His Dirty Bargain

by Fiona Murphy

  His eyes soften as he nods in understanding. “One conversation, one simple meeting, was all I wanted. They said if I got on the plane then don’t come back. My mother was so controlling, it was honestly a relief. Once I landed and realized I was totally on my own things, got scary fast. Okay, meeting my dad was as completely awful as they warned me it would be, but it was my horrible experience to have. I also got lucky. One of my father’s students heard the entire awful five-minute exchange; she put her arm around me and let me cry on her shoulder. Then she took me home and let me stay with her while I found a job.”

  “Dante said you still visit Milan every Christmas. Your mother changed her mind?”

  I shake my head as I remember. “No, Nonna did. I was always closer to Nonna. Nonna took care of me while my mother worked. She taught me Italian. We were both readers, both unwilling to give in to what the world said we were supposed to be. I missed her, and it hurt when she agreed with my mother. When I graduated I was shocked to find Nonna in the crowd. She asked me to come back home with her. I said no. I loved Chicago by then and I wasn’t going back; for me, Chicago was my home. While I loved Milan, still do, it never really felt like home. Although Nonna wasn’t happy, she understood as long as I promised to visit at Christmas. I’m grateful for her talking me into it, it was the last Christmas before my mother got sick.”

  “Family. Sometimes they’re a good thing, sometimes they’re a pain in the ass. Your mother passed from cancer.”

  “Yeah, cervical cancer. It happened fast, from the time she was diagnosed to when she passed was barely a year. My grandmother tried taking her to Switzerland to some of the best clinics there, but it was too far along.” I remember the last hectic year, wondering if I should be there, my mother assuring me she was fine to stay in Chicago during our weekly phone calls. Nonna never said a word of how bad it was until the very end. The rush from Chicago to Milan, and only three days later my mother was gone. How all the funeral arrangements were made already, how the next few days passed in a blur until I got on the plane to come home, then cried the whole way.

  “I’m sorry.”

  The sincerity in his eyes is almost painful. I remember how young he was when he lost his mother, only sixteen. I want to ask him about it but don’t dare. “I’m just grateful we had those last two years. Before them we weren’t close. She was still bitter about a lot of things. I guess her knowing what was coming, she could finally let it all go.”

  “It isn’t easy to let go of the past.” Enzo smiles, and a dimple flashes at me in his left cheek. My knees go weak and holy shit, a beehive gets kicked over in my tummy as my skin goes tight and hot. “Did you learn to swing a hammer from your Nonna?”

  My tongue isn’t easily unglued from the roof of my mouth. “No, by the time I arrived in Milan Nonna had a team of men working for her who fixed up the properties she purchased. She would take me with her when she checked on the progress, joking I was going to be their next boss. While I was there the men would show me what they were doing and how to do it.”

  “Are you really never going back? You don’t want to take over from your Nonna?”

  “I’ve now lived in Chicago longer than I lived in Milan. Like I said, I loved it, but it was never home. Nonna sold all but two small properties to pay for my mother’s medical care. From what was left she made a payment to my school loans as a way of giving me some of my inheritance early, and saying sorry she never helped me pay for school like she promised when I was young. It was great, I was able to pay off the rest in only a year, which enabled me to save toward...” I feel silly admitting my small goal to Enzo. “My goals.”

  “What are you working toward? What’s your brass ring?” It’s an invitation, the question solemn.

  “I want to own my own multifamily property. At least eight units, but as many as fifteen would be nice. Enough for me to manage all on my own, with the help of a maintenance man, of course. A property that enables me to be my own boss. Hopefully, in time, a second property.”

  “Real estate runs in your blood, hmm? It could be worse, it could be alcoholism.”

  Both of us laughing. our eyes meet. All at once the moment is too intimate, too close. He’s not telling me my dreams are stupid, that they aren’t achievable. Pushing away from the counter, I shrug as I tear my eyes off him. “Through here is the mudroom. One door leads to the garage, another to the backyard.”

  Enzo follows me outside onto the wide deck. “There’s no room for a pool.”

