Chapter 11: Chapter 11

CHRISTIAN

I stumble back into my apartment, my mind a whirlwind of confusion. What just happened?

I had thought I’d planned the perfect date for Francesca. There was something incredibly appealing about watching her down a glass of expensive red wine like it was nothing more than water.

She’s so untouched by this world; I just want to show her what it’s like to never want for anything. But right now, all I want is her, and instead, I find myself alone in my apartment.

Before I even get a chance to sit down at my desk on Monday, I have Bridget sending bouquets of flowers to Francesca’s apartment.

I try calling her, but she doesn’t pick up. I’d rather have her yell at me, scream, even throw things, than this silent treatment. It hasn’t even been twelve hours, and I already miss her.

“Mr. De Luca?”

Bridget appears before me, a worried look on her face.

“What?” I snap at her. Bridget has been working for me for seven years, and I’ve never snapped at her before.

“Is something wrong, sir?”

“No.”

“Uh, well, I just wanted to let you know that Martin Jones, the manager of your new club, has asked to reschedule your meeting to Friday evening.”

“Why?”

“He said his best waitress and dancer is sick.”

“Fine. Whatever.”

“Mr. De Luca, did last night not go well?”

“That’s none of your business.”

“Of course, sir. I’m sorry, sir.”

“Did you send those flowers?”

“Yes, sir, all six bouquets.”

“Thank you.”

My day drags on. I spend a lot of time staring at my phone, hoping Francesca will call or at least pick up when I call her.

I manage to get through more work than usual, desperate to find something else to think about other than my failed date with Francesca.

A timid Bridget comes in and out of my office with various documents and messages, never making eye contact, probably afraid I’ll snap at her again.

Around four in the afternoon, there’s a soft knock on my door. I motion for the person to come in, and the door opens to reveal Bridget and six bunches of red roses.

“I thought I told you to send them?”

“Uh…I did, sir, but they were returned.”

“Returned?”

“Yes, sir.”

~Who returns a gift?~

“Send something else.”

“What would you like me to send?”

“Anything. Flowers didn’t work, so try chocolates or fruit or clothes! I don’t care what you send, just make sure she doesn’t fucking return it!”

“Right away, Mr. De Luca.” Bridget hurries out of the room, and I rub my hand down my face, realizing I could have handled that better.

~What’s wrong with me?~

***

Over the next three days, every gift I send to Francesca is returned.

My assistant is too scared to even be in the same room as me, and I have every single employee at the QB Enterprises New York office walking on eggshells.

I know I’m overreacting; I know I’m acting crazy, but I can’t help it.

“What?” I answer my office phone, my grip on the handset almost crushing it.

“What the fuck is wrong with you?”

The last person I expect to hear from is my cousin; Leo, maybe, because I’m practically running his company into the ground, but definitely not my baby cousin.

“Allie?” My baby cousin on my mother’s side, Alexandria Romano.

“I won’t ask again, De Luca! Leo Chambers has already called me about your productivity. I won’t hesitate to fly over there and kick your ass.”

“I’m hardly worth the trip from Italy,” I mutter.

“Stai cercando di essere intelligente?” Are you trying to be smart?

“Sto bene.” I’m fine.

“Cut the crap, Christian. What’s got you so wound up?”

I let out a sigh, picturing Allie standing in front of me with her hands on her hips, scolding me just like Nonna would have if she were still alive.

“I had a bad date,” I admit honestly. I’m ready for Allie to comfort me when, instead, a loud laugh reaches my ears. “Allie?”

“You’re upset over a girl? The great De Luca playboy is upset over a girl?”

“You’re laughing at me?”

“You bet your ass I am. It’s what Nonna would have done. That and slap you upside the head. Get real, Christian.”

We fall into a comfortable silence.

“Do you miss them?” Allie asks, and I instantly know who she’s talking about.

“Every day,” I reply, thinking back on the good times.

Allie and I both lost our mothers early on; the difference was my mother’s brother, Allie’s father, is three times the man my father will ever be. “How’s your papa?”

“Stubborn,” Allie laughs. “Refuses to step back from the restaurant. Taught me everything I know but won’t admit I’m as good as him, if not better.”

“That sounds about right.”

“You should visit more. Maybe bring this girl of yours.”

I hear her bite her tongue to hold back a laugh.

“If she’ll talk to me,” I grunt.

“If you’re thinking like a De Luca, you’re doing it wrong.”

“What’s that supposed to mean?”

“Bye, Christian.”

I stare at the phone, baffled by the conversation that just happened.

~Of course I’m thinking like a De Luca. Who else am I supposed to think like?~

I dial Francesca’s number, but like every other time this week, it goes to voicemail. Groaning, I lean back in my chair, desperate to come up with a new plan.

Suddenly, an idea hits me like a lightning bolt, and I jump up from my leather chair, pull on my suit jacket, and shove my phone in my back pocket.

Bridget practically leaps from her chair when I burst into the office, the door slamming against the wall with a loud bang.

“Hold all my calls. Get Toby ready for me.”

“Uh, yes, Mr. De Luca.”

As I stride out of the building, employees scatter out of my path. Toby, as instructed, is waiting for me at the curb.

“Good afternoon, Mr. De Luca.”

“Toby, do you remember where we dropped Miss Barton off after we got back from London?”

“The housing project in Brooklyn? Yes, sir.”

Without needing any further instruction, he starts the limo, and soon we’re pulling up in front of Francesca’s apartment block.

I didn’t really pay attention the last time we were here, but now I can’t help but want to whisk Francesca away from this place.

