A Love Most Fatal (Morelli Family #1)

25. Nate

25

NATE

I am dozing off somewhere in the fourth season of The Vampire Diaries when Ranger jumps down from the bed and starts running in tiny circles at the bedroom door, a sure sign he has to pee. When we get downstairs, though, I see that he doesn’t have to pee at this 3 AM juncture, he just heard Vanessa come home and wanted to hang out with her.

He wiggles his whole body at her feet until she bends down to scratch his neck. She still doesn’t look pleased about having a dog in the house, but her disdain has been softened in the last couple of weeks. I thought she would shoot him at first, so her petting his head is real progress.

“Working late,” I say. She’s wearing sleek pants and a turtleneck, very Steve Jobs if Steve Jobs was a hot Italian woman.

“Yeah. Unfortunately.”

“Can I have some?” I nod at the electric tea kettle bubbling in front of her.

“Want chamomile?”

“Sounds great.”

She reaches up into the cabinet for the box of tea, and her shirt rides up in the process. I remember the feel of her bare back against my palms, the silky skin, warm in the spring night air.

“Here.” She slides me the green mug I’ve taken a liking to. It’s the only one of its kind in the mug cabinet and fits well in my palm. Has she noticed it’s the one I like? Or was it by chance she gave it to me now?

I clear my throat.

“Thanks,” I say, but my voice is like a truck driving over gravel.

I focus my energy on spooning honey into the mug and pouring the scalding water over it.

“Milk?” I nod and try not to touch her skin as she puts the carton in front of me.

She looks tired, like she always does by the end of the day, her shoulders low and under eyes dark. I know I am part of a privileged few being able to see her like this, in her home, no makeup, hair pulled back into a messy ponytail.

She is not a mafia boss like this, she is just Vanessa, tired from working too hard, stress evident on her skin and in the strain behind her eyes.

“Something happened,” I say, and she doesn’t deny it. Why else would she be coming home past 3 AM looking like sipping tea is a grueling task?

“Yeah,” she whispers and sets her mug down before letting her face fall in her hands. I watch her while she breathes, and she rubs her hands down her face and neck until they rest on her shoulders, crossed over her chest. Ranger huddles closer to her leg.

“I don’t know,” she says. “I’m good at my job.”

“Of course,” I say. I don’t know if she means the construction or the crime, but I figure this is true of both. “That’s obvious.”

“I am good, the best even. I make it a point to be this way, to never let anything slip past my notice, but—” A muscle in her jaw ticks. “I’m missing something.”

She takes another sip from her mug. It must burn her tongue because she winces. I want to ask what happened, but she’s not one to share all the gory details. At least not with me, anyway.

I’ve given her no reason to believe I’d be a generous ear to such things.

“Have you seen anything like this before?” I ask. “When your dad was alive?”

“When I was young, once. Otherwise, people feared him too much to stir the pot. They fear me too, or at least they did.”

“They still do,” I reassure, and I try not to let myself think about how strange it is that I am comforting Vanessa by telling her how much people still fear her mighty rule. But it’s true. “Not only that, but they respect you.”

She scoffs at this.

“I mean it,” I say. “These men I’ve interviewed are absolute tools, but they’re scared shitless of you. Or, like, the character of you. You as a concept. They know you can hit them where it hurts at any given time and that’s why they want to align with you.”

“I guess,” she says. “I wish my dad was here.”

“What do you think he would tell you if he was?”

Vanessa chews on her bottom lip as she considers this. She does this when she’s thinking, unconsciously pulling the inside of her lip between her teeth. I watch the motion too closely and avert my eyes before she can notice me staring.

“He’d tell me that I have every ability to figure it out. No problem too big to be solved,” she says. “He was always saying that, and even as a little kid I was worried he was wrong about me.”

I’ve never seen her like this, so down on herself and outwardly defeated. It’s depressing. I want to tuck her under a blanket and make her popcorn or pancakes with way too much syrup and protect her from phone calls for a minimum of fifteen hours.

Vanessa takes another sip of tea, her throat moving on the swallow. “He would know what to do. Decisions weren’t hard for him like they are for me.”

