Victorious and settled for the first time, Paris and I were ecstatic to shop for paint colors, curtains, and new bedspreads. And while Paris went full-on gender-stereotype with her space, opting for a thousand shades of pink, I chose a more neutral color palette. Serene gray walls, navy curtains, and fun, bold accent pillows on my white taffeta bedspread. I spent long hours on that bed reading, journaling, or talking on the phone with friends. It was an anchor during my late teens and early twenties. A safe place. A home.
When I wake up in Dominic’s bedroom, I have the same expansive feeling. A sense of belonging and peace. And when I wake up the morning after having sex with him for the first time, I feel it tenfold. There’s no judgement here, where parted navy curtains bathe the pale walls with warm, golden light. In this bed where cream-colored sheets are soft against my naked skin, and heat radiates onto my back from a warm, big body.
Stretching and yawning, I roll over to face the man who, over the last months, painstakingly extracted the poison from my deepest wounds, restarting my dormant heart.
He’s awake. Sleep-eyed and smiling. “Come here.”
I scoot under his lifted arm, burrowing into his chest. His heart thumps, steady and slow, beneath my ear. “I could stay here forever,” I say into his skin.
“Mmm. Me too. But if we stay here, I won’t be able to bring you breakfast in bed.”
I pull away and point to the door. “You’re free to go.”
With a small chuckle, Dominic sits up. Instead of standing, however, he pivots and tackles me flat to the bed. I put up a decent fight, but I’m laughing and don’t actually want to escape. My hands are stretched over my head, my legs pinned beneath his. The weight and heat of his body on mine, the morning sun on his grinning face, the ease and lightness of the moment…
“Am I dreaming?” I whisper.
His smile softens, eyes molten chocolate and brimming with the same feeling that’s overwhelming me. “I meant what I said, London, even if you said it under duress. I love you. I love your guardedness, your pride, your intelligence, and your ridiculous sense of humor. I love your insane childhood stories, and the fact your feet are always freezing.”
My face hurts from smiling. “Oh, really? Maybe you just run hot.”
He nuzzles my nose with his. “Do you know what else I love?”
“My ass?”
“Yes. I love spanking it, squeezing it, marking it, putting toys in it, and hopefully sometime soon putting my—”
“Wow!”
He laughs and kisses me soundly. “But that’s not what I was going to say. What I love most is how hard you fought not to love me back. But I knew you did. I just didn’t know which part of you—London, or the mask you wear—would win the fight. Do you want to know when I figured it out?”
My head spins. “When?”
He releases my hands to cup my face. “When you wouldn’t tell me what that asshole at the club said to you, because you thought you were protecting me.”
Every ounce of the peace inside me coalesces and dims, robbed of life. I stiffen. “Dominic, you don’t—”
He puts a finger on my lips, not backing down. The light in his eyes is fierce—more fierce than I’ve ever seen it. A barely-leashed predator lurks close to the surface. If I didn’t know he would never hurt me, I might feel more afraid. As it is, I’m only afraid of his next words.
“I understand far more than you think. For example, I know the creep from the club works for the Russian mob, but wasn’t sent by Ivan Reznikov.”
“Stop,” I gasp.
Dominic ignores my plea. “Turns out he was on loan to someone far more powerful. And far more dangerous. The name Rudolph Schultz mean anything to you? Former Director of Homeland Security, currently a senator in the state of New York?”
My heart whacks my ribs with bruising force. Adrenaline floods my body. I push up and wiggle, but he’s too heavy. “Dominic, please. Let me up.”
He lets me move to sitting but doesn’t release me, cradling me against his chest. Slowly over the course of minutes, his embrace and steady heartbeat counteract my panic attack.
“That’s it. Breathe with me.” He strokes my spine with a steady hand, anchoring me to the present. The world outside is dark, foreign and terrifying, but a small part of me understands I’m still okay. Still alive. Right here, right now, I’m safe.
