Juliette called after me. Saying something. Telling me to come back. But I couldn’t hear her, not through the fog of my own brain spinning at a million miles an hour through a storm of my own goddamn making.
Turning the corner though, I came smack face with my own dark reality.
Where it all began.
Sandra Capuleti’s tortured body on full display. Strings connecting details, tracing facts, looking for clues.
Of course, Juliette would have nearly as much information as I did. She'd worked her way through the system the right way, from cop to detective to a damn FBI agent. Beneath her professional exterior at work, she was a woman obsessed.
I wanted to walk closer, study the connections she’d made. See if our thoughts were aligned.
But I couldn’t show too much interest, at best she'd balk at my morbid curiosity, at worst she’d ask questions that I didn’t want to answer. That I never could answer.
I’d always told myself that if I finally solved Sandra Capuleti’s murder, I’d walk away from the life I’d chosen. I’d stop hunting evil.
It was a lie. I couldn’t walk away anymore.
Not because I wanted to be a savior.
But because I felt like a killer. To my fucking core now.
22.
Juliette
“Wait, you don’t need to go in there!” I rushed out of the kitchen, trying to catch Romero before he entered the living room.
But my stupid apartment was so fucking small. Three steps and he was already there.
Seeing the murder wall. My obsession. The darkness that ate a little bit of my spirit away every day.
“I don’t blame you,” he whispered softly, eyes trained on the photos and string and push pins. The weak things holding my life together. Holding it together more than work, more than having a loving father, more than the promise that someday I might solve Mom’s murder. Or someone else might. God, I didn’t care if I found the killer first. I just wanted someone to make it go away, to end the uncertainty. The questions. The never knowing.
“For being completely off my rocker and obsessed?” I looked down at the ground, mouth trembling. I hated myself in those moments. I was as weak and pathetic as all the men I’d ever worked with had thought. I didn’t belong. I couldn’t be objective. If I came face-to-face with her killer, I’d shoot him. Damn the consequences. I’d shoot him between the eyes and be done with it. And I’d go to prison happily. The closure would be worth the price.
“You’re not insane, Juliette.” He walked forward, pressing his palm into one of the crime scene photos and hanging his head before seeming to gather himself back into one piece. He turned to face me. “Your mother was murdered. I’m sure...” He paused, swallowing. “I’m sure I’d be the exact same way if it happened to my family.”
I walked forward, brushing past him to get closer to the wall. Closer to the memory of Mom. The worst of her, the images that were burned into my brain and would be forever. “She was loved. She came from a wealthy family. Hell, we were well-off, even without my grandparents leaving Mom a lot. And then she just died. Her money and status couldn’t save her. And I was supposed to take comfort in the fact that her death helped make the streets safer.” I looked back at him, trying to hold back the fresh tears that threatened. “But what did that really do? New guns in the hands of police. Followed by new guns in the hands of the bad guys. More deaths. But this time, people who didn’t matter as much. People who were smaller.”
“Everyone matters. Rich. Poor. Homeless.”
“That’s easy for a billionaire to say, Romero.” I looked back at the wall and pressed my index finger to the red string pinned into a close-up of Mom’s lifeless face. I traced the string, walking slowly, to another part of the wall where I’d drawn a large question mark. I was never going to find the truth.
Never.
Blinking quickly, the tears falling now despite my efforts to stop them, I let myself give into the pain. I didn’t do that often anymore.
Because it made me lose focus. Made me sink into depression. And I couldn’t do that anymore or I’d go back to all the pills I once took, swallowing them down so I could pretend to be happy.
“Can you zip me now?” I whispered, still facing the wall and the question mark that haunted my dreams.
Romero moved soundlessly, his fingers finding the pull of my dress moments later. He pulled it gently, zipping the dress up to cover the rest of my back. His hands moved to curl around my shoulders, and he pulled me back against his body.
“It won’t last forever, Juliette. Eventually, her killer will be brought to justice. They can’t hide forever. I promise you that.”
I turned around in his arms, burying my face against his chest, soaking his perfectly pressed shirt with my tears. And he held me, for as long as it took, for the grief to be spent. When I pushed away from him, I knew my face was probably blotchy and gross from crying. “Give me a few minutes and I’ll be ready. Okay?”
“Take as long as you need.” He reached a hand up, brushing damp hair from my cheek where it had fallen and stuck in the trail of tears.
I nodded, trying to give him a small smile, but failing miserably.
I walked to the bathroom quickly, so fucking embarrassed, and closed the door behind me.
As predicted, my eyes were swollen and red. I looked like absolute shit. Even my hair, which wasn’t all that bad before Romero came, now looked like I’d slept all night in an overheated room and woken up sweaty with it matted around my face.
“Christ. I should just ask him to reschedule.” Despite my words to myself, I picked up the hairbrush and went to work, doing my best to make the dark strands presentable. In the end, I decided to gather it up in a simple French twist with a comb, pulling down a few loose strands to frame my face. By the time I was done, my face looked a little better. A few pats of powder, a coat of mascara, and a flush of maroon lipstick improved things infinitely. “That’s as good as it’s getting,” I muttered to the mirror. I leaned forward and checked my teeth, rubbing a little maroon stain from one front tooth.