“If it’s any consolation, decisions don’t seem hard for you,” I say. “You’re very confident. Ask anyone.”

She smiles, a small victory.

“Fake it ‘til you make it,” she says. “I’m just not sure when I’ll feel like I’m no longer faking it.”

“I don’t know that you ever will.”

Her brows lower, wary of my assessment.

“I’ve been teaching for seven years and I’m better at it now, but every week I am still encountering things that leave me guessing. I bet your dad was the same way.”

She doesn’t look so sure, but she considers it. She’s nice like that, always thinking before speaking one way or another. It’s more of a strength than she knows.

“We’re all just making things up here,” I say. “And you’re lucky. You have your family to make it up with you. And a very talented math teacher. For now.”

I take a chance that she won’t murder me and place a hand over hers and squeeze twice. A quiet note that she’s not alone in this, even if reasonably the this at hand is deplorable and should probably result in jail time. She doesn’t attack, just softens her shoulders and heaves a breath.

“You’re right. We’ll figure it out,” she says. “We always do.”

When I wake on Saturday morning, there’s a tux hanging on my bathroom door, which tells me that someone was in here while I slept, and I get the heebie jeebies thinking it might have been Mary. I lock the door every night because even though I interact with her daily in training, I am only 60% sure Mary won’t try to kill me in my sleep. Good to know that my sense of security with a doorknob lock was false.

Ranger is asleep in his kennel, and I take him downstairs where I find Vanessa, Mary, and Willa all dressed in their usual training clothes, picking at a fruit platter that Claire is making on the counter in front of them.

“It’s Saturday,” I groan by way of greeting. My shoulders are still sore from the three hours of target practice yesterday. “Why do you all look ready to run a half marathon?”

“Good morning, Nate,” Claire says. Ranger is hopping excitedly at her feet, and she throws him a bit of apple. “Did you see the suit? The tie will match your eyes.”

“Yes, thank you.” I let Ranger out the sliding glass door, then reach for the green mug for my coffee, but Vanessa bats my hands away.

“You’re not dressed,” Vanessa says.

“You said no training on event days,” I argue. Tonight is the illustrious Mayor’s Gala which they spent the majority of yesterday primping for by getting facials, manicures, and pedicures. Anette even came to trim all of our hair.

Vanessa shakes her head. “I never said that.”

“She would never say that,” Mary agrees.

“Probably what she said is no double training on event days,” Willa says while chewing on a mouthful of grapes. “Hurry up.”

“Can I have some coffee first?” I ask.

“No,” all three sisters say. I feel a twitch in my right eye, but I am so far outnumbered I don’t even think about fighting it.

By the merit of only doing one training for the day, I swear Vanessa sets out to make it as difficult as possible. It’s ninety minutes of sparring ( but careful of the faces, or you’re so dead ), running, hitting bags, and then more running, which leaves me drenched in sweat, limping, and exhausted. Just how I’d normally want to feel when attending a party. Sure.

I lie flat on my back on the mat, my heart rate probably 250 beats per minute, and Vanessa nudges my side with her shoe.

“You’re getting stronger,” she says.

The high-pitched sound that comes out of me is half a laugh, half a whimper. I do not feel stronger, though it is true that my body looks different in the mirror. I can keep up much better than I could a month ago. “Thanks.”

“Now go shave,” she says.

“What?” I touch my chin, which is still mostly smooth from yesterday’s shave.

“And let Leo do your hair.” She nudges my side again, harder this time, and I roll over to start painfully pushing myself to my feet.

“You don’t like how I do my hair?”

“You do your hair?” she asks, and I offer my best glower. She starts pushing me towards the door. “I’m kidding, of course spritzing your bedhead with water counts. Now go.”

“Okay, alright, I’m going,” I say, and I can’t help but smile as I make my way back up the stairs.

Mary, like a ghost, is standing at the landing and I jump when I see her. Her eyes narrow, drawing unknown conclusions about me, and the smile is wiped clean from my face. I inch towards my room without comment.

In the car on the way to the Gala, Vanessa uses a little compact mirror to freshen up her makeup. Watching her do mundane things always feels like I’m being let in on a secret, like when we sit on the couch after everyone’s gone to bed and she falls asleep with her feet on my lap or tucked under my leg.

