Catherinelle by Diane Portman-Ray

7

 

Hugo parked the car at the end of the shopping street, and we walked together. He didn’t touch me after we left the car, but he was close enough I could feel the heat coming from his body.

Main Street was quiet, which was expected because of the chilly weather. In the summer, this street was buzzing with people like an ant hill. The rich and beautiful would gather here under the sun, rubbing elbows on the beach and dropping serious cash in the stores that were lined up on both sides of the street. It was only natural for the Nucci influence to stretch to the Hamptons; this was the place where people came to make connections away from the madding crowd…and prying eyes. Our guest house hosted judges, politicians, NYPD commissioners, business men ready to trade inside information, all dirtier than a pigsty.

Now, the picture was very different. There were only a couple of people walking the streets, and the white string of shops, restaurants and boutiques were decorated in Christmas spirit. Decorations were hanging, jingle bells were ringing, and lights luminated the shops’ windows. I loved the winter season. If it was up to me, I’d start hanging decorations in our house right after Thanksgiving, but that was not how we did it at the Nuccis’. In our house, we respected traditions. The Christmas tree didn’t get its festive clothing until the 23rd. I was excited to have Muse in the house this year. Even if this was her first holiday without her baby brother, she still had us, and she brought the best out in Gino.

We finally made it to my appointment at Monique Cherelle’s French fashion boutique. Monique – whose actual name was Monica Vasco from the Bronx – opened this high-end shop back in ’89, and my mother had been shopping here since day one during our summer getaways. On her racks were hanging the hottest designer labels, and she would hate for people to find out that half her merchandise came into this country through shipping companies ran by my brother and cousins. When I opened the door, the bell above made a sound, and Monique came from her back room with a smile on her face.

“Ah, look at you, dear!” Her arms flew out in the air, and she came in for a hug. “You are more and more beautiful every time I see you.”

“And you still look twenty-one. How are you, Monique?”

“Baby, I am busy day and night. You know how everyone cries that business is slow from September to May? I don’t know what got into them this year, but my phone hasn’t stopped ringing. I have so many orders to send out.”

She was feisty and spoke with her hands to attract all the eyes in the room because she was the kind of woman who liked the light to shine above her. She was a glam-fabulous lady with a beautiful body and a boob job, and I didn’t like the way Hugo’s eyes slid to her cleavage once every five seconds.

“That is great to hear. I won’t keep you long. I just need to pick out a few things. My mom said she called and arranged a shopping session for me.”

“Yes, she did, and I’m going to tell you what I told her. You don’t need an appointment to walk into my shop, dear. Come on, let’s get you something pretty.” She clapped her hands then turned to Hugo, taking a step back to look at him from head to toe. “Should we get this gentleman something too?” There was suggestion lingering in her voice.

Hugo Mustafa was the furthest away a man could be from gentleman. There were no bowties, pocket squares or tailored suits with him, just raw masculinity. Monique definitely picked up on that.

“No, he’s not looking for anything.”

“Ah, perfect. He can keep me company while you try on something pretty.”

Shit, no.

“Actually, Hugo has to go to the florist and buy some flowers. We’re in town to go to a birthday celebration tomorrow.”

He didn’t say a word, almost like we weren’t talking about him, but when he heard me speaking about the florist shop, he raised an eyebrow.

“Oh, that’s too bad.” Monique put her hand over her heart with a theatrical gesture.

“Yeah, too bad.” I spun in place and turned to Hugo. “Make sure it’s a big bouquet. And it has to have white lilies, they’re Caroline’s favorite. And some lavender, I think she likes the color since she dresses little Giana in it all the time. And tell the florist to wrap it with satin ribbon.”

“Noted.”

He was one foot out the door when I called his name.

“Ask them to add some white roses too.”

He stopped himself from rolling his eyes. I couldn’t lie; I liked messing with him.

“Does Caroline like those too?”

“Nope, but I do. I think they’ll look cute. I will meet you back at the car.”

“I can pick you up.”

