by Sadie Black
"Then how do you want me?" he sneered. "You say one thing, then do another. Just be forward with me, damn it!"
Very glad.
"I just want to go home," Ciara told him firmly. "I'll be waiting outside."
"No need," Luka spat. In a fury of emotion he crossed the dark room to his desk and snatched a folder from it. "Now, let's get out of here."
As they left the office, Luka storming ahead as Ciara took the rear. She wondered how a man who seemed so sweet on first glance could be so volatile. Something led Luka to react the way he did beyond her rejection, and she found herself longing to know what it was.
The elevator ride to the lobby was spent in icy silence, Luka stewing in his anger. When the agonizing trip to the lobby ended and they finally stepped out into the cool night air, Ciara didn't think she wanted to get in the car with him. As she loitered by the front doors waiting for him to lock it up, she considered her options. It was a long walk to the train station, but with Luka in this mood, she wasn't sure she wanted to endure the uncomfortable ride at his side.
"Hey," the voice cut through the night, a passer-by with his hands shoved into his pockets who had his eyes set on Luka, "you're that Marcell-out kid, aren't you?"
Luka froze up, back straightening. The key turned in the lock, sealing it in place, and Ciara could feel the rage rolling from his skin. The pedestrian turned his gaze to her, a goofy grin exposing his teeth.
"Is he gonna give you a ride on his pole so you go to the polls?"
Before Ciara could spit back a bitter reply, Luka whipped around and stared the man down. Over dinner he'd told Ciara of all the efforts the campaign had made that day to straighten out his image in the eyes of the public, but the encounter led her to believe it wasn't enough.
"Get out of here." Luka's fists were clenched. He took slow, intimidating steps towards the man, eyes aflame. "You think you're funny?"
"Chill, dude, it's just a joke," the guy muttered, scurrying off without another word. Ciara had made her mind up — she wasn't going to get in the car with him. Not when he was like this.
"I'm going to walk to the station," she said gently. Luka did not turn to look at her when he replied.
"Fine. Have a good evening, Ms. Simmons."
No amount of self-control could strip the vitriol from Luka's voice. Ciara glanced away, then started down the street. It didn't matter that the station was the other way — he needed space, and she needed to clear her mind.
"Goodnight, Luka," she bade him in parting.
Ciara thought she might never let another man take her out for dinner again.
* * *
Luka
Ciara.
Damn her haunting almond eyes. Lips that tasted too good to be real. Damn her soft, slender body. And most important, the ways she expressed herself through the spoken word. Luka knew he was bewitched, that he'd taken his interest in her too far, but how could he resist?
All of it was a sham. Every laugh. Every smile. Every flash of her straight white teeth from between the dark stained lips that made his heart flutter like a teenager on prom night. Ciara played along, only to turn him down when he fell for the bait and took his chance. Tonight he'd needed her, had needed the distraction, and she'd denied him his peace.
Damn her.
Luka wrenched the passenger side door of the town car open and sat inside. When the door slammed, Giles turned his head and looked at Luka with an expression that screamed disdain. The man was dressed in a fine black suit, but lacked the black cap many chauffeurs wore. The man had been driving for the Belmontes for as long as Luka had been alive, and was familiar with the young Belmonte's outbursts.
"Sir," Giles said, "with all due respect, please refrain from slamming the door of your father's vehicle. He entrusts me with its care."
His father.
Oh, you mean the mafia's favorite politician? Luka's mind urged him to bite back in response to Giles' scolding. Instead, he replied with neutral insistence.
"Take me home, Giles. I'm done with today. I'm done with people."
"Sounds like you're in office already," Giles replied with dry humor, turning back around. "I'll give you your privacy, sir. Should you require anything of me, don't hesitate to ask."
The partitioning window between the front and back seats began to rise, and Luka tossed himself back against the car's bench. Did Giles know? The man drove his family everywhere, he must have pieced the puzzle together. How many times had the old man driven Marcello to visit the Don? How many times had this back seat been used by men more motivated by money than by respect for the law? The thought made Luka sick.
