"Ivory!" Matteo called behind me, but I kept walking. I didn't stop, even when I heard Donatello's steps following me.
"Miss Torres," he pleaded, but I ignored him as I fumbled through my purse to dig out my keys. I had a moment of panic where I thought the gate wouldn't open when I got to it, but as soon as I put my car in drive it started to open. Whether it was Donatello or Matteo who ordered the guard to let me out, I didn't care at that moment.
I was too concerned with the fact that if he'd wanted to keep me there, he could have.
There was one thing I was sure of; Matteo was even more dangerous to me than he'd been twelve years ago.
And there was no way in Hell I would ever see him again.
Over my dead body.
Five
Matteo
I turned my glare Donatello's way. A lesser man would have cowered under the weight of it, although it wasn't actually aimed at him. Not intentionally.
That right was reserved for the angel who'd just fled like I wouldn't follow her into the pearly gates themselves to drag her back with me. "Send Scar to follow her home and get me everything she's been up to for the last twelve years." My older friend nodded, turning and striding out the doors with his cell to his ear - already calling Scar no doubt. "Don? I want him on her 24/7 but tell him to be discreet for now."
He didn't speak, just nodded his understanding as he made his way out the front door. Scar was already waiting at the curb, one of the BMW's being pulled up by another one of my guys.
Satisfied that he would catch up with her, I turned back to stride through the halls of my too-empty house, all while the knowledge that it wouldn't be so empty for too much longer settled in me. I'd have Ivory there regularly soon.
There was no other option. She'd settle into her new reality, eventually.
She didn't have a choice, since I wouldn't let her go again.
Seeing her again had been like a punch to the gut. She’d been beautiful, even in my decade old memories, but somehow, she was even more stunning standing in front of me, all grown up with no remaining trace of the youth she’d been at sixteen. All that sleek chestnut hair that I knew shone auburn when the light hit the strands just right hung down to her narrow little waist in layers, bisecting her where her lithe body tapered out to the hips that seemed to defy the odds. The Portuguese side of her heritage somehow packed all the right curves onto her slight frame, like her body just couldn't decide if it wanted to be slim or curvy. Her mother's French influence had given her the beautiful ivory skin that was her namesake, that generous dusting of freckles across her nose and cheekbones only drawing attention to her sea-green eyes.
Any of the little details that comprised Ivory would have been enough to make her memorable, but it was the thick, lush lips that had haunted my life for over ten years. Whether she wore them relaxed or pillowed, spread into a blinding smile, or wrapped around my cock while she drove me wild with her innocence, I could never get the image of them out of my head.
By the time Donatello returned to my office, I'd sat down in my chair and started tapping my pen against the desk idly in my impatience. It wasn't characteristic of me; distractions weren't something I allowed in my life.
It was too dangerous when one wrong move was the difference between life and death, not just for me but for the people who counted on me.
Donatello took a seat on the other side of the desk, quirking an eyebrow up at me. He'd never actually met Ivory, couldn't have had the opportunity when I'd refused to bring her around my family for her own safety.
But he knew of her—had seen her. Even then, he'd been one of the two confidants who knew just how obsessed I'd been with my angel.
"How long will you be entertaining Miss Torres this time around?" His amusement faded for something close to disappointment. He knew as well as I had that I'd broken her when I ended things the way I did. Back then, I had to rely on he and Lino to make sure she was coping.
Healing.
Moving on.
All the things I'd never been able to do.
I knew that he'd be disappointed in me if I forced her to experience that all over again just for a few quick fucks. I stared back at him in response, and that disappointment faded and replaced with a pleased grin. "Right."
"I'll be needing an appointment on Jeweler's Row. I want something custom and quick." I picked up my pen, finishing the paperwork on my desk with a quick flourish of my signature before handing it off to Donatello to send out with a messenger.
"I'll make the arrangements." His eyes crinkled in the corners with his bright smile, and I shook my head even as my own lips tipped up slightly.