Nah, I was not giving Monique another chance to wet his shoes with her drooling.

“I will meet you back at the car,” I repeated myself, and he left. I almost wished I hadn’t seen that faded devil smile on his lips because I wanted to run after him and jump in his arms for a kiss.

Monique dragged me through the pile of clothes and made me try on multiple dresses. I needed a dress and shoes, to begin with. Flora Maria, sweet girl that she was, packed me everything I needed. The only thing was that it was all casual. I knew that tomorrow I had to go to Freddy’s beach house for an afternoon gathering, and I had no problem wearing something comfy there, but Sunday night, he’d celebrate his first daughter’s first birthday. It was a big thing, and I had to match the occasion.

I tried everything: long, short, low cut, no back, straps, no straps. Damn, it was harder now that I wanted to make sure Hugo would lose his mind and cum in his pants when he saw me. Finally, after almost an hour and a half, I found a long black gown, made of a beautiful material. It had some glitter over it making it seem like I was wearing the night sky. Both my shoulders were left uncovered by the boat neck cut. From my waist down, the dress was floating in a river of material, split twice so my legs would show when I was walking. Monique suggested a shawl and high sued boots, also black, that went all the way to my thighs. Yeah, that would definitely play a number on Hugo.

When Monique was putting away my stuff, I spotted the lingerie section and picked out two sets, one black and one red, all lace and silk. Back in New York, I had half of La Perla in my dresser, of course, but I wasn’t sure Flora Maria packed my bag for seduction, and I didn’t want to leave it to chance. The ones that I picked were from the same lingerie house, and I was pleased with that. No one made prettier thongs than Ada Masotti. La Perla still used silk imported from Bologna, so I knew it was good because it came from the land of dolce lusso – sweet luxury.

I took all the boxes and walked out of the store, careful not to trip and hit the sidewalk with my face, but it was hard with all of that in my arms. I could barely see over, but somehow, I made it to the car, and Hugo walked out when he saw me, helping to put everything in the trunk.

“God, my arms are hurting,” I said after dropping everything and getting comfortable in the passenger seat.

“If you wouldn’t have let the jealousy get to your head, I could have picked you up.”

“Shut up,” I said and hit him playfully in the chest, but he caught my hand and took it to his lips, kissing it, and damn if that didn’t make me stain the seat under me.

When we got back, he rushed me into the house and carried all the boxes alone. I, on the other hand, went straight into the kitchen. I hadn’t had anything to eat since breakfast, and I was starting to feel it. It wasn’t a surprise to find the fridge and pantry fully stocked, but I was in no mood to cook so I just took one of the premade casseroles labeled creamy chicken with quinoa and broccoli and shoved it into the microwave. I had to remind myself to write a thank you note for the couple that took care of the house when we weren’t here because even in such short notice, everything I needed was in the kitchen.

While I took care of dinner, Hugo kept busy doing something in the garage and doing things around the house. I put the food on the small coffee table in front of the living room fireplace right when he walked through the front door.

“Hungry, big guy?”

“A little,” he murmured, a little uncomfortable, shifting his weight from one leg to the other.

“Great, I figured we could sit on the floor and eat here. The dining room seemed too formal.”

“Sure.”

“Can you start the fire, please?” He just nodded and knelt down in front of the fireplace while I fixed him a scotch on the rocks and poured myself a glass of lemonade.

When the fire was crackling, Hugo came and sat on the floor next to me, and I gave him the glass. To sit more comfortably, he took out his Desert Eagle and threw it on the table.

“Don’t throw the gun like that, Hugo, damn it.” I scowled at him.

I knew how to shoot a gun. My grandfather thought it would be funny to teach me when I was seven, and I was pretty good at it. The most important lesson I learned was not to play with the guns.

“Calm down, woman, the safety is on.”

“Don’t be cocky,” I snapped.

We ate in silence but not the weird type. It felt domestic. Conjugal. I never would have believed I’d associate The Albanian Monster with those words, but here we were. For the first time in a long time, he was relaxing and letting his guard down.