“Tell me, London. Please. No matter what it is, I’ll protect you. I won’t let anything happen to you.”
Too late.
My voice emerges brittle and robotic. “He’ll kill my family. My parents. My sister. Niece.”
His embrace tightens, hands stilling. “Schultz?”
There’s surprise in his voice, but not much of it. After all, he’s someone who knows how violent the world is. And because of his brother and ex-wife, I imagine he also knows just how corrupting power can be. The thing with Schultz, though—that I found out far too late—is that he wasn’t corrupted. He was always corrupt. But so, so good at pretending he wasn’t. So good at it, in fact, that I think he might actually believe himself irreproachable.
He’s a fucking psychopath.
“Tell me,” begs Dominic.
I take a breath that sears my lungs with fear. And with freedom. “It started with a golf game.”
39
The first time Paul and I were invited to dinner at the Schultz residence, we felt like kids playing dress-up and pretending to be our parents. Not my parents, obviously, but Paul’s—dignified, refined, exuding class from their tailored threads to their wrinkle-free foreheads. Only we were twenty-three, recent graduates of NYU, and scared out of our heads about embarrassing ourselves.
Three years before, when Paul and his father played golf with Rudolph Shultz, he’d been head of the New York office of Homeland Security. Mere months later, he was promoted, then promoted again. All the while, he kept tabs on Paul. Reached out with friendly phone calls and encouragement.
Paul’s parents were thrilled Schultz had taken their son under his wing. Especially when Schultz left New York for Washington DC in pursuit of a political career. With his history—active military service, Harvard Law degree—and his shining public persona, no one doubted he’d make it to the upper echelons of power.
And yet, despite his status as a shooting star and increasingly demanding calendar, Schultz never forgot Paul. Though their phone calls had slowly transitioned to sporadic emails, Schultz truly cared about Paul and by proxy, me. However nervous we were that night, Schultz put us both at ease within minutes of our arrival. He had a unique approachability, an intelligence and charisma so powerful it was blinding.
I remember that night like it was yesterday.
Seven years ago
“London, Paul tells me you’re a fan of literature.” Warm blue eyes smile into mine.
“I am, Mr. Schultz,” I reply, my fingers sweating on the stem of a wine glass that probably cost more than last month’s rent. I hope he doesn’t notice the tremor in my voice. My parents definitely didn’t prepare me for this. Rolling a joint, yes. Mingling with the wealthy and powerful? Big, fat no.
The handsome older man grins. “Please, call me Rudy. I already think of you as a daughter, after all. Come on, I want to show you something.” Without waiting for a reply, he calls across the room, “Paul, I’m stealing your wife!”
My husband, engrossed in conversation with the flawlessly beautiful Mrs. Schultz, laughs and nods. “Just bring her back.”
“Eventually.”
With a hand on my lower back, Rudy steers me from the sitting room at the front of the house and down the long, marble-floored hallway. We take a turn and come to a stop before double doors. His spicy, expensive cologne teases my nose as he reaches past me to open them.
“After you, my dear.”
I take several steps inside before awe freezes my muscles.
Behind me, Rudy chuckles. “I was hoping this would be your reaction.”
In the golden dusk, th
e massive room is ablaze with beauty. I’m sure there’s a name for it, something fancy like gallery or great room, but to my eyes it’s simply a wonderland. A wall of high, iron-bracketed windows faces the back of the property and beyond it is a riot of greenery—groomed gardens, fountains, fruit trees. But it’s what’s inside that holds me captive. Opposite the glass, the room extends into a beautiful library. Floor-to-ceiling bookshelves frame an elegant collection of chairs and couches.
My feet carry me toward the books. The air grows cooler and heavier against my skin, as though welcoming me. Or warning me—this is a place I could get lost in and never find my way out.
Rudy walks past me, the arm of his suit whispering against my shoulder. “This section, I think, will be of particular interest to you.” He glances over his shoulder. The sunset catches in his eyes; for an instant, they flare red. “Some of the greatest thinkers and essayists are here. Everyone from Hitchens to Emerson.”
