Page 54 of His Vow
I don’t look at him, staring out the window instead because I can’t hold back the stupid grin spreading across my face. “Yep,” I admit, not bothering to hide the truth. I love my wife, and I couldn’t be fucking happier.
“Great. I’m happy for you, bro.” He gets it, as the only one of my brothers who’s also found love. “But you know I need your head in the game now, because shit is going down in Naples. My guy at the docks is worried that word will get out that we’re onto them. He’s starting to panic, and that’s not good.”
I turn to face him as our car weaves through the surprisingly light city traffic. “Do you think he’ll change his mind about helping us?”
He shrugs, which isn’t reassuring. “We need to get the evidence before that happens. That’s why you’re going to have to meet him sooner.”
“Has our investigator spoken to his source in the carabinieriyet?”
“Yep, now it’s just this one last thing needed.”
“Evidence is not exactly a little thing.” My fingers tap out a silent beat on my knee. I don’t like that everything now hinges on an unreliable whistleblower. I draw in a deep breath. “So, the plan is I’ll continue on to Naples to meet this guy, and you’ll meet with the lawyers in Florence?”
“That’s the new plan,” Gio confirms, rubbing his hand through his hair as we continue to Teterboro Airport in silence, each of us seemingly lost in our own thoughts.
For me, those thoughts are filled with all the possibilities of what could go wrong. We’ve put so much time and money into the investigation that I have to get the promised evidence so we can finally be done with it. I’m still struggling to believe that what we initially thought was a small anomaly in the financial data has turned out to be major fraud.
This morning might feel like we’re one step closer to discovering who, but until I have the name, I won’t believe it. Hopefully, fast-tracking the meeting in Naples means we can hand the evidence over to the carabinierito make the arrests sooner. And I can be back with Lucia in a few days. Now, there’s an incentive.
Chapter twenty-two
Lucia
Abass-heavy beat echoes around the room, and all I want to do is bury my head under the pillow and ignore the alarm blaring from my cell. I peel open my eyelids enough to see the empty pillow beside me, the indent still visible where my husband slept last night. Since our honeymoon, we haven’t slept apart, and already, I miss waking up next to him.
Boom, boom, boom, the alarm grows louder before I shut it off. I think I need to change the tune, because this one hurts my head. Although I haven’t needed one lately with Antonio taking it upon himself to be the one waking me with gentle fingertips caressing up the middle of my back or along my side from thigh to hip. Of course, he never stops there, and I wouldn’t want him to.
Antonio’s lovemaking is the perfect wake-up call and another reason I’m going to miss him.
A yawn pulls my mouth wide. I’ve been so tired lately, probably from all the international travel we’ve been doing. It’s like I’ve got permanent jet lag weighing down my limbs, but today I can’t just curl up and go back to sleep.
I have a ten o’clock meeting with the owner of an exclusive Fifth Avenue boutique. Marielle saw my latest collection at the show in Tokyo and wants to discuss stocking my designs exclusively in New York. I can’t believe how my career has taken off after London Fashion Week. All those years of hard work, and I’m gaining recognition I’d always hoped for within the industry.
A sudden burst of energy has me throwing my legs over the side of the bed. But the moment my body is upright, my stomach rolls and bile rises in my throat; I only just make it to the bathroom in time to lose the contents. Slumping down onto the tiles with my shoulders against the wall, I drop my head back and close my eyes until the wave of nausea passes. I can’t be sick today of all days. Placing a hand on the towel rail, I drag myself up to standing, feeling a little better now.
Showered and dressed in one of my own designs, I do a final spin in front of the floor-length mirror in the walk-in closet. Ant hasn’t skimped on the luxurious fittings here, and I can’t wait to move more of my things in. While his side is filled with rows of starched business shirts and custom suits in navy, charcoal, and black, my side only has a few dresses, one pantsuit, and some casual trousers and shirts. The shoe racks look even more pathetic. I hook my finger through the straps on the one pair of black low-heeled sandals, slip them on, and I’m ready to go.
A short while later, my meeting with Marielle is done. She walks me past racks of designer clothes that soon will carry five of my designs. I want to jump for joy, but with my stomach doing flips again, that probably wouldn’t be a good idea.
“Lucia, darling, I’m so excited for our new partnership.” Marielle waves her arms dramatically in the air like she’s an Italian nonna. She isn’t. Marielle is an eccentric New Yorker oozing charm, money, and obviously good taste. After all, she’sgoing to be selling my dresses. I smile to myself while holding a hand to my whirring stomach.
She leans close, her heavy perfume cloud surrounding me as she air-kisses both of my cheeks. I hold my breath and pray everything in my belly stays in place. Then I smile my media smile as I inch closer to the door and fresh air.
“I’ll call you, darling,” she says with another wave of fingers that drip with diamonds and other precious stones. She wears more jewelry than my mother, who believes there can never be too many diamonds. I glance down at the ring Ant placed on my finger nearly two months ago. It’s beautiful, simple, and all the jewelry I need.
“Sì, Marielle, and I’ll have those samples delivered to you.”
Finally, I’m through the door of the exclusive boutique and on the sidewalk, drawing in gulps of air. Even cooler air filled with traffic fumes feels good with perspiration beading on my forehead and my stomach ready to eject the half croissant I ate for breakfast.
Thankfully, I asked Tom, our regular driver, to wait for me, and he’s pulled up a little farther along the street. I sink into the back seat of the town car with a grateful sigh wheezing from my lungs. This bug I’ve picked up is strange as it comes in waves; one minute I’m perfectly fine, and the next I want to heave.
Unless …
No. It’s impossible.
“Could we please stop at a drug store?” I ask Tom, my hands wringing in my lap.
“Of course, Mrs. Barbieri.”