I turn to look out the window at the passing cars. Save for Artie and Angel, who are with a babysitter, the whole family is dressed to the nines in floor length gowns and tuxedos ready for tonight. We had to take three cars, but we arrive as a posse because Vanessa says it’s important that the Donovanns and Morellis walk in together.

As soon as we step out at valet, Vanessa has turned on every switch in her social arsenal and now exudes power and charisma. I both fear her and do not want to stop looking at her with her posture so strong and solid, every detail down to her fingernail color claiming power and strength that I couldn’t imagine containing.

I have the impulse to stare at her until my eyes fall out, but again I turn away to look at anything but her.

“What first?” I ask.

“You and I greet the mayor, I’ll introduce you, then we find our seats, we’ll eat, there will be an auction, and then there is dancing.”

“When do the politics begin?”

Vanessa gives me a small smile, one that feels like a break from her mask. “Those have already begun.”

I didn’t see why it was necessary that I come to this event, but the whole family was adamant that I needed to be there to uphold the image of the new, ever-mysterious consigliere. Cillian doesn’t seem so pleased that Vanessa is by my side and not his, but no less than three glamorous women in low cut gowns flanked him when we came through the doors, so I am certain he is otherwise occupied.

I expected there to be a line to meet the mayor, but instead, he stands in a small group, one hand around a woman I assume to be his wife, and the other holding a fluted glass. His wife looks familiar, though I cannot place why.

With everyone standing and socializing, it feels like a happy hour, but everyone is in the finest clothing I’ve ever seen. The mayor, Gregory Anderson, is shorter than I thought he would be from all his signs and billboards in the last election cycle. The group around him parts for Vanessa in her blood red gown and the mayor lights up to greet her. One man remains, though, an older guy with a glass of amber liquid beside the mayor.

“Miss Morelli,” Mayor Anderson says, and then kisses the back of her hand. People still kiss hands in greeting? In Massachusetts? “Always a pleasure to see you.”

“Same to you, Greg.” Vanessa leans forward and kisses next to his wife’s cheek. “And Donna, you’re radiant, as usual.”

The woman blushes under Vanessa’s compliments, and God she looks familiar. I know I’ve met her before. “Thank you, that dress is excellent. When are you going to set me up with your stylist?”

“She’s not taking on any more clients, or I would,” Vanessa lies. Her stylist is just Willa buying new clothing for her every other week. After the first initial closet overhaul, she’s done the same for me, coming over for family dinner with new button-ups over her arm. I know they’re rich, but she might have a shopping problem.

“Mr. McGowan, it’s nice to see you here as well.” Vanessa holds out her hand and after a brief hesitation, the old man shakes it. He doesn’t look thrilled by the prospect. “Mr. McGowan works with Cillian, longtime friend of the Donovann family,” she explains to me. Another criminal, then. This one of the Irish variety.

“Nice to meet you,” I say, and shake his hand too.

“And who’s your date?” Donna asks. Her head is tilted and, Christ, there’s a spark of recognition in her eyes, too.

Wait, date ?

“This is Nathaniel Gilbert. He’s recently joined our team as a financial planner. Very talented.”

“Gilbert!” Donna snaps her finger. “I thought I knew you; do you teach at Isles Prep?”

I freeze, not sure how to traverse this territory when Vanessa just introduced me as a financial advisor.

Her son.

I taught her youngest son my first year at the school, before Greg was mayor.

“He does,” Vanessa says and squeezes my bicep. Vanessa is touching my arm, telling them that I am a lowly middle school teacher, and not correcting them that I’m her date? “So generous of him, right? Quite the time commitment for someone who already works so hard on his own endeavors.”

“It’s a pleasure to do it,” I say when her nails dig into the soft part of my arm. “I remember your son, sharp kid.”

I do not remember much of her son; I can sort of picture his face, but I cannot recall his name for the life of me. I’m not one of those teachers who memorizes every face and keeps them in their heart for the rest of their days.

“What’s a teacher doing consulting on company finances?” McGowan asks.

