Greatest Distraction (Distracted #1) (22 page)

They ranged from asking what I was doing, to random philosophical quotes and thoughts, to the latest drawings he’d done – pictures included. When I’d asked how he’d gotten my number, he’d merely laughed and told me he’d done some “stalking” – I’d pouted but wasn’t really bothered by it.
I won’t admit that I secretly looked forward to his messages … that would completely negate the idea of a secret. During the days, he worked, I shopped or lounged around the apartment; some days I’d find myself in coffee shops reading a book on my Kindle (I finished the Clayton novel – it was hilarious, by the way) or even people watching at the park. Most nights were spent together and I’d forgotten what it was like to sleep alone in my bed. After I’d learned to sleep with the snoring, I was even okay with that.

Soon, more than a week had passed. It was Tuesday
and I’d just gotten off my same shit, different day conversation with my best friend. Dane was supposed to come over with takeout and we’d planned a
Game of Thrones
marathon. When he’d learned I hadn’t watched the ‘acclaimed television series’ his eyes had about bulged out of his head. He’d done everything but jump up and down, waving his arms like a monkey, at me about it, so I’d given in. Of course, I’d seen the previews like everyone else, but I’d read the books – books are always better than their movie, or in this case television series.

There was a knock at the door around six, which was odd; it usually took him until about seven or seven-thirty to get to my house from Brooklyn after work. Even strange
r was that he’d knocked – the cocky bastard had stopped knocking after day four or so of us hanging out. Figuring his hands were full, I made my way over to the door and swung it wide, a big smile pulling my lips.

“Hey
, babe, where’s my wantons?” I asked, only to stop dead in my tracks. It wasn’t Dane at my doorstep.

Chapter Fourteen
 

The older gentleman at my doorstep, standing rigid in a sharp black suit with an honest-to-goodness red carnation at the lapel, was definitely
not
the man I’d been hoping to see when I opened the door. He wore a matching black fedora-style hat, the band the same color as his carnation, only a slight amount of graying-black hair sticking out from underneath. If I had to peg him in age I would’ve guessed around sixty, give or take a decade – he had lines around his eyes, his mouth, and looked like he never smiled a day in his life. A large gold ring adorned his finger, the light catching on the near-black stone in the middle.

It wasn’t any of his clothes, or the way he stood – like he was a force to be reckoned with – that told me who he was. Ironically enough, it was his cheekbones, so familiar to me but not, at the same time. The man standing in front of me was none other than Dane’s father.
His father, the mob boss. Gianpaolo Ranucci.

I’m sure I probably should have said something clever, or witty, or even slightly respectful and pleasant, but my mind went completely blank. Why was he at my house? What did he want from me?
To off you? Isn’t that what the mob does?
I wanted to kick that stupid voice in my head, but I couldn’t deny the possibility. Glancing around the hallway, I noticed no one directly behind or to the sides of him, no, but there were two gentlemen standing at the elevator, both sharply dressed as well.
It’s the fifties era all over again,
I thought sarcastically. I took a deep breath to say something, but the man spoke first.

“Miss
Macek.” That was it, two words, and not a question. It wasn’t like he was
asking
if it was me … or if he had the right apartment. Nope. Lucky for me he knew who I was, apparently,
and
where I lived. The former he could’ve gotten from the papers, the latter I wasn’t sure. I knew the paparazzi had taken photos outside my building before, but the apartment number? They’d never share that information.

“Um
… er … yes, I’m her,” I told him lamely, glancing toward the floor before meeting his gaze.

“May I come in?” he asked, unmoving, unnerving the hell out of me. Oh boy, this was going to make for a joyful visit.

“Oh. Okay, of course.” I waved him inside, glancing at what I could only assume where his bodyguards before entering behind him and shutting the door.
Whew
,
at least Tweedledee and Tweedledum are staying outside,
I thought. And, like clockwork, that dumb voice had a comeback:
Less guns to kill you with, my dear.
Bitch.

As
Gianpaolo took in my apartment, I stole another glance at him, taking him in. He wasn’t fat, like I’d assumed all Italian mobsters looked. Instead he was tall, like Dane, with a similar body style, fit, but his muscles were less defined … at least from what I could gather through his suit. If I’d known I was going to be hosting someone who could kill me as easily as swallowing, I would’ve dressed nicer. Soffee shorts and a tank top were definitely
not
on my top ten list of things to die in.
Vain, much?

The man
in question turned toward me and I froze in my assessment. Steeling whatever internal strength that hid inside me, I waved him toward the kitchen.

“May I get you something to drink? Water? Wine? Coffee?”

“No. Thank you,” he replied politely before perching gracefully on one of the barstools. How did he do that? I’d even say he’d almost seated himself daintily, all pulling-up-the-pant leg and flipping the jacket out of the way and everything.

“Um, okay,” I answered, my voice wavering as I poured myself a glass of wine. After filling it halfway, I thought better of it, and filled the goblet. I figured I’d need the liquid courage
… or the natural pain killer.

“You’re probably confused as to why I am here.”

“To be honest, I’m too hung up on the whole I-don’t-want-to-die bit to be confused,” I answered honestly, obviously not employing my brain-to-mouth filter. Glancing at my wine, I decided against it and placed it on the counter, out of reach. If I was already word vomiting on myself, I may as well not add fuel to that fire.

