail. That little bit of information anyone would’ve brushed away as insignificant to focus on the face of the people who were responsible for your transport. Your observational skills, even in such unpropitious circumstances, are phenomenal.”
Self-admiration spreads through her stare.
“You continue to amaze me…” My forehead falls gently to hers. “My apologies, Mia Bella. Tutte le mie scuse,” all of my apologies, “that I may have unintentionally put you in this position. This danger.”
“None of that shit,” she sasses back on a smirk. “You didn’t send me death threats, kill my dad, kidnap me, or ship me off to rape island.”
The last statement sends rumbles of rage up my throat.
“If they did this…then it’s all on them.”
And, their families.
Chapter 16
“Mi scusi, Mia Bella,” Beni politely interrupts the scribbling I’m doing in my new journal about a love triangle among our staff at the estate. “May I have a moment or two of your time?”
I lift my skeptical brown stare up to his hazel. “Not if you’re going to badger me about the state of my nausea again.”
Miko snickers from the cream-colored luxury jet seat beside me.
“What is so wrong with wanting to know the possible unpleasant state of my pregnant fiancée’s demeanor during her first known flight as such?” He crosses his leg and leans back against the couch cushion. “Perché questo mi rende un cattivo?”
Unfamiliarity with the last words leaves me silent.
“Why does this make me a villain?”
“Potrei facilmente vederti interpretare il cattivo...” My eyes dart to him just in time to see him make hand movements near his nose, “You would look perfect with one of those Dick Dastardly mustaches.”
I start to snicker only for it to be cut off by a confused, “Who?”
Bafflement is immediately flashed his direction from me. “How do you not know who Dick Dastardly is?!”
“What kind of name is Dick Dastardly?”
“The most incredible one for a cartoon villain whose name is also unconsciously teaching small children about alliteration,” I promptly argue.
“He also had the most badass car,” Miko adds, gathering my attention again. “I asked Beni to get me one for my 30th birthday, and instead, he gave me uno sguardo vuoto, Chantal. Uno sguardo vuoto!”
A blank stare!
My head slowly shakes in disapproval. “What a monster.”
“Come sono un mos
tro?!”
How am I a monster?
Hearing his anger increase his volume causes us both to snicker, yet it’s me who continues the teasing with a matching look. “How have you never watched Wacky Races?”
“Perhaps my level of intelligence is just too high to indulge in something that possesses the word ‘wacky’ in the title?”
“Or…” I close my journal shut and shoot a look back, “perhaps your appreciation for classic culture is just too low.”
“Avete ragione entrambi,” Miko lightly laughs.
You’re both right.
Beni rolls his eyes and folds his hands firmly in his lap. “I actually wanted to discuss other matters with you, first; however, now that you’ve brought up the unknown state of your physical health…how are you feeling?”
“Less nausea in general. I think Gia’s secret morning hot drink recipe has been working. I haven’t thrown up in four days.”
“Thank fuck for that,” Miko mumbles. “Sounded like demons were trying to come out of you.”
My head snaps his direction to showcase a glare.
“I didn’t know whether we should call Dr. Gregory or a priest.”
The two of them engage in a round of snickers.
“Sta 'zitto,” I hiss and turn back to the man I’m going to marry. “While those feelings have passed, I’m pretty sure cravings are starting. Which, before you panic, yes, they are perfectly normal to have any time past week five and will continue until my third trimester.”
“I will be verifying that with Dr. Ybarra, but I imagine the new cravings are why you sent Walter out at one this morning to retrieve you Ritz Bits as well as a bottle of spray cheese.”
“That wasn’t for sex?” Miko’s scoff of disapproval has us both shaking our heads at his antics.
“Cravings and aversions are completely normal aspects of pregnancy. Haven’t you already passed that chapter in What to Expect When You’re Annoying the Expecting?”
To my surprise, Beni taunts, “I don’t recall seeing the desire for lower quality product anywhere on those pages.”
“If you made me stop writing, so that you could give me a food lecture, Mr. Snob, I’m gonna get out of this seat and go sit at the front of the plane with Cerise and Sherrod.”
I won’t.
She’s drinking a mimosa and just the smell of champagne threatens to awaken my gag muscles from the light coma they’re in.
Nevertheless, he doesn’t know it’s an empty threat.
Beni flashes me an additional smirk before speaking again, “Hearing you have a clean bill of health that permits you to travel provides me with the clinical answer to my question. I wanted the more subjective one.”
His genuine concern regarding my emotional state is given a soft smile.
This week hasn’t exactly been one of smooth sailing for us. Transitioning from his overbearing nature to one where I don’t have to worry about him lurking outside the bathroom while I pee has been a serious struggle. It was so easy to hear it in his voice when he said my name and see it in his clenched jaw when he was fighting with himself not to hover. Thankfully, his mother and stepfather did lots of redirecting – some nice, some not so nice. We’re finally to the point where he still fusses needlessly at times; however, they are much less frequent. It’s crystal clear to me that Beni’s doing the best he can to let me be independent again.
And, I’m doing the best I can to let him in.