When I walked back out into the apartment, I slipped over to my room and stepped into the blush pumps I’d bought at the vintage store. Those, at least, fit like a glove and were fairly comfortable.
When I rejoined Romero in the living room, he was holding one of Dad’s cityscapes.
“It’s one of my Dad’s,” I offered as I approached, but Romero didn’t answer. He stared intently at the watercolor; the same one I’d held back at the studio. I still hadn’t figured out what part of the city it was. “He was hired to do the creatives for a design company bidding on a city project. They’re always trying to make New York prettier, aren’t they? Honestly, I think it’s more authentic with the trash and smells and graffiti.”
“Your Dad made this?” Romero thumbed the glass over where Dad’s initials were.
“Yeah, but he had to sign a nondisclosure. I only just found out about the job when I helped him start emptying his studio. Ancient news by this point.” I walked in front of him and looked at the watercolor upside down.
“Hmmm,” he murmured, still studying the piece intently.
“Do you know which part of the city this is? I’ll be damned if I can figure it out. Again, it’s just too pretty and pastel for New York. And I swear the brownstones just mush together, so many look alike.” I took Dad’s piece from him, quirking an eyebrow when he seemed reluctant to part with it. Turning the cityscape around to look at right side up, I frowned. “I tried to ask Dad, but the studio is a hard place for him to be, so he wasn’t super talkative. He did say Mom knew about the job though. She always wanted him to be more successful and she’s the one that got them framed even after the project was deemed too expensive on a wider scale.”
I looked up from the artwork to find Romero rubbing his chin thoughtfully, acid green eyes staring down at the floor like he wished to burn a hole in the hardwoods.
“Hey, did you he
ar me?” I reached forward with one hand, gripping his upper arm and shaking him gently. He seemed to come alive under my soft touch, focusing on me and smiling. “Where’d you go?”
“Just thinking. It does remind me of somewhere, but I can’t put my finger on it either. Your father is talented.”
“He really is. And he’s always been the kind of artist who builds his own canvases. He likes to be involved from start to finish and the canvas is the foundation of any piece.”
“Sort of like your mom with the flowers.”
“Oh,” I cocked my head slightly to the side, thinking over that revelation. “Yeah, I guess. They were such opposites, but it is like the flowers, isn’t it?”
“They both needed to have control over what they created.” His gazed moved down to look at the cityscape again, and then behind me studying the others.
“But in different ways,” I agreed. “For Mom, flowers were a touch of chaos she brought into her perfectly curated life. I think Dad making his canvases, cutting the wood and stretching the hemp material—it was sometimes cotton I guess, but he preferred hemp usually—he was giving structure to what he did before the chaos came.”
“Opposites attract.” His smile widened, and he glanced down at his watch. “Speaking of that, my habit of being punctual has not been enough to keep us from missing our dinner reservation.”
“Oh, crap,” I breathed out. “I’m so sorry. I’m normally not like this. I’m usually really put together.”
“We’ll just have to be spontaneous, if that’s all right with you?”
“As long as you make the price of this dress worth it.” I looked down at the blush shoes. I’d been right. The heels made the dress look even shorter.
Romero leaned towards me, cologne dancing with smoke and whiskey to make me lightheaded in an oh-so-good way. “Without a doubt, Juliette, I’ll make it worth the price.”
I swallowed, staring up at him.
And absolutely unsure that saying yes to a spontaneous night with Romero Montego was the right thing to do.
23.
Romero
I had recognized the street instantly, of course I had.
The blocks around Drug Alley had been my companion for so many hours, over so many years, that I couldn’t not recognize it. The numbers on the house, even drawn so small and partly obscured by blossoming trees dotting the repaired sidewalks, were seared into my mind. Even with the street murals gone, and the graffiti-covered benches removed, and the busted light poles replaced with artistic three sconce posts.
I knew it.
What I hadn’t known was that David Capuleti was aware of the city beautification project. He’d done the concept drawings, which meant he’d spent a great deal of time in that part of New York. But it wasn’t enough to suspect him again. The watercolors weren’t enough proof. He could have done them for the bidding company but had no knowledge of what the test run would entail—that the city cameras would be out of commission for a while as they worked on the first target street gauging feasibility. That first street which was only a short distance from drug alley. So close to where the footage of Sandra Capuleti’s cab ended.
The surveillance system was an interconnected network. If one block went down for maintenance, so did the others.
But David Capuleti might not have known that much.
He could have just done the creative visuals and walked away, not privy to the other workings of the operation. Yet, I also hadn’t known that David Capuleti had a studio. In all of my digging, I hadn’t found any real estate owned or leased by the Capuleti family that would work as a studio. What had I missed?
“So, your dad has a studio?” I asked casually as I followed Juliette to the front door.
She snagged her purse from a hook and looked back at me with a smile, as if the question brought with it happy thoughts. Which were in complete opposition to my own, much darker ones. I hated to even think it... the man had been overwhelmed by grief. Every statement given, every photo of him during that time, he’d been the shell of a man.