And yet he couldn't dismiss it.
Publicly degraded on national television for ratings, shaken over his father's questionable past, and now rejected by the one woman he thought might see him through this campaign. It was a hell of a twenty-four hours. And then to top it all off, that stupid little punk's jab.
He'd spent all day working on recovering from the blows Breece dealt him. His team worked tirelessly on a strategy, and while they did, Luka spent four hours on the phone talking to media about how he intended to make up for it. All for nothing. The people of New York saw him for the sham he was. Deep down Luka was just the son of some mafia scumbag, and even then, he'd never amount to half the man his father was. Not without help.
Luka set his gaze out the window as Giles drove past dazzling lights and towering buildings. Pedestrians, walked to and fro, all wearing the same drab colors, all the with same air of self importance. Hair colors and body sizes set them apart, but what really separated him from the rest of them? Without the family name, Luka's face would fade into obscurity. He'd be no better than any of the average Joes who worked nine to fives and went home to drown their sorrows in cheap beer. Worse, he'd sink beneath them, the eternal butt of their jokes, an outcast from both the elite and the average.
No. That couldn't happen — Luka wouldn't allow it to happen. But the only way he could prevent it from happening was to gain back the respect he'd lost.
Giles pulled the town car up against the curb next to the Belmonte estate on fifth avenue and let the car idle. The house had been in Luka's family for generations, each successful male passing it down to his son. Of all the windows of the stone building, one was still lit. It was the one Luka had been hoping to see.
He saw himself out of the car and opened the door to the estate, entering the main hall. From the lobby a dark stairway ran up to the second floor, its banister and support rods sculpted. Overhead, a crystal chandelier hung from a high ceiling, bathing the lobby in shimmering lights. The rest of the house shared a similar aesthetic, the familiarity of home was comforting.
Luka took to the stairs and made tracks for the room he'd seen lit up while seated in the back of the town car. These days, Marcello Belmonte seldom slept.
A sharp knock at the door signaled his presence, and Luka waited outside for permission to enter. Silence stretched out before him, but when he heard the sharp draw of a wooden chair against the floor, Luka knew that he wouldn't be waiting much longer.
"Come in," Marcello's voice bade him. Only then did Luka set his hand on the crystal doorknob and turn it, entering his father's study as the door gave way.
"Dad," Luka said with a sigh, hesitating near the door, "I've been thinking about what you said. I want to talk about it."
Marcello looked up from his work, fixing Luka with tired brown eyes. Stress creased his forehead and set his jaw, but Luka could still see the vibrant soul who once steered New York City through its golden age.
"Come sit, Luka. Ask your questions, throw your accusations, but know that what I did, I did for the good of my family. For you."
Luka crossed the room, but the statement made him stop. A frown dragged at his lips, and his shoulders slumped in defeat.
"Dad, no, it's not like that. I wouldn't do that to you."
The man who always helped him no matter what other issues were on his plate,
had opened up his darkest closets, and Luka had balked. But blood was blood. Crimes could be forgiven, if they were done for love, and there was no doubt that his father loved him with all his heart. He'd never heard of a man more committed to his family.
"Then what is it?" Marcello asked. "Don't leave your old man hanging, Luka. My patience has thinned over time, it's like my hair; I don't have much left."
A hard swallow marked his discomfort. Luka pressed his palms down against the surface of the oak desk, fixing his father with his gaze so the man knew he was serious.
"I've decided that it's time for me to get respect, and I'm ready to do what it takes to get it. I want to honor the family name and make sure I win the election. I want to meet the Don."
Marcello nodded slowly, expression remaining stony for a long moment. Finally, a smile broke across his face.
"You'll do the Belmonte name proud, son," he assured Luka. "It will be a decision you won't regret."