"Nothing but the best," I reiterated, and he nodded in a wordless representation that it didn't need to be said. He stood to leave me to my work, undoubtedly having plenty of his own to do now that he needed to run twelve years’ worth of data on Ivory and find me the best jeweler in Chicago who could work on my tight schedule.
"I'm proud of you, son," he said, his voice cracking with the emotional weight of the bond that held tight between us. My father hadn't been a loving man, had tolerated no one loving me. That hadn't been enough to stop Donatello from showing me rare moments of affection when I earned them.
Lino saved me from having to respond when he shoved the door open and burst into the room. He was literally the only person who got away with it, but even being who he was my hand twitched toward the pistol in the top drawer of my desk. "Heard you saw Ivory?" he asked, plopping his ass down into the seat that Donatello vacated.
I pinched the bridge of my nose between two fingers and released a sigh. "For fuck's sake, she just left fifteen minutes ago."
"What can I say? Your guard has a big mouth. He was all excited that he'd finally laid eyes on the Ivory Torres. Nervous wreck about it too, worried she's going to demand his head or some shit." He leaned forward in his chair, stripping off his own suit jacket and making himself comfortable.
Shit. He was in for the long haul.
"Why would he be worried about that? Did he touch her?" Even I wasn't immune to the menace in my voice, something I rarely noticed. It happened too frequently to give a shit, but when Ivory was threatened, well, that was a different story.
"Nah, just told her she looked like every other bimbo you bang. Before he realized who she was, anyway."
My fists clenched beneath the desk, and I swallowed loudly. "He said what?"
"Shit, man. I thought you'd closed that door a long time ago," Lino whispered, seeming to finally alert himself to the dark energy pulsing around me.
"She came back to me. That's my sign she’s mine, so I'm taking her." I shrugged, turning my attention to where Donatello watched our exchange with a mixture of horror and amusement. "Who's at the gate today?"
"Christian," he answered hesitantly.
"Right, tell Ryker to make it very clear to Christian exactly what happens when someone runs his mouth to my woman. I want him alive, but I want him to know what the consequences are for calling her a whore."
"Woah, I think you're overreacting—" Lino objected, and I turned my glare his way. "How could he have known, Matteo? You spent twelve years looking for her twin to warm your bed."
"Does it look like I give a fuck?" I hissed, turning back to the spreadsheet waiting for me on my computer. I needed to run through the numbers from the last shipment, and I needed Lino to update me on the latest numbers from the businesses, and I needed it done before I went to inspect the cleanliness of the new brothel my men had sampled.
I might run escort, but I only ran the best of the best. Women who made six figures a year and would be free to retire young and live a good life if they were smart.
For the first time since I'd taken over, a voice questioned me.
Because Ivory wouldn't like it. When she found out that was.
But she'd deal with it.
She didn't have a choice.
Six
Ivory
The deep
breath I took before I opened the front door wasn't nearly enough to prepare me for the shit storm I was about to walk into. I knew that.
But there was nothing else to be done for it.
My father flung the door open with a sudden jerk, grasping me around the back of the neck and pulling me into his arms with a shudder. "Christ. Jesus fucking Christ almighty," he mumbled into the top of my head.
"Daddy, I'm fine," I protested in a mumble against his chest. The press of his shirt against my face muffled my voice, nearly suffocating me. "Well, at least death by hugging is better than being shot," I joked, and I heard my mother's gasp from somewhere further in the house.
How she'd heard me, I'd never know. The woman had eyes and ears everywhere.
"Ivory Leonora!" she cried, and even without being able to see her I knew she pressed her hand to her chest in outrage. She was nothing if not dramatic.
"It's true," I announced, giving my father a shove until his arms fell away. Even at 59, the man was fitter than most 40-year-old men because of his own inability to sit still. The number of times I'd heard him say, "idle time is wasted time," during my youth would make most of his Air Force buddies cringe.
