Believe it or not, I’ve been trying with her. Working the FBI program steps to get hostile people to like you. Ignoring her fuck you silence and spaghetti in order to stay in her proximity. But after three weeks of enduring pasta, I’m no closer to getting her to abide me, much less attend Prin’s and Zahir’s wedding of her own free will.
Plus, she’s nearly six months pregnant now. As I watch her carefully lower herself into her seat, something pricks inside my chest, nasty and sharp. Because according to the book I’ve been listening to during all that extra weight training this is supposed to be the good part of the pregnancy. After first trimester morning sickness, but before third-trimester backaches and total fatigue. We should be making birth plans, picking names, actually giving a fuck about stores like Crate & Barrel and Pottery Barn. Naima should be planning a baby shower right now, not having dinner wherever with Rock.
But instead of discussing the pros/cons of open facing versus convertible cribs, I’m glaring at her across a platter of fuck you spaghetti, and she’s pasting on another insincere smile to say, “Mangiam—”
I pick up the plate of spaghetti and sling the goddamn thing before the snide invitation to eat up is fully out her mouth.
The platter makes it all the way to the sculptured staircase before it meets any opposition to its flight. That means my loss of impulse control results in maximum damage. By the time the dish shatters, marinara sauce is splattered across the pristine marble floors. There’s also pasta covering the back of my light grey custom oval backed couch. And my one of a kind staircase has a huge red stain that looks like it’s going to be a bitch to fully get out.
No doubt about it, the housekeeper will be getting a bonus this week, maybe even a raise. And then there’s the look on Amber’s face…
Her smile’s not nearly so insincere now. In fact, her eyes sparkle with the triumph of finally making me break.
But do I dial it back? Try to get a hold of myself?
That would be a big old nope. With the unchecked rage still riding me, I keep the temper tantrum going. Here’s me, tearing out of my chair and into the kitchen, like a lion on the hunt. I find my prey on the island counter, covered in chrome and flour, with little bits of pasta dough still stuck in its cutter.
Guess what won’t be getting cleaned by me tonight?
I don’t even pause for a second, before ripping the damn thing off the counter and hurling it Hulk style over my head. It doesn’t shatter like the platter, but it’s no match for the hard ass marble beneath my feet. The pasta maker falls apart, its pieces detaching and sliding in different directions across the floor.
Then I wheel back around to face Amber, who’s now standing up at the table.
“Serve me this shit again and I’ll tell Stone to go ahead and end that assistant of yours.”
Her expression flickers, horror replacing the triumph in her unseeing eyes. But then she heaves to her feet to shout, “This is why… this is why I didn’t tell you, you fucking animal!”
Remembering how her brother called me the same thing in his text to her five years ago, I growl, “I’m only acting like an animal because you pushed me. What kind of rabid harpie makes spaghetti for twenty days straight?”
“The kind of rabid harpie who’s being held against her will by a monster who refuses to let her go!” she answers. “I have work. Clients who depend on me. A best friend who doesn’t remotely deserve what you’re doing to her!”
“Do you think I give one goddamn about your work schedule? Or your best friend? You tried to keep my son away from me! My son!”
“Yes, I did,” she screams back. “Because you’re the kind of egotistical asswipe who kidnaps someone for not telling you she made the stupid mistake of getting pregnant with your child. A man-child who commands his prisoner to cook for him then throws spaghetti and threatens to kill another innocent person instead of just saying, ‘Hey Amber, make something else’—even though you’re the one holding all the cards and I have exactly zero choices here!”
“I shouldn’t have to tell you not to make spaghetti twenty goddamn days in a row!”
“And I shouldn’t have to cook for the worthless scum who’s holding me prisoner and just threatened to kill my assistant. Yet here we are!” she answers, her tone scathing. “With you somehow thinking you actually deserve to father this child and me knowing I made the exact right choice. Because, believe me, the only thing I regret right now is getting caught.”
I stare at her, both my mind and my body paralyzed by rage, unlike anything I’ve ever known.