When we were both done, I took it upon myself to take the dishes to the kitchen and put everything away. I also found a big vase and sent Hugo to the car to bring in the flowers. He came into the kitchen when I was preparing the water.

“Why are you putting sugar in the vase?”

“That’s what my nonna taught me. It will keep the flowers fresh.”

My nonna was a very wise woman. She never finished high school, but I never met another person as smart and sharp minded as she was. She always wanted a daughter, but Santa Madonna didn’t bless her with one; the only child she ever birthed was my father, Umberto. Nonna was the matriarch of the family; she helped my mother every day, and then when I was old enough, she passed all she had onto me. She sat me down one day and told me that our family was special, that we made our own path in the world, and one day, I’d have to pay my dues to the Nucci name like she did and like my mother did. Nonna made sure Gino and I always made it to our Italian and piano lessons and that I knew how to run a house like any respectable lady should. “Listen to me, little bocciolo di rosa,” she said with a calm and warm voice, with one affectionate hand on my face, “your papa will find you a good man someday, and they will tell you you’re just a wife, but that’s not true. The husband might be the head, but the wife is the neck. You can turn any man in whatever direction you want. Do you think your grandfather takes decisions all on his own? No, piccolorosa, he has me to guide him. Someday you’ll do the same, and I will teach you.”

I didn’t fully understand what she was talking about until after she passed away. Nonno distanced himself from the family to grieve the loss of his wife, and that was a turning point for my father. Those were hard years for the family. Without my grandma to be this family’s neck, my father stepped on his honor and meddled in business that brought shame to our name. We were a crime family, true, but if you took away the principles from the Nucci family, we’d be left with nothing. My family never hurt the innocents, never took violence into the streets of the people. In the territories Gino controlled, the people were protected by our name, but my father strayed from that. Everyone tried to hide the truth from me, especially my brother, but people talked regardless. In the last years of his life, Umberto Nucci trafficked girls against their will, not caring about the fact he had a little girl at home himself. His betrayal was still a dark stain on our cheek.

“Cat?” Hugo took me out of my reverie.

“Huh? Sorry. I got nostalgic thinking about nonna.”

Shaking away the unsettling feeling, I took the bouquet from his hands and put it into the crystal vase, then added a few ice cubs in the water. He really did a great job picking the flowers.

When I looked at him there was another single white rose in his hand.

“Oh, no, did that fall from the bouquet?”

“No, I got it for you,” he told me without looking in my eyes, and my jaw fell at my feet. “You said you liked them.”

“I…do.”

I fixed the rose with my eyes, not believing he really did this. The pale flower looked fragile, contrasting with his jagged hand.

“You don’t have to take it if you don’t want, Cat. Fuck, this was a bad idea.”

“No, no!” I jumped to him and took the rose. “I just never imagined you’d…thank you.”

My heart bent painfully in my chest. I didn’t know how, but the Albanian Monster had turned into a gentle giant. Again, that feeling of power and uncorrupted satisfaction returned, for he was like this only for me. The same man that made an entire street stop in fear when he stepped outside was warm to me. He killed and destroyed; I could bathe in all the blood he had spilled, but still he made me feel protected and safe because to me, he was now the man who brought me a white rose on a random Friday afternoon.

“You’re welcome.”

“Come sit with me by the fire.”

We went back together, and he settled on the light blue hand-tufted rug while I made myself comfortable between his legs with my back pressing into his chest. For the longest time, I sat there, not talking, just smelling my rose and looking at the flames dancing. I closed my eyes and listened to his breath, feeling his chest moving up and down with every breath, and let myself enjoy his presence. The most feared man on the East Coast was wrapped around me with his forearm around my waist with the most gentle touch.

“This is nice,” I said with my lids still closed and a smile on my face.

“Yeah. I…I don’t do it often.”

“What? Cuddling?” I wasn’t surprised in the slightest.

“No.” He laughed. “I never do that. I was talking about being still like this, not thinking. It is nice.”

And keeping him like that was my priority right from then on.