“Yeah. It was this really sweet gesture from my mom. I’m pretty sure she used money from my grandparents’ will to manage it. On his birthday, she gave him the keys in a cupcake and said the space was his for five years and she’d rented it under a pseudonym that was his favorite artist and his own name. David Ingres. After that, they kept paying the rent. And when she died, he sublet. He doesn’t have much in the way of extra money now, not to keep paying for a studio he’ll never use again. But he’s having trouble letting go.”
“I can imagine,” I nodded. “I’m sorry he can’t keep it.” My mind worked furiously as I went through the motions, following Juliette out of her apartment, watching her lock the four deadbolts, listening to her continue talking even though my brain was stuck on the revelation that I’d missed a piece of real estate that could be integral to the case.
“No,” she shook her head, “it’s better this way. It was so depressing there, as if everything was exactly the way he’d left it the day she died, and he just decided to never go back again. It’s heartbreaking to lose the memory, definitely. I mean, it was probably the most meaningful present she ever gave him. But it needs to happen.”
As we moved towards the elevators, Juliette suddenly snapped her fingers and stopped moving. “I remember now.”
“What do you remember?” I had been walking several paces behind her, but now moved around to stand in front of her.
“There used to be a big rug on the studio floor. It was so ugly. I mean beyond ugly. Dad said it had visual interest; I thought it looked like a garden gnome orgy. All these weird red triangles and peachy circles and weird flowers.”
“It sounds horrendous,” I nodded, agreeing with her.
“It really, really was. I wonder why it was gone.” She stood frozen for a moment; her brows scrunched together in thought. “I guess anyone of the subletters could have taken it. Dad said the last one bailed.”
“That’s probably what happened...” I nodded again.
It seemed, after all of this time, I had some fresh digging to do.
*
“So where are we going then? Since the reservation is kaput.” Juliette sat back against the plush leather of the Ghost, legs crossed and dress skirt sneaking up so far that a person could easily reach beneath the material and...
“You’ll see.” I stopped my own thoughts. This was a first date. I wasn’t expecting anything to happen. But, fuck, I wanted things to happen. Lots of things.
“You are frustrating as hell sometimes. It’s a simple question. We. Are. Going. Here.” She slapped one hand against another four times as she said the last four words, driving her point home rhythmically.
I looked over at her, watching the way she dropped her hands into her lap, the tips of her fingers brushing against bare thighs and then thrumming nervously against the golden skin. Oh, to be a damn glove upon that hand. That I might touch those gorgeous fucking legs.
I smirked, wondering if Juliette would appreciate my changes to Romeo’s famous lines.
Unfortunately, she caught me smirking.
“And you find driving me bananas humorous?” She raised her eyebrows, staring me down and waiting for my response. When I didn’t say anything, she decided to keep ranting. “You’re probably used to driving women crazy. I mean, look at you. Pushy and self-important in your fancy suits and zillion-dollar car.” She flicked the passenger door dramatically.
“Now, now. It’s not the car’s fault that you’ve got so much pent-up sexual energy.” I took a right, the car sailing around the corner.
“Pent-up sexual energy? Listen, Buddy, I only agreed to this date in the first place, so you’d get the picture that we’re terrible together. And when you do, when you swallow down the fact that you and I will never work, you’ll leave me alone just as you promised.”
“What happened to the beautiful woman crying her eyes out while I held her? You didn’t seem to be so ag
ainst the idea of us together then.”
“That was then. This is now,” she scoffed.
“So, twenty minutes later and I’m persona non gratis again. And you accuse me of driving you bananas, Juliette? I hazard to say it’s quite the other way around.”
Silence fell over us as she chewed on her bottom lip and stared out the passenger window.
“I’m nervous,” she finally admitted.
I gathered as much, though I was smart enough not to say that out loud. “I am, too.”
“No, you’re not. You’re the picture of perfection, Romero. And I know you’re...” She gave a huff of frustration before continuing, “God, you’re a ladies’ man. Don’t even try denying it. You’re freaking butler sent me home in a roleplaying costume for fuck’s sake.”
“Balthasar is more than a butler.”
“Whatever he is, the only outfit you had in your house that would fit me was basically a schoolgirl costume. All it needed was a freaking textbook and a teacher wielding a yard stick for necessary discipline.” She air quoted the last word. And, the devil damn me since she was already upset, I laughed.
“Why are you laughing again?” she yelled. “Stop the car. I’m getting out.”
“Calm down, Juliette. Calm down. We’re almost there.”
She peered out the windshield, trying to see where we were. “No. Tell me you’re not just taking me back to your house?”
“What can I say, The House of Montego has the best pancakes in Manhattan.”
“Balthasar must be a good cook,” Juliette quipped.
Balthasar is a brilliant cook, but pancakes are my specialty. And he won’t be there. The house is ours for the evening.” I almost smiled at the furtive glance she threw my way. The thought of being alone with me in my house set her pulse racing. Balthasar’s quick trip to DC couldn’t have come at a better time. I didn’t want him around like he typically was with my other conquests, to take care of Juliette once we were finished.
Her Villain: A Dark Bully Romance (Aqua Vitae Duet Book 1) Page 15