My mother's arms closed around me as soon as I could breathe in peace, and I sighed. I couldn't blame them for their concern. Seeing your daughter on the news as police ushered her out of a bank following an armed robbery wasn't something most parents had to experience.
I'd called them back before going to Matteo's house, making sure they knew I was okay once I'd realized I'd been on the news. Still, the whole thing seemed to be far more traumatic for them than it was for me, and I'd been the one staring down the barrel of a gun.
"My baby," she cried, tears soaking my shoulder where she'd rested her face. I was taller than my mom, even when I didn't wear heels. Having gone straight to their house for dinner after seeing Matteo, I hadn't changed out of my impress-the-ex outfit.
Though I regretted dressing to impress.
Like a lot.
I shrugged off the anxiety plaguing me. I'd figure out how to deal with Matteo's threat in the morning, because there was no way to ponder it with my father staring at me.
Where my mom saw everything that happened, my father saw every thought inside my head.
Safe to say, I hadn't gotten away with anything as a teenager. Well, except for the one time I'd had Matteo in my bed in high school. After that experience, I'd gone the straight and narrow for a few years until I graduated. After that, well, that had been a different story.
My father cleared his throat. "All right Alice, you've coddled her enough. Let the girl in the house."
"Me? You suffocated her!" Mom protested, though her arms relented and released me finally. With a groan, I walked off into the house, leaving them in their own entryway to bicker as usual. They had a special love, the love people dreamed of finding. That didn't mean that they weren't as sarcastic with each other as possible before they got all kissy and gross.
I did not need to be around for that part.
Mom's fried chicken sat on the granite counter, waiting for her to move it to the huge oak table in the dining room. I grabbed it and moved it over, with the sounds of their arguments fading into the background when the humorous jabs at one another started to ease into affection. By the time they made their way into the kitchen, I was pulling the collard greens out of the pot and putting them in one of mom's serving bowls. "Oh honey, you didn't need to do that. I would have used the white bowl," she said, coming up and taking the macaroni and cheese out of the oven.
“Of course," I snorted. "If I'd used the white bowl, you'd have wanted the orange one. Anything to be the opposite of what I pick, contrary woman."
She huffed at me and started to object. "I am not—"
"Woman, you're the most contrary person on the planet," Dad announced, pulling out his seat at the head of the table. "Who the hell cares what bowl the food's in? You going to start taking pictures of it too?"
"Honestly, Martim. These things matter." I took my seat to Daddy's right, serving myself and listening to him gossip about which flight attendant was hooking up with his co-pilot. Apparently, it was quite the scandal—what with the woman being 26 and the pilot in his 50s. Normally, I put on a good show of listening to him sound like a teenage girl, but that day—given everything that had happened—my head just wasn't interested in his idle gossip. I poked at my food, barely eating and contemplating what I would do about Matteo the next day despite my resolution to forget him for the time being.
"Okay, what gives?" Daddy asked.
"What do you mean?" I mumbled, snapping out of my trance and forcing a bite of fried chicken into my mouth.
"You seemed fine about the robbery, my little warrior," he teased, reaching over and pinching my cheeks. I stuck my tongue out at him. "So why are you so in your head now?"
I sighed, dropping the chicken to my plate and biting the corner of my mouth while I contemplated what story I could tell my parents about Matteo. There was no way I'd ever admit I'd gone there, especially because a criminal had known him. "I talked to Matteo," I said vaguely.
My mother stilled, and I glanced at my father to watch his brow furrow. I was under no illusion that he didn't know what Matteo I meant, so I knew his next question was his attempt to give me time to rethink the course of our conversation. "Matteo who?"
"You know, Matteo Bellandi. From high school." I shrugged, as if discussing the boy who'd made me cry myself to sleep for weeks could ever be a casual occurrence.
"And where did you see him?" Mom asked, she forked some greens into her mouth, chewing as if she found them distasteful, but there was no doubting the fact that it was Matteo she found disgusting.