But then I realize that’s a lie. Because I remember in an instant the last time I felt this way. While hanging from a chain in her father’s basement. Powerless.
This woman makes me feel powerless and weak. Even though she’s right about me holding all the cards and her having no choices in my domain.
In the end, that fact is what calms me enough to say, “Okay, so let me get this straight. You begged me to fuck you. Came like a thirsty slut all over my dick—probably because that do-gooder ex-boyfriend—who didn’t even want to have a baby with you, by the way—never managed to hit it like I do. You got exactly what you wanted afterward, a baby. But then somehow you decided I was the one who didn’t deserve to be in this kid’s life because you’re such a pillar of fucking decency. Yeah, thanks for making sure I don’t regret any of my decisions either, you sanctimonious bitch. You’re right, I have all the power here, so you can go wait for me in my suite. Now.”
As far as counters go, it’s pretty much perfect. Cold hard delivery. Lots of truth and consequence. All that hit them with emotional facts shit they try to teach you in law school.
Amber opens her mouth, closes it. Then opens it, only to close it again. Probably realizing there’s nothing she can say or do to change her circumstances. Again.
In the end, she keeps her acid mouth closed, and abruptly starts for the stairs.
And for one victorious moment, that’s enough for me to feel like the winner of this particular fight.
However, that moment of glory fades way too soon, when she slips in the pasta left behind when I decided to frisbee dinner.
She doesn’t fall, but dammit. Nothing says “too far” like watching your pregnant, blind ex-wife nearly banana slip backward on the mess you made.
I rush over, try to help her the rest of the way to the stairs.
But before I can so much as make contact with her elbow, she wheels around to hiss, “Don’t touch me.”
So here’s me, “the winner,” with nothing left to do but watch her gingerly make her way through the sauce and pasta. Hovering close by, just in case she needs me.
But, of course, she doesn’t. And I no longer feel victorious as I watch her walk up the winding staircase. I just feel like I’m watching her disappear.
Revenge is best served twice. But in Amber’s case, it’s getting me nowhere.
29
I Got Plenty O’ Nuttin
Amber
My mother hadn’t lied about the power of food, because it worked. After chipping away night after night, I broke Luca. Broke him with nothing but my mom’s chunky marinara sauce on my side.
And for one small moment that was enough.
But then he brought up Diamond. And oh God…that vicious argument. And now I’m upstairs, in his bed, my belly even heavier with his child than it was three weeks ago. Wondering if he found her and is holding her prisoner, too. Wondering if I’ve dragged another innocent into my mess with Luca.
And then there’s the baby…
“Sorry,” I whisper to the most innocent person on my list of people I need to protect from Luca’s wrath.
Then I squeeze my eyes shut, willing myself asleep before he calls it a night. It usually takes him a while to come up here. Naima once told me of the second gym sessions he gets in after dinner, with an impressed “No wonder he’s so cut!” Most often he climbs into the bed, an hour, sometimes, two after I have, smelling of soa
p and a recent shower.
I’ve fallen asleep a few times before his late arrival. However, tonight, I’m not so lucky. He shows up less than an hour after I’ve laid myself down. His usual fresh out of the shower smell replaced by the stench of too much alcohol.
But instead of feeling disgusted by his opposite of soap smell, I’m actually jealous. What I wouldn’t give for a few glasses of wine to stop my mind spinning. Even for an hour or two.
I wait for the usual sounds of him taking off his suit. But instead, his footfalls continue around my side of the bed, then there’s a distinct plink on the nightstand, in front of me. A plate?
“Naima made you a sandwich. Stop acting like you’re asleep and eat it.”
I’m hungry, but I hesitate, the same not wanting to give in feeling, kicking up like an old dog.
“You’re eating for two now, and someone who actually deserves to parent wouldn’t punish her baby to spite me,” he points out to my silence. No slur, despite the alcohol reek, and his tone is hard with extra Balboa steel.
