by C. L. Donley
He racked his brain thinking of an appropriate context for his confession. There was none. She would have to be ignorant, for now. And he, more discreet.
He turned once again on his back, the shadow of hair on his bare chest trailing down below his sheets where he was naked, his preferred way to sleep. He ran fingers through his hair as he sighed, his long lashes veiling his pea-colored eyes. They barely moved.
“Alessia,” he whispered in the darkness. There was no answer besides the faint honking of city car horns.
Surrendering to insomnia, he reached for his phone and dialed.
The phone rang and rang. Finally, there was a click.
“Papa?”
“Gino.”
“Come va? What time is it?”
“Almost four, I think.”
“What are you doing up? Jet lag?”
“Perhaps. How’s nonna?”
“Worried, you know nonna.”
“Tell her I will be home soon.”
“Take your time, papa, we’re fine.”
“So eager to get rid of me. You are not having house parties, are you?”
“No.”
“Gino…”
“Just some friends over. A hangout.”
Dario smiled a smile that was close to dissolving into tears, his emotions brimming.
“Ti voglio tanto bene, Gino.”
“I love you too, dad.”
“No booze at this hangout of yours.”
“I know.”
“And no girls besides your cousins.”
“Papa—”
“Fine, their friends as well. And your curfew is still midnight.”
“I know, papa. Everything’s fine. Enjoy your trip.”
That meant he was done talking. Itching to get back to the business of easing into adulthood.
“I’ll call you tomorrow.”
“Please don’t.”
“Buona sera.”
“Buongiorno, you mean.”
He hung up the phone before returning it to the nightstand.
A moment later, he picked it up, exasperated.
He opened an incognito window on his browser and typed into the search box: New York escort service Manhattan.
* * *
“Sparing no expense, are we?” Lark said as they settled in the back of a spacious limo that pulled up to the hotel entrance the next morning. Dario was across from her.
“My father insisted. He’ll be joining us later” Dario began, donning a distinguished pair of black-rimmed eyeglasses that were testing Lark’s resolve. “We’re meeting Sergei’s distributor. His name is Chekhov.”
“You look exhausted.”
“I am exhausted.”
“I’ve got something you can take if you need it. I still don’t know what day it is, but I can sleep, at least.”
Dario was wordless as he stared back at her, reticent to speak. Lark became nervous.
“What’s that look?”
“I’m afraid I’m going to need to you to do some spying again today.”
She sighed. “What language will I be pretending to translate this time?”
“None. I need you to pretend that you don’t understand anything but English.”
“What?”
He had no reply, as though he knew he was asking her to do something unethical. Perhaps illegal.
“Feel free to say ‘no,’ Miss Chambers.”
“Mr. Di Rossi… what kind of nonsense are you mixed up in?”
“None, if you do your job properly.”
“It sounds like I’m not doing my job at all.”
“You will pose as my assistant.”
Lark made a face. “Your American assistant?”
“Why not?”
“What if Sergei is there?”
“He won’t be.”
“But what if he is? He’ll recognize me from yesterday. He’ll know I speak Russian.”
“Then we will not go through with the charade. But there will be no need. Because he won’t be there.”
“This all just seems very silly. A man of your stature, chasing amateurs around the world for their business.”
“I have no stature. I work in a factory.”
“You would have me believe that you’re doing all this out of ignorance?”
“Allora, you are an interpreter of languages, so I do not expect you to understand. But over the last seven years, I’ve managed to get Di Rossi Textiles the lions’ share of the control over production, from harvesting to manufacturing. I’ve both saved and made us a ton of money, and until I have officially taken over, it is my father’s job to collect the stature.”
“Now, I have set my sights on the way we advertise. And I will save and make us a ton more money the same way, by taking risks and seeing opportunity where no one else sees it.”
Lark adjusted herself in her seat, satisfied by his generous explanation. After a few moments, she got an idea that made her eyes roll.
“I can’t believe I’m suggesting this but… perhaps it would work best if I were your… girlfriend.”
He broke out into a self-satisfied grin.
“First of all, you’re dressed much too boring to play my girlfriend,” he mused. “Secondly, why would I be bringing my girlfriend to a meeting?”
“Because… I don’t know. Because you’re a wealthy Italian businessman who does what he wants. Obviously, you’ve only just arrived, you would have just met me, and… you’re taking me out right after.”
“Oh, like una prostituta,” he understood.
“…Sure.”
“Did you pack the gold dress?”
Her mouth gaped open.
“Che cosa ho detto?” he asked. What did I say?
“I do not look like a prostitute in that dress!”
“You are right. We will have to find something much more expensive.”
Her mouth gaped open again and her brow furrowed.
“What?” he said cluelessly.
They stopped into the first designer store they could find on the way, and fortunately for them, they were in New York.
Lark quickly followed behind him into Dolce & Gabbana.
“Welcome to Dolce & Gabbana, sir,” the older store clerk began. Dario immediately fished a platinum card from his breast pocket.