“I can see why my son is fond of you,” the mobster said, chuckling, eerily similar to Dane’s rumbling laugh when he’s amused. Amused
was good, I could work with amused. “Alas, he is the reason I am here.”

“I figured
, especially since I’m not all that interesting in a business aspect. I don’t have connections, or family … wait! I have family, people that care about me…” I was rambling. I did that when I was nervous. Before I could continue, Gianpaolo held a hand up, effectively halting my words. My mouth snapped shut so quickly I would’ve sworn it was on a button hinge.

“Brian is my only legitimate son, my heir, if you will,” he started, the epitome of calm in my kitchen. “I have several bastard children, I’m not sure if you’re aware, but he is the one who will inherit all or nothing from me.”

I bristled at the almost blatant accusation in his words. I’d known that Dane was his only ‘real’ son, the others were a surprise, but I also knew that his
heir
didn’t want it. Any of it. Can’t say I blamed him, either … I wouldn’t either.

“Okay…” I said, for the lack of anything else to say. What was I really supposed to say to that? Was I supposed to say anything?
Probably not. Hopefully ‘okay’ was a nice enough filler word.

“So you’ll understand when I say that I see more of a future for him than being with a dead farmer’s daughter. Nothing against you, my dear, clearly you are quite lovely, but I have other plans for Brian.”

“Dane,” I stated, flabbergasted that he actually referred to me as a dead farmer’s daughter.
Why yes, I am, thanks for reminding me that not only am I farmer’s daughter, but a
dead
farmer’s daughter.
Douche-waffle, this guy, I tell you.

“Excuse me?”

“Your son doesn’t use that name with me. He goes by ‘Dane.’” I was feeling belligerent and I’m sure it showed. My heart was hurting, though I knew it shouldn’t be, and it was pissing me off. Who the hell does this guy think he is? He came to
my
house, not the other way around, to tell me that he has ‘plans’ for his son?

“Brian will be with the woman I see fit. You are to have no further contact with him,”
Gianpaolo continued, as if I’d never spoken, never corrected him. I suppose it was for the best, at least he wasn’t pulling a six-shooter revolver from his pocket or a machete or something. Do mob bosses carry machetes? I don’t know.

“I’m pretty sure
Dane
will be with whom he chooses. It isn’t the fifties, despite your pretty snazzy suit – things don’t work they way they used to in the good old days.” Yep, I had a death wish. Glancing at the clock, I noted it was seven sixteen.
Where the hell
is
Dane
? I may have said a tiny prayer that he’d walk in the door soon and save me from the big bad wolf about to eat my face.

“Young lady –” he spoke
, but his words were interrupted by my front door swinging open. There stood a soaked-to-the-bone, very pissed off Dane, still holding takeout and breathing heavily. My first thought was ‘Oh, it’s raining?’ quickly morphing into ‘Goody, he still brought food,’ then ‘Thank God he’s here, about damned time.’

“What. The. Fuck. Are you doing here, old man?” I wouldn’t say he was shouting, more like yelling through gritted teeth, as my man moved toward us, shaking his head and placing the food on the counter between his father and me.

“Hello, Brian. Good to see your manners and respect haven’t improved over the years.”

“Good to see you’re as pompous and self-righteous as always,” Dane replied, steam practically coming out of his ears. He moved around to my side of the bar and put his arm around me, kissing my forehead. “I was planning on being here a half hour ago – I left work early and everything – but no one can drive in the city in the rain.”

“It’s okay … but I’m really glad you’re here saving me from death,” I whispered, my eyes never leaving Gianpaolo. The older man’s eyes traveled from Dane’s hand at my hip to his son’s face to my eyes. He definitely wasn’t happy.
Hail Mary, please don’t let me die,
the voice in my head chanted.

“Son –”

“
Don’t
call me that. I don’t know why you’re here harassing Ryen – I can only assume it has something to do with me and your delusions of grandeur. Let me save you some trouble. One, I will see who I want to, when I want to. Two, I don’t care what future you think you have for me – I’m free and over the age of eighteen, you don’t own me. Only I will choose my future. Three, If you ever come near Ryen again, I will make sure you regret it.”

I had
to hand it to Dane. I would’ve never had the guts to stand up to my father like that and he wasn’t a cheating, cold-hearted, murdering bastard. It was also impressing to me, too, that while he kept his tone firm, he wasn’t yelling. He never stomped his foot once. Instead he stated his points, clear and to the … well… to the point, leaving no room for negotiation. One look at his father, though, and I could tell it wasn’t going to go over very well.

“You dare
threaten
me, you piss-ant? You know who I am and what I can do.” His father was starting to turn red, though I knew it wasn’t hot in the kitchen – I was actually rather cold. Nope, pretty sure he was either going to pull on his son, have a heart attack, or both.

“What, Don? What are you going to do to me, to your
heir.
Oh don’t look so surprised. I’ve heard talk about your ‘plans’ and that you name me as such. You going to pull on me? No? Didn’t think so,” Dane said before releasing me and moving closer to his father while I backed up toward the fridge. Guts. The man had them in spades.

“My reason for coming,
Brian
, was to tell you that arrangements have been made. I have reached an agreement with Accosi and you are to wed-”

“Don’t finish that sentence,
Father.
I will not marry and I sure as hell won’t marry Francesca. She’s in love -”

“Bah, love.”

“-with Giuseppe.”