~How can she live like this?~

Toby follows me as I head into the apartment block, taking his dual role as my driver and bodyguard seriously.

“Sir, are you sure—”

“Don’t question me.”

“Of course, sir.”

We get a few odd looks from people I assume live here as I head to the mailboxes.

“Do you remember if Miss Barton gave us her apartment number?”

“No, sir.”

~Of course.~

Not sure where else to find the information without hiring a private investigator to follow her, I head toward the building supervisor’s apartment.

I knock, and an older man with a cigarette hanging from his lips answers.

“Yeah?”

“Which apartment is Francesca Barton’s?”

“Who’s asking?” The man looks me up and down.

“Apartment number,” I repeat, my voice icy and firm.

“How much is this information worth?”

I have to resist the urge to wipe the smug smirk off his face.

“Should I call the building inspector?”

“We ain’t got nothing to hide,” the old man snaps. “This place just got renovated. Everything’s been upgraded.”

I raise an eyebrow, taking in the hallway we’re standing in with a look of disgust. The paint is peeling off the walls, and there’s a distinct smell.

“Really?”

“Why? You interested in an apartment?”

“God, no,” I mutter, rolling my eyes. “I want Francesca Barton’s apartment number,” I say, my patience wearing thin.

The old man says nothing, just takes a slow drag from his cigarette with a smirk on his face.

“One hundred,” I snap, and the old man’s eyes light up. He holds out his hand to me, and I reach into my pocket, pulling out a single hundred-dollar bill and slapping it into his hand.

The man holds the bill up to the light, checking it over. When he’s satisfied, he looks up at me with a grin.

“Barton was evicted last week.”

~Evicted?~

“Last week?” I ask for confirmation, and he nods. “Why?”

“Rent went up because of the renovations, and the blonde bitch couldn’t pay.”

Something snaps inside me, and I grab the old man by the collar. His cigarette falls to the ground, and he claws at my hand, trying to get me to let go.

“What did you call her?”

“N-nothing!” he chokes, his face turning red.

“Sir.” Toby clears his throat behind me, indicating he thinks I’ve gone too far, and I let the old man drop. He’s coughing and spluttering on the floor when I ask him another question.

“Where did she move to?”

“H-how should I-I know?” he stutters, still trying to catch his breath. “Three men came and got her stuff. She was gone in under an hour.”

~Three men?~

“She didn’t leave a forwarding address?”

“No.”

Visiting Francesca’s apartment turns out to be a dead end, and Toby and I leave the old man on the floor in the hallway and exit the rundown building.

“Where to, sir?” Toby asks once we’re back in the limo. I don’t know what to say. When I don’t answer, Toby drives back toward QB Enterprises.

I check the time on my phone and realize I only have two hours before I’m due to meet the manager of my new club.

I have Toby drop me off at home so I can change, and soon, dressed in dark jeans, a black T-shirt, and a gray blazer, I find myself standing in front of my latest business venture.

I bought the club on a whim. Leo knows about it, but it’s not connected to QB, and De Luca Corp didn’t get involved.

This is all me, my ideas, my money, and if it crashes and burns, well, at least I had fun.

The manager is visibly nervous when I show up forty-five minutes earlier than expected. The CEO in me enjoys that.

~Make him sweat~.

“Mr. De Luca?” he asks tentatively as he approaches me.

“Mr. Jones?” I respond, extending my hand.

“Marty is fine.” He smiles as we shake hands. “We did all the system upgrades you requested and the adjoining apartment block—”

“Marty,” I interrupt him, “please, relax. I’m early. Our meeting doesn’t start for a while. You do your thing, and I’ll sit back here and see how things operate.”

He stares at me with wide eyes but nods slowly.

“Can I get you a drink?”

“Now that you can do. Scotch. Neat.”

Marty nods and smiles but is still shaking as he walks away, clearly still intimidated.

It isn’t long before a petite brunette appears by my side with my drink. She’s dressed in very little, but then again, so are the other waitresses; this is a gentleman’s club, after all.

“Here you go, Mr. De Luca,” she says, placing the glass on the table, making sure to give me a good view of her cleavage.

A small part of me wants to push Francesca from my mind, replace her with someone new. Forget the hurt.

“What’s your name?”

“You can call me anything you want, handsome”—she gives me a playful wink—“but most folks around here just call me Daisy.”

Daisy keeps her gaze locked with mine until a familiar tune starts playing over the speakers.

As the song begins to play, Daisy rolls her eyes and lets out a scoff. It’s Toni Basil’s “Mickey,” and every guy in the club starts cheering and whistling toward the stage.

“What’s going on?” I ask, scanning the room for some kind of hint.

“Cheer,” is all she says before she walks away, flipping her hair with a sigh. A voice comes over the PA system, but it doesn’t do much to quiet the crowd’s excitement.

“Ladies and Gentlemen, your favorite, New York’s very own, Cheer!”

My eyes go wide as a stunning and vaguely familiar blonde steps into the spotlight.

Her hips sway as she struts to the front of the stage, then she swings her leg around the metal pole in the middle.

She’s holding a pom-pom in each hand, and her body is barely concealed by the lingerie that’s pretending to be a cheerleading outfit.

“Kitten.” The word slips out of my mouth, my voice sounding strange to my own ears as Francesca grinds against the pole.

As if sensing me, Francesca’s body freezes for a second, and her eyes dart around the crowd.

They widen just a bit in surprise before turning icy, and she resumes her dance.

She focuses her attention on one of the guys in the front row, and I see red. My hand balls into a fist, and I stand up from my seat.

~My Francesca.~