I manage a little laugh. “This is amazing. I would have loved this during school.”
A tawny eyebrow quirks. “Now that you’ve graduated, you don’t have any more interest in learning?”
That, I would come to find out, was a signature Rudy statement. An insult delivered so graciously, that cut so swiftly, the pain registered on a delay. In just a few short words, he introduced a new emotion to my human experience. Shame.
“No, of course I still want to learn,” I stammer. “I only meant—”
“I’m only kidding, of course,” he interjects smoothly, a wide, disarming smile on his face. He seems so authentic my embarrassment slides away. Removing a small volume from a shelf, he walks back to me. “Can I offer a bit of advice, my dear?”
Off-kilter, I nod. “Of course.”
“Are you aware of Nietzsche’s concept of will to power? The instinct we all possess to dominate—be better than—our fellows?” He waits for my bemused nod. “I see this instinct in you, London. The passion for perfection. My advice is this—when the time comes for you to choose between instinct and self-preservation, choose the latter.”
I can’t contain my frown. “I don’t understand.”
From what I can recall, Nietzsche proposed that man’s highest challenge was to refine his so-called will to power in order to be free from all outside influences, thereby creating his own set of values. Was he telling me to ignore my instincts or to embrace them?
Rudy chuckles; I don’t know if he’s laughing at me or not. “Don’t fret, my dear. When the time comes, you’ll understand.”
A knock on the open library door turns our heads. A liveried servant bows stiffly from the waist. “Dinner is served, Mr. Schultz.”
“Thank you, Jerry.”
Rudy extends the small book to me. It’s an older publication of Beyond Good and Evil by Nietzsche, the spine well-worn and pages yellowed. I don’t know why he’s giving it to me, only that there’s a reason. Just like I know I don’t want to read it but will, simply because he expects me to.
“Thank you,” I say faintly.
He nods, no longer smiling. “I’ll expect you to have read it and be ready to discuss its contents before Sunday dinner next week.”
My head comes up. “What?”
He watches me. The sunset flares once more in his eyes.
I stammer, “Yes, of course.”
40
“And that was the beginning,” I say, and pause, shaken by my trip to the past.
“Do you know why you were targeted?” asks Dominic at length. The question is mild, but the look in his eyes is complex—curious, wary, and not a little confused.
I shake my head and hug my knees tighter to my chest. “No, and I doubt I ever will. There were even times I concocted wild fantasies that he was my real father. That I’d been stolen or given up for adoption and he’d tracked me down.”
To his credit, Dominic doesn’t laugh. “He manipulated you.”
I nod. “I was so young, so eager for his attention—this wealthy, powerful man who showered me with books, taught me about everything from politics to wine to which utensil to use at what time during a five-course meal. He even introduced me to the editor of the New York Independent. When the job offer came, he told me to take it. I didn’t question him, just did whatever he said.”
Dominic’s arm tightens around my shoulders. I soften against him, resting my head on his chest. After a few moments, he asks, “Did he ever…” He clears his throat.
“No,” I whisper. “It wasn’t like that. I never got the sense that he wanted me… that way.”
“Even after his wife died?”
“Never.”
A freak car accident had taken Mrs. Schultz’s life less than a year after that first dinner. Rudy’s grief had seemed so real that even now, after everything, it’s hard for me to imagine him responsible. But I personally witnessed multiple altercations on my visits to the house. Mrs. Shultz overindulged in wine and pills—Rudy was sick of cleaning up her public messes. He never yelled at her, never lifted a hand, but when all that charisma turned dark and jagged, it was chilling to behold.
I sigh into Dominic’s chest. “He loved Paul, too. Or pretended to. Rudy would fly from DC to New York every weekend. He and Paul played golf almost every Saturday.”
“What did they talk about?”