“Be ready to ring us up? We are in a hurry,” he said before she could finish her spiel.
“Of course,” the clerk said, eyeing the name on the card. “Mr. Di Rossi. It is an honor.”
Dario made a quick lap around the store, grabbing four different looks.
“You’re a celebrity,” Lark said quietly, following behind.
“Only in the garment district,” Dario downplayed.
“I like the red,” she said over his shoulder.
“Someone call Miss Chambers a doctor,” he said as he turned toward her. He held the garment up to her face and eyes. He gave her calm expression a once-over that it didn’t need as she studied him back.
“If I’m playing the part, let’s go with the red,” she rolled her sugar brown eyes.
“A semi-sweetheart neckline in red is a bit too obvious. Even for me,” he said. He held up a blue number, the color of the Caribbean, and almost picked it until something caught his eye.
He made a beeline for a tight, knee-length leopard print dress in a stretchy blend, with a jewel neckline and three-quarter sleeve. Since she had little time to re-work her austere bun, and she was useless in stilettos, he thought the bold choice would balance it out.
“Try this on,” he said.
Indeed he was right. She looked like a wealthy heiress that’d begun a modeling career out of boredom. Her eyes were the color of an actual leopard’s. She was stunning.
“That’s the one,” he said.
“What should I do with my clothes?”
“Leave them here to be burned.”
“Hilarious, Dario.”
When she used his first name, he didn’t cor
rect her. He was taking her shopping to become a Bond girl, so he had no room to be a stickler. And he was about to further push the boundary.
“Allora, I… think you should also have the blue. And the red,” he suggested diplomatically.
“How much are they?”
He wasn’t suggesting she buy them. Clearly, she wasn’t going to let him buy them.
“$1500,” he said.
“Altogether?”
“Each.”
“Dario, that’s a week’s salary. They’re very lovely, but I can’t afford that.”
Yep, he called it.
“Try them on, at least?” he pushed.
“There’s no point,” she insisted, giving him an icy stare.
He let out an exasperated sigh. He could suggest no more than that. He certainly wouldn’t be able to convince her to stay in character the rest of the day. Or that escorts had wardrobe changes. At least he got one designer dress on her.
He paid at the register and Lark walked out with her new dress on, rushing behind him as they again entered the limo.
“Va bene,” he sighed. “Ready?”
She gave him a deep breath and a shrug, looking much more like her best self in the sexy attire.
“Lights, camera, action.”
* * *
“Signore Chekhov,” Dario began.
“Gospodin Di Rossi. Where is your father?” asked Chekhov.
“Detained. I told him if we make a deal, tonight you could meet us at the hotel to celebrate.”
“Who’s this?”
“This is… Natasha.”
“Just Tasha,” Lark corrected for no discernible reason. Lark held her hand presumptively for Chekhov to shake it, which he did as he huffed a laugh.
The group sat at opposite ends of a wide table, Chekhov on one side while three intimidating looking men sat behind him against the wall. Dario was glad to have Lark with him. Now everyone looked like they belonged in a gangster movie.
Dario felt Lark was still a bit too conspicuous looking. The more she blended into the background, the more she seemed like an interpreter and not like a high paid prostitute.
He summoned Lark to sit on his lap and she complied, letting the smile grow unencumbered across her lips.
He couldn’t account for Lark, but he was doing absolutely no acting as he took in the sight and weight of her, felt the expensive fabric across her smooth body. Their eyes met and he gave her a wink. She let out an adorable giggle as she crossed her legs, cozying up to him.
“It seems like you are in a hurry, Signore Di Rossi,” Chekhov began.
“Does it?” he answered without his eyes leaving Lark’s. Chekhov smiled.
“Where is this impressive translator I keep hearing so much about?”
Lark’s heart beat faster, but she didn’t flinch.
“I saw no need to bring her. Sergei told me you speak English.”
“Pity. I was looking forward to it. I was told she was very beautiful.”
Dario brought the corners of his mouth down as he shrugged. “For an interpreter, perhaps.”
“Not like this beauty here.”
Dario looked at Lark again and grinned, mostly gloating about his wardrobe choice. To the men, it simply looked as though he were grinning about… other things.
“No, Tasha is one of a kind,” Dario remarked. Lark furrowed her brow, gave him a ‘tsk’ with her tongue and a roll of her eyes, as though black attitude came with her girlfriend experience package. All the men in the room laughed, including Dario.
“The man has thing for black women, I think,” Lark heard Chekhov say in Russian. The men behind him laughed.
“He must want to fuck his translator but he cannot,” one of them commented in a low voice. Lark didn’t flinch as she stared blankly at the exchange, looking as though she didn’t understand.
Sergei must’ve described her.
They knew what she looked like, just not enough apparently to put Lark and “Tasha” together. She was simply relieved that the word they used for “black women” wasn’t pejorative.
“How much did she cost?” Chekhov asked.
Lark felt Dario’s energy change and it threatened to level the room. He stiffened where she was sitting against him.
The company behind Chekhov seemed to take his response in stride, almost like a challenge.