"I didn't," I lied. "See him, I mean. He saw me on the news and reached out to see if I was all right or if there was anything he could do. That's all." My eyes glanced at mom's curtains on the big picture window behind her, seeing that the rods needed dusting. "If you need me to come over and help with the housework, I can do that. I know you have trouble reaching some high places." I changed the subject deftly, knowing mom would bristle at the insinuation that she couldn't clean her damn house herself.
She started to do just that, but Dad's deadly serious voice interrupted her. "I do not think so, young lady. You are not changing the conversation like it doesn't matter that piece of shit somehow got your phone number. You're getting a new one. End of story." He stabbed a piece of macaroni and cheese, shoving it into his mouth angrily.
"What good would that do? With the assets the Bellandi's have access to, he could just find that number if he wanted it," I pointed out. Whether Matteo had my number yet was irrelevant. I'd known for twelve years that he could find me if he'd wanted.
He just hadn't wanted to.
"Ivory—"
"Besides, do you realize what a hassle it would be to change my number? I run my business through it." I shrugged, ignoring his pointed glare.
I sent mom a pleading look, that she took with a sigh and directed my father's attention elsewhere with the promise of further gossip about work. I tuned in better, feeling his eyes on me too attentively for my taste several times throughout dinner.
But we survived without mentioning Matteo again, and when I went home after dinner that night, I was even more determined to make sure I never had to tell them anything about him again.
It was better that way for everyone.
Especially me.
✽✽✽
My white dress with big tropical coral flowers floated around me with the breeze, and I thanked the heavy cardigan I wore for keeping it down. As a rule, floaty skirts were dangerous in the windy city, but that never stopped me.
Sadie said I had an aversion to pants. I couldn't argue against it. I wore them only when it was necessary to fight off the cold, which was why I wore a dress despite the chill to the Spring air.
I hurried into the restaurant, not even surprised when I found Duke and his family alr
eady sitting and waiting for me. I'd changed my clothes last minute after spilling my pet leopard gecko Smaug's water bowl all over myself like a complete idiot, and me running late following some random catastrophe wasn't as rare as it should have been.
Duke turned to face the door, his down-turned blue eyes meeting mine as he shook his head and a smile played at his mouth. I shrugged with a grin of my own, hurrying over and taking the empty seat next to him. Leaning in, I placed a kiss on his cheek and smiled at his mom and brother.
His mother returned the smile, her eyes warming as she looked at the two of us. She'd made no secret of hoping the two of us would end up together one day, and I knew she analyzed every move we made around one another to notice any subtle difference. If we'd ever crossed that line, she'd know before we told her. That much was obvious, since the woman missed nothing where her sons were concerned.
"Hey, Gendry," I murmured.
"What? No kiss for me?" Duke's older brother chuckled, and I narrowed my eyes at him in a glare.
"Why don't you kiss my a—"
"Okay! So good to see you, Ivory, my dear. Should we remember we are in a restaurant and have a nice brunch, without the lot of you bickering like you're still children?" Amelia cut me off. When she turned her face back to the menu in her hands, I stuck my tongue out at Gendry. "I saw that," she drawled, her lips quirking up even though her eyes never left her menu.
Creepy.
"How do you do that?" Duke mused, opening the menu that sat on the table in front of me. I ignored the hint, not even glancing at the menu. Asshole just had to make fun of me every Thursday when we met for brunch.
"It's a mom thing. You'll understand one day, Ivory," she said pointedly, and I snorted water back into my glass. Because I was a lady like that.
"I think I'm missing a certain requirement for having children," I chuckled. The waiter saved from whatever response she might have when he came over.
"Can I get you something to drink, miss?" he asked, and I gave him a smile that was probably a little too happy. I needed a drink for the way the conversation was about to turn. As much as I loved Amelia, I just couldn't sometimes.
Bloodied Hands: A Dark Mafia Romance (Bellandi Crime Syndicate Book 1) Page 4