Instead of verbally explaining all that I encountered while on the yacht and island, I took matters into my own hands. Grappled with how I process the pain. Recaptured more of my power. I plopped my ass on the couch in his main office and started to write. He didn’t banish me or insist I leave the room when there was a call to be had. He didn’t acknowledge my presence, but it was obvious that me being within his sights, willingly, brought him ease. I’d write in bursts that sometimes brought me to tears, and even then, he would maintain his distance.
Provide me with space.
At the end of my first writing session, I put the journal on his desk and told him he was allowed to read it. That I wasn’t sure if I would ever be able to say what was on the pages to his face but that I wanted him to know.
Needed him to.
What happened next took me by surprise almost as much as what I did took him.
Beni never spoke of the subject.
He wrote on it.
His feelings…his…pain…his helplessness was right there.
Scribbled for me to see in the most beautiful, bare way.
I inwardly teased him for having handwriting that clearly belongs on the Declaration of Independence yet outwardly expressed my gratitude for opening up a new line of communication. He vowed to never read words he didn’t have permission to, and that vow led me to returning to my journaling ways. I try hard not to transfer the horrors of that time over to my personal notebook due to Dad’s voice in the back of my head, reminding me every moment you spend looking back is one wasted on time you could use moving forward.
His absence is impossible not to feel, and, yet in ways…I would swear he’s just as alive as he’s ever been.
I keep trying to hold onto that feeling, but I’m beginning to wonder, is it wrong?
Is holding onto his voice and the little piece of him I feel I have left hindering me from engaging in a healing process regarding his death?
I lean over and give his folded hands a gentle squeeze. “Sto bene il, mio futuro marito. La mia parola.”
I'm good, my future husband. My word.
Relief mixes with hunger in his expression over hearing me speak Italian. He swallows what I imagine is desire and nods in acknowledgement of my proclamation. “Very well then.” Once my hand is back in my own lap, he proceeds, “Your first week back at work has been a long one.”
Delightfully so.
There was no dipping my toes or “easing” back into the groove.
I simply hopped on that shit like I hadn’t missed a breath.
Unfortunately, while I love it and working and being submerged in the familiar numbers void, the return to the constant pace I previously loved isn’t one my fiancé is openly fond of.
He is trying his best to adjust to having someone just as dedicated to the company as he is.
It doesn’t always go well.
Yesterday he threw a stapler at his office wall when I wouldn’t stop what I was doing to have lunch together.
“Are there any major issues to report, Miss Brooks?”
“Theoretically, aside from a few documents with missing signatures, which make them incapable of being filed until they have them, there’s nothing to note, Mr. Bennett.”
A smile tugs at his lips. “And, in actuality?”
“The documents with missing signatures were filed regardless of that.” My hands take a similar position to his. “That should’ve never happened. Had I been in charge, or around, it wouldn’t have. Missing signatures are not unheard of. People make mistakes. Little mistakes. Little mistakes like changing ones and sevens periodically because it’s easy to write off as an accident. So, I went through some old notes. This behavior of attempting to file paperwork without signatures coincides to the numerical discrepancies I first brought to your attention. They happened two to three weeks prior to a number being changed.”
Beni’s jaw tightens.
“Due to the path paperwork is processed and the amount of paperwork processed, it’s easier to hide who to blame that fuck-up on, but the theoretical mishandled documents match the predicted next target.”
Noticeable throbbing begins.
“From first glance or first thought, the two wouldn’t appear to be a pattern, but they are. And, when I began to work through the diner and employees’ data to search for the requested pattern-”
“Miko,” my fiancé harshly bites.
Without missing a beat, he grunts, “Era troppa matematica.”
It was too much math.
“It was,�
�� I concur, collecting Beni’s gaze once more. “And, not the type of math you want someone who can barely calculate the correct amount to tip on his bar tab to be responsible for doing.”
“I know how to tip,” Miko chimes in beside me.
This time I toss him a sarcastic stare. “Tossing a hundred-dollar bill down after two glasses of top shelf Wilcox whiskey and telling them to keep the change is not the correct way to tip.”
“It is when the bartender gives you her number so her double ds can land in your mouth when she gets off, leading to you eventually getting to get off.”
“Do you know the difference between a bartender and a hooker?”
“Probabilmente no,” Beni casually answers, causing me to face him again. He motions a hand my direction. “Please continue.”
“Based on the information I had initially collected, combined with the paperwork incidents, I had begun to draw conclusions, but I didn’t want to bring them to your attention without adequate information because they would, essentially, add on unneeded stress if they were wrong. There’s no room for error with this shit. No room for assumptions.”
He steals a taste of his lips; a signature move he makes when my confidence and diligence appear in business discussions.
It’s a little indication he doesn’t know whether to give me a good bang or a random bonus.
“I started with those that appeared to be the most likely suspects and found a match.”
Beni’s eyes widen in anticipation of the answer.
My two thumbs tap together at the same time I grind out the words, “Your instincts were correct, Mr. Bennett.”
His brows lift in question.
“The data matches.”
“You’re certain?”
“I wouldn’t have brought it up if I wasn’t.”
There’s no stopping his grin from momentarily being displayed.
“I’ll present you my findings in a more formal fashion when we arrive at the hotel.”
He nods and shifts his stare to his second, who immediately states, “I’m ready to make the call when you give the order.”
Another nod is followed by me receiving his physical and verbal attention. “Did you have time to rerun the Highland presentation numbers for me?”