Shit. These people were fucking criminals. And she was about to die. Or worse.
She needed a diversion. She made a quick acting choice.
“I don’t think you could afford me, boo,” Lark said raising both eyebrows, her voice calm and full of shade as she looked in Chekhov’s direction.
Chekhov looked over at Lark, who felt every inch of his disapproval. He didn’t seem to get disrespected often.
Okay. ‘Criminals’ may not be a strong enough word, she thought.
“That’s enough, Allodola,” Dario slipped, flustered.
Luckily, no one noticed.
“I’m sayin’ babe, I think he was tryin’ to disrespect you, for real,” Lark continued as though unaware of her surroundings.
“Basta,” Dario replied, with a bit of force.
The men behind Chekhov began dissolving in snickers, which loosened Chekhov a bit.
“These women, they are sexy but not worth the hassle,” he said in Russian then finished in English, “How can you stand it?”
Dario seemed to instantly know what he was referring to.
“Ma dai, have you dated Russian women??” Dario ribbed him.
“Of course,” Chekhov chuckled.
“Allora, it is very nearly the same. Except Tasha cannot drink me under the table,” Dario said. The Russian men guffawed at that, while “Tasha” maintained an unamused expression.
“What?” Dario asked her innocently as she glared at him. She evaded his attempts to touch her as he tried to console the unamused “Tasha” with a stereotypical Italian flare, all while trying not to laugh.
Chekhov loosened all the way up after that.
“Listen, Mr. Di Rossi. I’m sure you have gathered that our operation is not exactly… squeaky clean,” Chekhov began, his hands folded out in front of him.
“But Sergei, he is my nephew. He started out as a kid, putting fake Adidas stripes on our black market goods. He made us a fortune. But now he wants to go straight. He’s a natural. A genius, really.”
“What he showed me looks suspiciously like a certain Versace line from 2014,” Dario confessed his suspicion.
“He has no schooling,” Chekhov divulged, “everything he does he learned from watching. I told him, ‘school is a waste of money. Buy fabric, study the greats.”
“I see.”
“He needs help. I told him, ‘go to Italy,’ but he wants to put Russia on the map for fashion. I am very proud of him.”
“You should be.”
“Will you help him?”
“Of course. Only… he might consider changing his brand name. For safety in the future.”
“I’m way ahead of you,” said Chekhov, “Perhaps you can convince him.”
Dario and Lark were again wordless as they made their way back to the limo. Lark didn’t even look in his direction as she inched across the smooth leather of the back seat. He sat beside her and motioned to the driver to take them back to the hotel.
Lark sat with her arms folded and her legs crossed in her designer leopard print dress, unamused and not facing him. So she didn’t see the laugh lines across his eyes as he gave her his biggest smile to date.
He chuckled a bit at her distaste for being rattled. He gave her a modest round of applause.
“Brava, Miss Chambers,” he grinned.
Finally, her neck swiveled in his direction that was holding her still unamused head. He simply stared back at her, grinning.
“Natasha?” Lark finally said, raising an eyebrow.
“I thought it was a fabulous fake name.”
“Fabulous? It was painfully obvious.”
“Which you changed, on the spot. Nice touch. Where did you learn to talk like that?”
“Like what, an African-American? It’s the one thing I didn’t have to learn.”
“You don’t talk like that with me,” he said.
“Should I?”
“If it’s who you are.”
“I haven’t the slightest clue who I am.”
“You just… turn it on and off like that? I felt like I was in an American movie,” he marveled.
“Una dozzina di lingue e questo è ciò che ti stupisce.” A dozen languages and this is what amazes you, she said under her breath as she shook her head.
She sighed, obviously exasperated with him, and what he’d just put her through. This was sooo not part of her job description. Looking at her somewhat paled expression he laughed at her again, ending with a snort.
“What on Earth is so damned funny?”
“You.”
“Me? You almost got us killed.”
“Honestly, Allodola, he wouldn’t have killed us. Though I might have killed him,” he divulged, looking into her eyes, still grinning. Lark swallowed.
“You saved me, vero? If you hadn’t stepped in when he offered to buy you, I would have broken his neck. And then where would we be?”
Lark’s wildly beating heart was no closer to recovering as he eyed her. She faced forward, letting out a big breath.
“Men,” she finally answered.
“Did he say anything to contradict his story?” he asked.
“No. And clearly he was telling the truth.”
“D’Accord.”
“So you put me through that for nothing.”
“Technically this was your idea,” he defended himself.
She exhaled again, smoothing wisps of stray hair from her face where beads of sweat had formed. He noticed her shaking hands before she returned them to the shelter of her crossed arms.
“You’re trembling,” he said, feeling shame and guilt.
“I’ll be fine,” she insisted.
He predicted this would happen. He was sure her confidence in him was now officially non-existent, their small window of intimacy dwindling.
Wordlessly, he wrapped his sport coat around her shoulders and put his arm on the back of the seat so that she could recline on his chest. She was in no mood to protest.
