Masked Innocence

Page 25

“You don’t need it.”
“That is so sugar daddy of you, but I like to have my wallet. That way I won’t feel guilty when I look at stuff. If you’re paying, I’ll refuse to look at anything and neither one of us will have any fun.”
He shrugged. “Whatever. But I am going to buy you some things, so go ahead and start getting used to the concept.”
“I didn’t say I won’t let you buy me stuff—just said I want my wallet also.” I grinned at him, sticking out my tongue and heading for the back door. He followed me, pressing the button for the garage doors, and we headed outside.
“Wait.” I grabbed his arm and he stopped, his car about to pull out onto his street. “Should we have a gun, or something? Some kind of protection?”
Brad pulled out, shaking his head at my question. “I do have a gun, in the center console, but I always have that there. No, we don’t need any protection today.”
The situation reminded me of a gun I had seen before, in the bathroom of his master suite. “So, you have two guns?”
He glanced over at me distractedly. “What? What do you mean?”
“I saw a gun in your house before, in the bathroom. And you said you always keep this one here, in the car. So you have two guns?”
He found my question amusing, and shook his head. “I’m not sure which gun you saw in my bathroom, but I probably have ten in the house, scattered about in different locations. Martha knows where they all are, as does Helga, who you still need to meet. I’ll have them show you the locations, just so you don’t accidentally knock one over at some point in time. Do you know how to shoot?”
I found that question amusing and grinned at him. “I grew up in south Georgia so, yes—I am well aware of how to shoot. Though I have more experience with shotguns and rifles than I do handguns. Why do you have so many?”
He shrugged. “I grew up in a house where guns were everywhere. If someone is going to come into my home to harm me, they are going to be armed. I’d like an even playing field.”
I nodded at that, my nerves still on edge. He glanced over, his eyes sharpening when they met mine. “Julia, relax. We are safe. One thing my family does is keep their word. You don’t have anything to worry about today.” He smiled at me and gripped my knee reassuringly.
Today. I sank into the soft leather, the contoured seat fitting my body perfectly. Yippee.
Forty-Four
We stopped by my house on the way, Brad’s car, as always, looking ridiculous parked in my neighborhood. Seeing as it was before noon, my house was quiet, everyone still asleep, and he came inside with me.
“Why don’t you grab a few things while we are here?”
I heard his suggestion from my bedroom, and stuck my head out of the door. “Like what?”
“Something dressy. In case we go out tonight.”
I shrugged, flipping through the rack in my closest and snagging a simple black dress that would cover any fancy destination he felt the need to take me to. Or a funeral. The thought stopped me cold and I grabbed my wallet and ran out, running into him in the hall. “Brad—what about Broward’s funeral!”
He frowned down at me, taking up way too much of the skinny hallway. “What about it?”
“It’s today! At three. We have to go.” I couldn’t believe that, in the course of everything, I had forgotten about the funeral. About the fact that my boss had died. I had shoved it aside as if it could hang out in the back of my mind without proper consideration.
He shrugged. “So? We’ll skip it.”
I flinched at the suggestion. “Skip it? We can’t skip it. What will people think?”
“What people? Broward? He’s not going to care.”
I pushed him into the living room, away from my sleeping roommates, and cocked a hip, giving him my best stern look. “I’m well aware that Broward won’t notice our absence, but everyone else will. I was his intern, and you were his partner. We are expected to attend.”
He put his hands on his h*ps and stared down at me. “Julia, I don’t give a f**k what people think. Some people might think that it’s disrespectful for me to attend, given that I had relations with his wife. She may not want me there. And besides that, we have bigger issues going on.”
“With the whole ‘someone trying to kill me’ thing? Because you just said I was safe.” I tried to glare at him, but my smile broke through.
He kissed my head and hid his grin as he escorted me out the door. “Point made. But we’re not going. I’m sorry. Thanks for yielding to my wisdom on this.”
“Oh, I’ll find a way for you to pay me back later,” I intoned, climbing into the car as he held the door for me.
“I’m sure you will,” he said with a grin.
* * *
WE PULLED INTO the Hillsdale Mall, the current favorite of local yuppies, and Brad circled around to the Neiman’s valet.
“I can literally see a parking spot,” I pointed out as he unbuckled his seat belt and reached over to unclick mine. “Right there! Like, ten feet away.” He smiled at me, ignoring my logic, and climbed out, accepting the valet ticket from the teenager who opened his doors. I climbed out, expelling a big breath of air, irritated by the waste of money, and accepted Brad’s outstretched hand. “Look at it! Right over there. Beautiful spot,” I grumbled as we passed through the brass doors, held open by a suited Neiman’s associate. Brad ignored me, and we came to a stop at the escalators, the bulk of the store surrounding us.
“Should we go upstairs to Women’s Fashion?” he asked, returning the flirtatious smiles of the Cosmetics girls.
“No, we can just walk through to the main mall—unless you have something you wanted to look for.”
“I think I owe you a pair of shoes.”
“For what?”
“The elevator—a couple of weeks ago. You seemed quite upset about it at the time.”
“Oh.” I laughed. During a time when I was refusing to speak to him, Brad had inadvertently flooded an elevator in an attempt to foster communication. The stunt had ruined one of the few pairs of designer shoes I had actually purchased—ninety percent of my shoe wardrobe was donated by Becca—and I had dissolved in tears over the loss.
“Manolo Blahniks—if I recall?” he said, smiling down at me.
“Yes. I will allow you to replace those.” That pleased him, and he grabbed my hand, pulling me to the left, and we zigzagged through jewelry and perfume counters till we ended up at the section of my dreams, the Neiman’s shoe section. The softly lit cubbyholes showcased designer shoes as if they were Cartier watches, the attendants carried trays of champagne and there were pedestals of shoes everywhere, each more tempting than the next. It was how I imagined heaven to be.