There’s urgency beneath his words, and I wish I could give him an answer. Instead, I shake my head. “Paul never told me, just like I never shared what Rudy and I talked about Sunday afternoons before dinner.”
My mind struggles futilely in the sticky web of regret. Each strand a happy memory turned sour, intimacies cast in a new, sickly light. Only now do I recognize those omissions as the first wedge between Paul and me, driven there by a man we loved like a father.
“There was one night,” I begin haltingly, “I started to question things. It was just before everything fell apart—the exposé, the fallout. Paul was out of town on a case. Rudy had been elected to a New York Senate seat by this time, and Sunday dinners had become fewer and farther between. But… everything was good. I was happy, or thought I was. My career was taking off. Paul and I were talking about having kids—”
I stop to catch my breath, my heart suddenly racing. Dominic’s fingers begin playing in my hair. He kisses my temple softly, then again. Slowly, his touch filters through, grounding me. I inhale and try again.
“When I told Rudy about possibly starting a family, he had the strangest reaction.”
“He was angry,” guesses Dominic.
“Yes,” I say, turning to him with surprise. “How did you know?”
His lips thin, then release. “Because you were asserting independence. You were deviating from his design for you.”
Goosebumps march down my body. I nod slowly. “Yes, I can see that now. But back then, I was hurt and confused. Fuck, I’m still confused. What was the point of it all? Of cultivating my ambition? Was it to tear Paul and me apart? Is Rudy really just a sick motherfucker who played with us because it was fun to control our lives?”
“There’s another option,” murmurs Dominic. “He gave you a choice the last time you saw him, right?”
Will you join us at the top of the world, or will you hold to meaningless ideals?
I pinch the bridge of my nose. My fingers are icy, half-numb. “How could he have thought for one second I’d join him? As what? His sidekick? The publicity manager for his criminal empire?”
“As his daughter, London. His heir.”
You were the daughter I never had.
I shudder, and Dominic holds me closer. “Why kill Paul?” I whisper. “Was it because he was given the same choice and like me, chose wrong?”
“Maybe, maybe not. The man sounds like a real psychopath. Who knows what’s going on in his head.” He pauses. “Will you tell me more about that last meeting?”
I close my eyes. Memory paints vividly across my eyelids. Unlike my recurring dream—which always takes place at midday—the last time I saw Rudy it
had been night. My hair and clothes smelling like smoke. My arms and shoulders aching from being held back by firemen. My face raw, eyelashes and eyebrows singed from being too close to the explosion that took my husband and dog.
“Reznikov was there,” I tell Dominic. “I didn’t know he was, not at first. I was… blinded by rage. I wasn’t thinking about anything but killing Rudy. I used my key to get inside the house and found him in the library.”
“How did you know, London?”
Shame, oily, slick coats my next words. “Paul and I were barely civil the last few weeks of his life. Our marriage was falling apart—I couldn’t do anything to stop it. He wasn’t even sleeping at home. I was desperate and paranoid and had him tailed to see if he was with another woman.”
Deep breath, lungs expanding like gills. I’m still alive.
“He wasn’t,” I continue hoarsely. “He was staying with Rudy, which made sense. I was relieved, even, just knowing he was somewhere familiar. On the afternoon he died, I… I got word that Paul was at the house. Our house. I raced home from work, thinking it was my chance to talk to him, figure things out—” My voice fails.
“It’s okay,” whispers Dominic. “Take your time.”
I lick my lips, tasting tears. “When I got there, Paul was loading his car with suitcases. He refused to look at me or acknowledge I was even there. But that wasn’t what made me lose my shit—he had Felix, our lab, already in the backseat. My dog, who he hadn’t even wanted at first. I freaked out, screamed at him and tried to get Felix out, but he locked the doors. Felix was barking, panicked. Paul… he lost it right along with us. He grabbed me and pulled me back. I tripped. Fell on the ground beside the car.”
Perfect Vision Page 15