  “No, the place next door isn’t for sale but the owner is open to an offer. As you can see you have a wide corner lot. If you bought the place next door you would still spend less than ten million easily.”

  His answer is to go back inside. He likes the house. Behind him on the stairs, I’m in perfect line with his insanely hot ass. Stop it. It’s one day—all I have is today, tomorrow this will all be a dream. Would it really be so bad to savor the moment? Through the three bedrooms, he’s quiet as his eyes roam around each room. Once we get to the master bedroom, he leans against the open door to the bathroom.

  He’s quiet for so long I feel the need to fill the silence. “The bathtub is definitely a soaker tub. If a bit odd to have it in the center of the room.” An eyebrow goes up. “You would want to gut this, wouldn’t you?”

  A small smile sends heat up my tummy. I could easily become addicted to those smiles, to that dimple. “Yes. The whole layout doesn’t work. The bathroom and the kitchen, those guest bathrooms are barely passable. Redoing all the bathrooms and the kitchen, are why this place is below market. It’s going to get expensive and time-consuming. What does the lower level basement look like? “Inwardly I groan as I remember how much work it needs. It’s huge, but it could easily run twenty to thirty grand to do it right. We go through the basement at a quicker clip, he isn’t happy.

  Once we’re out of the house I keep walking past my car. “Where are you going?”

  “Walk with me, it’s not far to the next house.” I continue walking, not concerned in the slightest he won’t follow. It’s only a block away, within a few feet, he’s by my side.

  “Smug doesn’t suit you,” he mutters, his hands in his pockets.

  I don’t try to hide my smile. “Petulance doesn’t suit you.”

  His bark of laughter stops me dead in my tracks. Oh god, he’s stunning. It doesn’t matter the laughter sounds rusty. The air has been stolen from my entire body in a gasp of shock at the transformation in him. As huge as he is, wide, tall, a wall of muscle, he’s suddenly no longer as imposing, intimidating. The laughter dies as his eyes meet mine and hold. Then he blinks and looks away. “How much farther?”

  I hate it takes me longer to shake off what happened. What did happen? Catching up takes another minute, his long legs eat up the sidewalk. “At the end of the next block. Do you see the gray house on the corner?” He nods. We continue in silence until we’re at the gate.

  “It’s the same architect.”

  Even though it’s not a question, I nod. “Maher. This is on six lots. Here there is only ten thousand square feet, but you won’t miss it. The backyard has room for a pool and a yard. This isn’t priced to sell, but it’s completely reasonable at three nine nine five. There are five bedrooms, four on one floor, seven bathrooms. A master suite was created from the servants’ quarters, as none of the other rooms have a bathroom connected. Built in 1902 although it’s updated many original details remain as you can see in features like this door and the stained glass. The fireplace surrounds, wood around the doors, the hardwood in all but a few of the rooms are all original.” I run my hand over the grand piano in the foyer. “Another piano, it comes with the house if you want. Everything in the house stays. Those doors leading to the library are also original. They had to replace the inlaid glass, but the stained glass at the top was salvaged from another door here in the home.”

  We step out onto the sunroom, and he frowns. “This floor is awful, I would want it gone. It ruins the
whole room.”

  “While you’re doing it you could put in radiant heated floors so you can use the room even in the winter.”

  I’m rewarded with a half smile. “You have all the answers.”

  I shrug. “The bones of this house are stunning. It’s not bad now, but maybe the owners didn’t have the money needed to make the changes that would take it from good to stunning. You have the money, you even have the knowledge from past flips you did with Cesare and Dante. Done right, this could go on the cover of Architecture Digest.”

  “You’ve showed this more than a few times?”

  Anger flares at his amusement, at the morons I’ve shown this place to who didn’t appreciate how beautiful the home is. “The changes aren’t big, and the payoff would be huge. I don’t understand why people can’t see that. This home is beautiful, a home to be passed down from one generation to the next. All they want is the same damn cookie-cutter houses with boring gray walls and granite and stainless steel appliances they don’t even use.” Oh, it came out a little more harshly than I intended. Enzo is smiling, his dimple flashing at me. “I just—I don’t get it. Anyway, as you can see there are the same details, wood around the doors here, chair rails, and crown molding. There are eight wood-burning fireplaces in this home.”