And in that moment, looking into the eyes of the man who had done New York so much good, Luka knew his father was right.
* * *
Ciara
The train came infrequently after rush midnight, there were still forty minutes before the next departure. A few men and women loitered around the platforms, but for the most part, no one spoke. Silence settled in between the raised tracks and across the tiled floors.
The click of Ciara's heels rang out, an affront to the dead stillness of the place. It felt like every pair of eyes turned to look at her, judging. After what had happened with Luka, she was convinced each one of them knew what she had done.
Ciara didn't look at any of them. Instead, she settled on a cold metal bench near the tracks and lost herself in her head. So much had happened in the last day that she needed time to reflect.
The charismatic gentleman who had helped her carry coffee back to TCD was really a heartless asshole. Just as he redeemed himself in her eyes, he'd blown up again in a fit of rage that had left Ciara speechless.
But did any of that matter?
The first rule of journalism was to keep emotions out of any investigation or reporting, and Ciara was doing a piss poor job of that. Luka's touch had left her shivering, and the feel of his lips on hers had stirred longing inside of her that no man had ever drawn out of her before. But as much as Ciara wanted his body, she knew he was no good for her. When it came to Luka, her heart and her mind clashed.
Ever since she was a girl, Ciara prided herself on her independence. With a mother like the one she grew up with, she had very little choice in the matter. Coming home to an abusive drunk who slobbered kisses on her one second, and smashed her head off the floor the next wasn't exactly a stable life. Journalism. Reporting. Writing. Those things were stable. Those were things she could control. Luka was — a distraction.
Ciara dug her fingers into the metal grating of the bench and squeezed against the grid. Love didn't last. Even her own mother stopped loving her. She told her almost every day. Men would come and go, but her career would last. It was time she started to take her job seriously. Luka Belmonte wasn't a love interest, no matter how he made her feel — he was her livelihood.
When she'd pitched the idea to Killian, she'd proposed an exposé. Going under cover on the campaign trail was good, but work was only a sliver of Luka's life. If Ciara wanted the real dirt on him, the dirt that would drive her career and see her rising up the ranks, she'd need to get involved with his personal life.
And it just so happened that Luka was more than willing to get personal with her.
To write the crowning story of her budding career, Ciara was going to get just as personal back. "Why didn't I think of it before?" she whispered. Eyes darted her way to scold her for breaking the silence on the platform, but Ciara didn't care. The perfect solution had presented itself, and she was determined to make it work.
Indulging herself with her attraction to Luka while she dug into his dirty laundry would produce the best story possible. But all of that hinged on an apology. Luka had freaked out when she'd pushed him away before, and Ciara knew that her window to get back into his good books was quickly closing.
If only she had his number.
Thousands of dollars invested into her education and top marks in all of her classes did not go to waste. Ciara was no quitter. From the small clutch at her side she withdrew a tiny note pad and pen, and once she had them laid out, she placed the call.
Lisa answered, sounding exhausted.
"Lisa Olsen on the line. Who might I be speaking to?"
"Hi Lisa," Ciara did her best not to sound too chipper. Lisa had been up since the night before dealing with the Ryan Breece fallout. From the groggy way she'd answered the call, Ciara thought she probably woke her.
"This is Ciara Simmons, the new volunteer on Luka Belmonte's campaign. This may sound unconventional, but I went out to dinner with Luka, and he forgot some confidential documents he'd picked up from his office. I was wondering if you'd pass along his number so I could let him know they're safe."
The exasperated sigh was all the applause Ciara needed for her performance. At times to get vital information, acting was as important to journalism as clarity. Tonight she'd hit the nail on the head.
"I can't believe that boy. Thank God he was out with someone with a head on her shoulders. Yes, I'll give you his number, just don't distribute it to anyone. If this gets leaked and we have to get his cellphone number changed, I know who we're billing."
"I would never," Ciara replied truthfully.