God, he’s right…I give in. Again. Hauling myself into a seated position, and sullenly reaching for the plate.
He says nothing, but I can feel his eyes on me as I eat every bit of the TLT (turkey, lettuce, and tomato sandwich) with extra mustard which Naima’s cut into four wedges. And as soon as I’m done with the last bite, he knocks a cool glass against my still raised hand, then holds it there until I take it.
Water, I discover when I take a sip. Chilled and crisp with no ice. Just the way I like it.
The still surprising fluttering sensation starts up inside my stomach after the first sip. And my hand flies down to my belly, even though my OB assured me these flutters were actually the baby moving at our last appointment. Apparently, baby kicks feel more like a case of butterflies in the stomach at this stage.
“What’s wrong?” Luca asks, his voice sharp and alarmed.
I pause. The last time this had happened Naima was in the sitting room with me, and I had called out, “Oh my God, Naima. C’mere. Right now! Right now!”
The Somethin’ Stupid magnet tugs on my heart, some strange part of me wanting to give him the same experience, the same awe and happiness I feel when the baby kicks. Because last time, we didn’t make it this far in the pregnancy.
His words about Pascoal not wanting to have a baby with me float back into my head then, taking on a new frame. Because the thing is, as cruelly as Luca phrased it, there’s still one underlying point of his final statement, which won’t dislodge itself from my mind. That unlike Pascoal, Luca does want this baby. Very, very badly. Wanting this baby is the one and only thing we can agree on.
And that point of commonality makes the Somethin’ Stupid magnet tug inside me with the urge to reach out, take his hand, and place it over my stomach.
But then I remember all the reasons for that vicious argument. Why I’m in his aggressively accessible unfriendly apartment in the first place, and moreover, back in Luca’s bed. His sandwich might feel like a thoughtful offering, but it’s just another power move.
And that’s why it doesn’t matter that he wants this baby, too.
“Nothing,” I answer. “I’m fine.”
Then I make myself lay back down and return to the previously scheduled programming of pretending to be asleep.
Luca must not believe me, because the next morning when I walk into the master suite’s sitting room for breakfast with Naima, the first thing out her mouth is, “Hey, what’s up with all the medical equipment? Is everything okay with the baby?”
“Everything’s fine with the baby,” I answer. Then I ask, “Wait…what medical equipment?”
The answer to that question turns out to be an exam table complete with stirrups… a cabinet full of various medical supplies… a blood pressure machine and heart rate monitor combo… and last, but certainly not least, an ultrasound machine—so slick, Naima cautions me not to touch it for fear of it breaking.
What the…
The answer to our stunned question comes a few moments later when a short knock sounds on the door, and a voice with a polite voice says, “Hello, it’s your new doctor. May I come in?”
Okay, apparently, Luca has ordered a state-of-the-art ultrasound machine, along with a doctor to use it. “Sure,” I say carefully, brow scrunching.
And a few seconds later, the voice is on my side of the door, saying, “Hello, you must be Amber. I’m—oh my goodness gracious, is that a GoNoTo Accu 3000?!”
“Ah…” I answer.
At the same time, Naima says, “Not sure.”
“I thought this 4-D ultrasound was still in the development stage. Something whispered about at conferences.” I can imagine the doctor’s eyes running over the machine as she says this, with an expression of awe that matches her voice. She has a pretty but slight southern accent, and I’m immediately reminded of 1950s era books with restless blond debutante heroines, whose mothers tell them to stay out of the sun for fear of freckles.
“Yes, I’m Amber,” I say, “And you’re here because…?”
“Oh goodness, sorry about not finishing my introduction. I’m Dr. Glendaver.”
“Glendaver like the whiskey?” Naima asks.
The doctor makes a noncommittal sound, before continuing, “Mr. Ferraro asked me to come in ahead of our scheduled appointment. Apparently, you were experiencing some pain last night?”
“Oh my God, there is something wrong,” Naima cries. “You said you were fine.”