  Another frown. “Everything is brown. Combined with the wood in here already, it weighs down these rooms. And the surround on the fireplace is bland.”

  “Those are simple fixes. Don’t you dare touch the surround, it’s original. If you want to add depth you could update the mantel or do something with the space above the mantel.” I huff, annoyed at him for concentrating on things like the color on the walls. “It’s a way of making this home your own.”

  An eyebrow goes up. “Those ‘simple’ fixes will add up.” Then we walk into the kitchen and he sighs. “This is no simple fix.” Shaking his head. “I’m beginning to understand why it’s been on the market for so long. There is a lot of work to be done and none of it will be cheap.”

  He’s not seeing it. I’m disappointed, so I do the only thing I can do. I open the door out to the backyard. It takes a few minutes for him to follow me. When he steps outside he takes in a deep breath; it slides out of him in a sigh. “You have privacy all the way around you. You’re on the corner, nothing behind you. To one side of you mature trees and bushes screen you from prying eyes. There is room for a pool and it’s still a yard where kids can play and kick or throw around a ball. This is a quiet neighborhood and street, you have a driveway and parking on the street. The lake is a five-minute walk that way, coffee shops, restaurants and a Jewel are a five-minute walk in the other direction.”

  A small nod. “What does the upstairs look like?”

  As we walk the second floor he’s quiet. All of the bathrooms need updates. At least the en suite off the master is large enough for all the things he wants in it. There aren’t any more frowns until we get to the basement. It needs almost as much work as the other house. Once we exit the house, I fight to keep from staring at him, wondering what he’s thinking. We walk back to my car without him saying a word. He opens the door for me, and again I’m reminded the Sabatinis are a different breed from the men I’m used to. All the more reason to stay far away from him.

  “I have a lot to think about. I’ll call you.” Then he walks away.

  I’m sitting stunned. What? He moves fast, yet he’s in no hurry; his hands are in his pockets again, his head up scanning the view in front of him as he walks. I have no idea what I’m supposed to do, so I go home.

  5

  Chloe

  My nerves are shot. It’s Friday, almost five o’clock. I haven’t heard a single word from Enzo since he walked away yesterday afternoon, nothing from Dante either. Not for the first time I bring up the homes we looked at, wondering which one Enzo will pick. The idea of Enzo all alone in any of the homes seems wrong, the homes screamed family, children running from one end to the other, family around the large table in the dining room, a little girl pleading to be watched as she does a somersault in the lush green grass. It’s what he wants. I saw the look on his face, felt the longing running through him, recognized it because I felt it too. The ringing of my cell phone startles me, I don’t recognize the number.

  “Hello?”

  “Meet me downstairs at six. I want to see the two Maher homes again.” Nothing else, the asshole hangs up without waiting for me to even say yes.

  I seriously hate him right now. My shoulders are screaming in agony from the stress. With a sigh I give in and pop a Klonopin, even though I had one at the start of the day. It’s been almost eight hours. I don’t think I’ll manage to get through the next few hours without losing it if I don’t take it because it doesn’t matter if I hate him, I’ll be downstairs at six on the dot.

  I’m waiting in front of the building in my car at a few minutes before six. He gets in with only a small nod. I hate the way my heart starts pounding at the sight of him. The way every sense goes on alert, taking in the smell of him, how it feels like I’ve been a desert and am now being flooded with rain. Knock it off, Chloe, this is almost over.

  Nothing is said on the drive. It’s almost forty minutes in traffic, without traffic the drive is right around a half hour. I pull into the larger, red brick home.

  He’s laser-focused on this tour. Nothing misses his attention, not the patched hardwood in the dining room or the width of the lot. He fires questions at me: what would I do with the kitchen again? How would I change the layout of the bathroom? I’m surprised by how often he asks for my input. Sometimes he nods, other times he frowns, yet he doesn’t argue. We spend more than an hour walking the house.

