My last memory of the night, before I dozed off to sleep, was the lovely lady tucking herself into my chest. My arms naturally cradled her body as if she needed protection. But she didn’t beg. She just accepted the strength of my arms and my chest, with her chin tucked down, her hands up to her lips in fetal position.
She didn’t ask for more than I gave and I didn’t give more than she asked for.
She was gone from my bed when morning sun shone through the sliding glass door in the master bedroom. I’d always thought it better to send a woman away with something more than she walked into my life with. I used to think that way before Rebecca. And she was the only exception to this rule.
As I lay there, still smelling her sweet scent, I thought about what was fair. Rebecca had made the mistake of taking first advantage. I’d now start yanking it all back, and then some. I wanted her to rue the day she first met me.
I rose, throwing on the new silk robe left for me draped over a burgundy leather occasional chair. Cinching the waist, I padded out to the living room and open kitchen, looking for her. Her perfume still lingered in the air.
“Hello?” I asked.
But there was no answer.
“I would call your name if—” But I knew she’d gone.
It was a first-class move and made her easy to be desired, a mystery to be pursued.
Picking up the house phone, I ordered the biscuits Oliver had recommended, some fresh jam on the side, and a bowl of strawberries.
“You want the Breakfast in Boston as well?” he asked me.
“Well, of course.”
“And how was your evening, sir?”
“Spectacular. Do you know how to reach her?”
“She left her phone number with me in case you asked.”
Another nice touch.
“Who is she?”
“I do not know. Have not seen her before, Mr. Gambini. But she came looking for you, that I know for sure. Brently has her personal information. Her address and place of employment were verified. I’ll ask Mr. Morrison to send this up with your biscuits. Would that be acceptable?”
“Of course, I’d like that. Any guesses?”
“Well, your residency isn’t exactly a secret in Boston. Neither is your divorce.”
“But, this isn’t Manhattan, so I thought—”
“The old money lives here, Mr. Gambini. But I’m sure you’ve been told this before. We make it a habit of knowing everything about our residents and their guests. Guests, especially the ladies, have to be vetted first to hang out at the bar, unless accompanied by a gentleman of the house.”
After grinding my fresh Blackbeard’s Delight coffee and pouring the boiling water into my new French Press, my doorbell rang. My order of fluffy biscuits—accompanied with three small bowls of apricot, blackberry, and strawberry jam, along with whipped butter and strawberries and cream arrived. A plain brown manilla envelope was sealed on the side, with my name on it.
Her name was Shannon. And she lived in Florida, of all places. She was fifteen years younger than I was. She had pursued a modeling career but was working at a Tampa television station, TMBC, as a stringer and part-time weather person.
I touched her picture, as if my forefinger could somehow pick up some of the missing pieces of her life. But the connection, if there had been any, was not there. I would have to find out because I certainly intended to call.
Beneath the envelope was a folded Boston Herald newspaper. My picture was front and center.
D.C. Power Boss Retreats to Boston. Tail between his Legs.
It was the sort of headline Rebecca would have written. I picked up the silver tray and threw it against the wall. Biscuits, jam, and the lovingly prepared Breakfast In Boston drink flew in all directions.
I ran in search of my Glock.
This. Meant. War.
Chapter 3
Marco
I was in the shower when the cleaning service let themselves in and began removing the mess my anger had created. I did give permission not to be the one to let them inside, as long as Brent did it. I felt a twinge of embarrassment, like a piece of my dirty laundry had been exposed, but I wasn’t going to ask for forgiveness. It was a lesson to myself. I had to make better choices, better decisions than the ones I made leading up to this fiasco. And life would change, eventually. I would have my day.
Until then, I did have to control my anger. Note to self: Stay in control or something else will slip.
The ladies worked quickly, apologizing for turning on the vacuum which I swished away with my hand.
They had the newspaper, still folded, tucked into my wastebasket, along with the broken plate and glasses. They replaced it with an identical wastebasket, bowed and exited my apartment.
I was famished but refreshed from the shower. It was time for action, but first, I needed to eat.
My CFO for Bone Frog Security was meeting me in an hour, but he’d arrived last night and was staying downtown. I picked up my phone and dialed him.
“Marco,” he said. “I hope we’re still on for—”
“Change of plans. This will be a breakfast meeting. Downstairs, in the dining room here at the Towers. I’m headed there now, so anytime you want to show up works for me.”
“I was just about to step into the shower, so I’ll be over in about fifteen minutes.”
“That’ll be fine.”
The dull pause and heavy breathing on the other end of the line told me Frank Goodman felt apprehensive about the meeting. I knew he’d been sending his resume out, thinking that my change in financial fortune might cause me to cut back on non-essential personnel. It always amazed me how people could self-sort for a downsize. It hadn’t been what I had planned to discuss today. But his behavior got my attention.
“Did you bring the reports I asked for?”
“Of course, Marco. It’s quite a lot to digest.”
“I’ll bet.” Fuckin Rebecca was good at looting. She was good at everything, including fucking me senseless. I hoped she would be a very sore loser, because it would be so much more pleasurable for me to watch her total meltdown. I wanted her destruction to be a public, ruthless event so that no one ever considered doing such a thing to me again. Yes, I knew that made me a hard man. But it also would make me bullet-proof.
“Well, Marco, see you in a few.” His voice wavered with nervousness.
“Yes. You. Will. And by the way, will you join me for a Breakfast in Boston? It’s some specialty drink the bartender makes here. I’m going to try one and want you to join me.”
“Whatever you like, Marco.”
“And I understand the bacon is specially cured, comes direct from a hog farm in Nebraska, too.”
“Marco—I don’t—”
“Oh, that’s right. You eat Kosher.”
“I try. If there is a reason I am to eat bacon, like are you considering purchasing a meat packing plant, I can justify some things, but…”
“No. Bacon for the greasy goodness of the fat sizzling in the pan. That kind of hickory-smoked bacon. I’ll enjoy it alone, then. But you can drink.”
“Yes, I can. But I usually—”
“Today is a new day, Frank. We’re going to do a lot of things differently from now on. We have a lot of territory to cover, and the enemy has had a head start on us.”