We spent about a half hour in the section. I found the suede Manolos that had been ruined, and tried them on, holding up my foot and critiquing them. They didn’t look quite the same. Maybe it was because I was envisioning the pair I had at home, the pair I had taken the hair dryer to in an attempt to dry them out. They now sat, sad and pathetic, high in my closet, with spots marring the coloring. I frowned and looked around. Then I saw them.
True love can be described in a variety of ways. However you describe it, I was in love with those shoes from the moment I saw them. I think I gasped a little—something made Brad look up from his phone, and he followed my gaze to the simple black heels high on the pedestal. He gestured to the attendant, and she brought the pair over, pure magic in her fingers. The pair was basic and classy Christian Louboutin—red sole, high stiletto heel, peep toe with an ankle strap. Elegance in the lines, in the leather, in the details. Small silver studs accented parts of the shoe, giving a slight edge to the classic details. I sighed softly, and Brad ended his call and told them my size.
I looked at him, troubled. “I didn’t look at the price, but I can pretty much guarantee you they cost double what my Manolos did.”
“I didn’t see you orgasm over the Manolos.”
“I kind of did, before. Back when I originally purchased them. Before I knew true love.”
“I don’t care about the price.”
I wanted to argue with him, wanted to take the replacement pair of suede heels that were already on my feet, but I couldn’t resist. I wanted them too badly to let pride and—what did my mother call it?—“social graces” stand in my way.
“Okay.”
He laughed at my easy surrender, and wrapped an arm around me, kissing my neck. “You want to try them on?”
“Better, just to be safe.”
Fifteen minutes later we left Neiman’s and headed to the food court. We decided on P.F. Chang’s, and lucked out with an immediate table, though it was crammed into a tight corner. Brad studied the small table with apprehension, then sat, his large body dwarfing the minute table. Add the ridiculously large bag that Neiman’s had put my shoe box into, and we were short on foot, arm and table room. I stifled a laugh and smiled at Brad, the discomfort visible in his eyes.
“Want to wait for a bigger table?”
“No, I’ll suffer through,” he said, picking up the menu and looking it over.
We ordered, and once the waiter left I met Brad’s eyes across the table.
“Uh-oh,” he said, watching me carefully.
“What?” I asked innocently.
“That look. What is it?”
“I just have a lot to ask you—and this is the first time in a while we’ve been alone, undistracted...”
“I can think of something to distract us.” He grinned, deviously at me, a dimple showing, and reached under the table, his hand grabbing my leg.
“Stop that!” I whispered, tossing the crispy noodle I had in my hand at him.
“Fine. As much as I will regret this—what do you want to ask me?”
“I know you hit the main points this morning, but explain to me again your relationship to your family.” I stared at the menu, certain that he would be glaring at me from the other side of the table.
“You would pick a crowded restaurant to have this discussion in.”
“Skim over things. I don’t need to know where the bodies are buried.”
“Fine. My father, Dom Magiano, is the head of the family. I was groomed to take over, but early on didn’t...conform as expected.”
“It’s hard for me to imagine you conforming to anything.”
“Well, imagine me as a rebellious teenager. At seventeen, I had a big argument with my father and I moved out, lived with my aunt’s family for a few months, then found an apartment. I applied to college, and from then on was estranged from my family. Not estranged in a typical American sense—the Italian family structure will allow for some disassociation, but only within reason. I still attend family events, weddings, birthdays, as well as the major holidays. But as far as the family business goes, which is everything to my family, I have no part of it.”
“Do you like your family?”
He looked at me quizzically—and in that moment, the waiter reappeared, setting our soups and appetizer on the already crowded table. When we were alone again, I tried to rephrase the question.
“Do you respect them, enjoy their company, have fun when you are with them?”
“With my family there is always respect. To not respect is to disonore, or dishonor both yourself and the other party. But I understand what you mean, though it will take a while to answer the question. Our family, I respect. They are extremely tight-knit and extremely loyal. There is great love in our family, and we are family first, business associates second and friends third. But I do not respect what they do. I understand why they do it—the need for violence in that business—but feel that the business structure could change to reduce the violent aspects. The big argument with my father, when I was young, was over legitimizing the businesses. I feel that he could remove the ‘mob’ aspect of our holdings, while still remaining profitable. He disagrees with that transition for several reasons, many of which are valid, and some of which actually reduce violence instead of feed it. But my father’s motives are not identical to his sons’.”
“How many sons?”
“I have three siblings. Two brothers and Maria.”
“I interrupted you. Please go on.”
“I always enjoy spending time with my family—and in true Italian form, it is a large one. I have over twenty cousins, and they are as close to me as my brothers. We all grew up together, a ‘pack of wolves’ my mother called us, and we were inseparable. I was the only one who left, and while I don’t harbor anger toward any of them, there is a group of relatives who has great bitterness for me.”
“Why?”
“For my independence, my life of freedom without fear of arrest or death. My wealth, though money has never been a problem for any of them. They feel slighted—rejected—like I have been disloyal, which I understand, though I have never crossed or harmed them by my independence. There are also some of them who have a streak of mean, of evil, if you prefer to think of it that way. They enjoy the brutality of the business. Unfortunately, the business, the money, the contacts—it all equals an environment where hatred and sadism can grow and expand, like kudzu, taking over anything good. Leo is part of that group, the angry, mean ones.”
“Leo?”
“The man who came to your house.”
“To kill me.”
Darkness flickered in his eyes, and he nodded. “Yes.”
“If family is so important, so sacred, why would they not leave me alone, as a favor to you?”