  As we make the walk to the other house he’s quiet, thoughtful. Opening the gate, he stops for a moment. The curb appeal is nothing short of majestic: set back from the sidewalk behind a black wrought-iron gate, the two-story gray brick home is fronted with wide windows in white wood detail. A little sigh escapes me. This is my favorite home of all the ones I’ve shown over the last few years. If I had the money I’d buy it and figure everything else out later. But the price makes it out of my reach, just another dream to add to all the rest.

  Without thought I turn to Enzo to find him studying me. “I hate the blue trim.”

  I nod. “It is too pale. Either a dark blue or a dark red would change it completely.”

  Entering the house, he shakes his head at the piano filling the foyer. “It doesn’t go here. Whether it stays in the house at all is debatable. The foyer is larger than most, but the piano makes it seem smaller.”

  “You’re right, if you want it to stay it could go in one of the sitting rooms.”

  He goes into one of the dark brown rooms, one set up as a living room and the other also a sitting room, only slightly smaller. “They changed the configuration, one of these rooms should be the dining room, both of them need to be painted.” As we walk into the current dining room, he shakes his head. “The piano would fit here. This isn’t a dining room. It could be an office. I hate the office now, there’s too much damn light wood everywhere. I’d rather it be turned into a bathroom or another bedroom.”

  As I follow him into the kitchen, he runs his hand through his hair, and I wonder if his hair is as silky as it appears. Focus, Chloe, damn. “Explain to me how this kitchen can work?”

  “We gut it. The appliances don’t fit. The refrigerator doesn’t go there, this island is an eyesore. Shaker white cabinets with glass, a pantry can go here, the refrigerator on this wall.”

  “What do you think for the countertop?”

  “I’m not sure if it should be butcher block or marble.”

  “Butcher block on the counters, marble on the island?”

  “Nice compromise, the wood warms up the room. The marble adds to the overall look. I know you cook a lot. It would make for easy cleanup.”

  “Marble is a bitch to keep clean.”

  “It’s not that bad and it’s perfect for making pasta, r
olling out the dough on the marble will keep it cool.”

  A nod. “True.”

  Upstairs we go through all the updates the bathrooms need, he wants to gut the master entirely. We talk through the changes and options, and I’m surprised how often Enzo agrees or considers my thoughts without ever dismissing them. As we walk the basement, we both sigh over the amount of work necessary. At some point I forget this isn’t my house, and I won’t be living here because Enzo doesn’t act as if it isn’t. For seconds we squabble over where to put the bathroom before he tells me I’m right.

  In the foyer I lean against the piano. “So?”

  He looks around as he sighs. “I don’t want it.”

  I push away from the piano in shock. “What?”

  The bastard is fighting a smile, his dimple peeking out at me. He shrugs. “I don’t want it unless you redo it. I told you I didn’t want to deal with a remodel. This will take eight to twelve weeks easy and at least a hundred grand, that doesn’t include the pool. You handle the remodel, you deal with the contractors, and I’ll buy it.”

  Shaking my head, I can’t believe him. “I don’t—that’s not what I do. I’m a real estate agent, for fuck’s sake. I can’t be in charge of all this work.”

  “You said it wasn’t a big deal. You’ve redone your own place, you grew up around your grandmother doing it. Pretty much everything you suggested, all your thoughts on this place and the other one, I agreed with, I liked. So...you do it and I’ll buy it. Or you can keep looking for something already finished.”

  Longing tugs deep inside me. I would love to work to bring this home up to what it could be. I remember our time in the basement; walking the rooms was easy, effortless. “This would take up more time than I have. I already have a full-time job, hell, sometimes I run to sixty hours a week.”

  Enzo laughs and I’m dazed at hearing the rich sound come from deep within his chest. “Only because you want to. Dante doesn’t work his people to overtime or even twelve-hour days. Che doesn’t either.” I’m biting my tongue, unable to think of a better argument, but agreeing is a bad, bad idea. His head tilts. “All right, your commission on this place, half of seven percent would run, what? Almost a hundred and forty thousand? What if I gave you your commission back? Call it an even two hundred and eighty thousand and eight weeks with an unlimited budget. I mean it, unlimited, I don’t want you cheaping out on something just because there’s a few dollars difference.”