“I am fine. The baby kicked last night, and I guess Luca decided to freak out about it,” I insist to Naima. Then I ask Dr. Whiskey, “And exactly what appointment are you talking about?”
“Ah, your six month checkup,” she answers carefully as if I should already know this. “I received all of your medical records a few days ago from your original OB and was slated to make my first home visit next week. But even if this is a false alarm, I don’t mind coming early to ease Mr. Ferraro’s mind. Especially after the magnanimous donation he made to our Women’s Disability Clinic.”
“Wait, you’re the OB from the Manhattan University’s Women’s Disability Clinic?” Naima asks beside me. “I tried to get Amber an appointment there, but they said the OB was booked out until next summer.”
“Yes, well, unfortunately, I’m the only OB in our gynecological services department at this current time, and the need for obstetric services within the disabled community of Greater New York is much higher than our ability to meet the demand,” the doctor answers apologetically. “Which is why we are so very grateful for Mr. Ferraro’s earmarked donation to our department. I just wasn’t expecting to find a GoNoTo Accu 3000 here…”
Her voice drops off. And though people are always telling me how mesmerizingly pretty I am, I get the sense she finds this ultrasound machine way more attractive.
Which leaves me with a few seconds to decide how to handle this unexpected visit. The doctor sounds sensitive and super educated. I could ask her for help. But then what?
I play out all the possible scenarios like I’m preparing for a court case. But unfortunately, I can’t come up with one that guarantees the police showing up at Luca’s heavily guarded apartment door and successfully extracting Naima and me without Dr. Whiskey receiving the total retaliation end of Luca’s wrath. And the last thing I need is even one more innocent person getting caught up in this. Especially a doctor who caters to an underserved community of women with disabilities.
In the end, I submit to the earlier than scheduled appointment. A 4D photo is printed out for Naima, and Dr. Whiskey trains Naima on the blood pressure machine because she doesn’t love my slightly elevated BP.
She tells me it was probably a good idea for me to go on sabbatical, and that I should take it easy during my last trimester. I keep my mouth closed, not bothering to tell her that my BP is most likely up because of this unwanted break from my job.
“After we deliver your baby, could you ask your partner if he migh
t consider loaning the WDC this machine?” she asks. “Our clinic would be happy to provide any feedback that GoNoToRobo would require, and I’m sure I could convince at least a few of my moms to share their medical information with the company if that’s needed.”
“I can ask,” I answer. But I keep my tone totally no promises because, at this point in our contentious relationship, Luca might decide to send the machine to one of the Ferraro scrap yards after the baby’s born, just to spite me.
“Please do.” She lets out a breathless sigh. “I read they were developing it mainly for use with robotic surgeries. Is that true?”
“No idea,” I answer.
“But I’ll ask his assistant, Rock, about it,” Naima offers helpfully.
“Oh, Rock, he’s the one who met me in the lobby and escorted me up here. He was very pleasant,” Dr. Glendaver says as she and Naima leave the room.
“Isn’t he, though?” Naima agrees.
Then their voice’s fade as the door closes behind them.
When Naima comes back, I say, “So I don’t think the doctor is going to be able to help us.”
“Me either,” Naima says. A little too quickly for my liking. I’m more frustrated than ever, but her enthusiasm for our pre-morning planning sessions seems to be waning by the day.
“Okay, here’s what I’m thinking,” I tell her nonetheless, as we finally tuck into the fresh fruits and bagels breakfast Naima made for us this morning. “You should try to get Rock drunk tonight when he takes you to the club. Maybe that will get you around the five minutes in the ladies room rule. Then you can look up Peter’s number and leave him a message.”
“Oh, I don’t know about that plan,” Naima answers. “Rock never drinks that much. And you’d be surprised how reluctant people are to loan a total stranger their phone these days with all the cybercrime going around. It’s going to take me more than five minutes to find your brother’s phone number.”
Ruthless Tycoons: The Complete Series (Ruthless Billionaires Book 3) Page 64