"It's New York, honey," Lisa said. "You'd be surprised what people would do for a quick buck. I get good vibes from you, but you can never be too careful."
Another stone dropped into Ciara's stomach. The buck she was after wasn't quick, but she was betraying Lisa's trust on a deeper level than just leaking a phone number. However, a story was a story, and it was Ciara's future on the line. At the end of the day Luka would still be wealthy whether he won the election or not.
As Lisa recited the number, Ciara recorded it on her notepad, then bid the woman a well-deserved goodnight. As soon as the call ended, Ciara placed another.
The phone rang, and rang, but just before it switched over to voice mail, the call connected.
"Hello?" Luka still sounded pissed off, but now the tone was shaped by suspicion. He had no idea who was calling.
"Luka, it's Ciara. Don't hang up." It was a good as start as any. When the line did not go dead, Ciara continued.
"I'm sorry. I've been thinking , and the truth is, well..." For as fantastic as an actress as she'd been with Lisa, Ciara couldn't help but wonder how much of the emotion she invested into her words was real. "I like you. I really do like you, and if I'd known you'd take it so personally, I would have tried to let you down easier. You've got to understand I'm just a small town girl from Iowa, and I'm not used to how bold and forward men are in the big city. Do you think we could give this another shot?"
For the longest time, Luka did not reply. Ciara's fingers curled once more against the metal grating of the bench beneath her. His answer would direct the rest of her career. She tried to quell the thought, she knew that her anticipation over his response was about more than her profession. When Luka's voice picked up once more on the other end, Ciara's pulse momentarily peaked.
"Yeah. Yeah, we can give it another shot." A brief moment lapsed. "I'm going to pick you up on Friday night, take you out on the town. Wear pants — jeans, something you wouldn't mind getting a little dirty. Heels are fine, if you can't stand to be out of them, but I like flat shoes just as much. And make sure you wear something warm. Text me a location you want to meet, and I'll pick you up from there."
"Sounds good."
Good wasn't the best way to describe the excitement and curiosity she felt, but it would have to do. What could Luka want to do that would let her wear heels, but demanded she wear pants that she didn't mind getting dirty?
"Friday night at eight," Luka said. "Eat before, b
ut don't come too stuffed. Any other questions, text me. For now, I've got business to attend to."
Steel still edged his tone, but despite his anger, Ciara knew that he was sincere. In her experience, although he was a firecracker, Luka was honest. Honesty was what had gotten him into such trouble with Ryan Breece, and it was what had sparked the blowup following her rejection. For someone with political aspirations, he was far too straightforward.
"Alright. Have a good night, and I'll see you Friday."
"Yeh. Good night."
Luka hung up abruptly, and Ciara lowered the phone from her ear and sighed a long, grounding sigh. Come Friday she'd start to work on her story in earnest, all the while shaking Luka out of her system. Whatever attraction she felt for him was illogical, unsubstantiated, and unwelcome, and she was eager to shed it. But as it lasted, Ciara wouldn't stop herself from having fun. Fun was all a guy like Luka was after, anyway. Playboys weren't relationship material.
Relationship. Ciara leaned back against the wall behind her and closed her eyes. Was she crazy? What girl in her right mind, let alone someone as bright as she was, would want to consider a relationship with him? And yet now that the thought had struck, she couldn't shake it.
Working Luka out of her system couldn't happen quickly enough. Ciara didn't do serious relationships, she'd learned early that you could only rely on yourself. With any luck, on Friday she'd find the dirt she needed so she could shed him fast. But as the train pulled into the station and departed, Ciara still felt a twinge of sorrow at the thought.
For as prepared as she thought she'd been for New York, the city hit her harder than she'd expected. The ambitious girl from the mid-west wouldn't hesitate to do what needed to be done for the sake of her career.
And the girl from New York had to toughen up and brace herself for impact. Come Friday she was going to hit the ground running, and Ciara was determined not to let her softening heart stand in her way.
* * *