I sense that he is the kind of sour man who is never pleased. And he has something against Vanessa, he looks at her as if staring down his nose, though she is three inches taller than him.

“The finances come first,” I explain. “I just love to teach.”

“That is quite the service,” Mayor Greg says. He holds his glass up almost as if to toast me. “This city needs great teachers.”

I’m sure he’s said this to every teacher he’s met since becoming a politician, but yeah, it works. I’d vote for him in the next election after that.

“Needs quality buildings, too,” he adds for Vanessa’s benefit. “Thank you again for all the beautiful work you do in this city, Ms. Morelli.”

“Of course. And maybe one day Mr. McGowan will let us build one for him.” She says this with a cheeky smile on her face. “We’ll let you get back to your socializing. Do come for dinner soon. We would love to have you.”

Greg’s eyes show a flash of apprehension at this, but he and his wife both agree. If Donna knows about Vanessa’s true position, she doesn’t show it.

Vanessa guides us towards the table Mary and Leo are already seated at. I’d guess they’re not ones to socialize much at functions like this, though they both clean up perfectly well. Leo did my hair and it does in fact look way nicer than anything I could have managed.

“You really do look beautiful,” I tell her.

The crimson dress has a high neck but a low back, so low that if I touched her back at all I’d be smoothing my fingers across her skin. Her hair is straight down her back, shiny and sleek like it’s never been frizzy, not even on the most humid day.

“Beautiful for a monster?” she says, and I gulp.

I don’t know how to tell her she’s the most beautiful woman, monster or not, that I’ve ever seen, and with every day that passes in her presence, I’m increasingly certain that there’s hardly a bad or cruel or monstrous thing about her.

We’ve arrived at the table before I can say anything too excruciating, and Leo starts reporting on who is here and who is yet to arrive. Some of the last names I recognize from the interviews, others I’ve never heard of.

“And these are all crime families?” I ask. How much organized crime can one city have and still stand?

“You could call them that,” Mary mutters.

“Garza wants to speak with you,” Leo says. “Alone.”

Vanessa’s mask is immovable, but I see her chest rise and fall with a sigh. “Let’s get this over with, then. Mary, I need you to talk with Orlov.”

“What? Why?” Mary says in a rare display of unease.

Venessa’s brows furrow slightly. “Because Willa and Sean are busy with the Cordonis.”

“Fine.” Mary downs the remainder of her drink, some bright orange juice cocktail and leaves the table with Vanessa, the pair of them walking together before branching in different directions in the crowd.

“Vanessa’s a different person in public,” I say to Leo, who’s closely observing Vanessa speaking to a pair of Hispanic men across the ballroom. “I didn’t realize she was so different at home.”

“You should see her in the office,” Leo mutters.

I can picture it, Vanessa in her heels and a sharp suit, striding through the halls of the corporate office, instilling fear and awe in the employees. She’s a force, impossible to look away from. She demands respect just by entering a room.

At the nearest open bar, I spot Cillian leaning next to a woman in conversation, looking casually cooler than I will ever manage in this lifetime.

“Why hasn’t Cillian offered to marry her?” I ask. “They’d make a. . . handsome pair.”

Leo laughs. “He has,” he says. “A few times now.”

“Is he in love with her?”

Leo releases a long breath as he watches Cillian. “I don’t think so. Cillian loves himself, and power. Of course he wants to marry her.”

“Would he take care of her?” I don’t know why I’m asking, only that I can’t stop now that I know he’s asked her to marry him before. “Would he be good to her?”

“I don’t know. I guess. Guy loves women, though.”

Cillian traces his fingers over a piece of the woman’s hair, and I can just hear her giggling from here. He’s cool and suave and already with power of his own. She should probably accept his proposal if he asks again.

For some reason, my stomach turns.

“Are you seeing anyone?” I ask.

Leo’s eyes glance briefly towards the side of the room where Vanessa speaks.

“It’s complicated,” Leo says. “Though I guess love usually is. Unless you’re Willa and Sean.”

“Does this person love you back?” I hedge.

“Maybe,” Leo says, then shrugs. “I wouldn’t say a lack of love is the problem. Maybe more of a lack of opportunity.”

“How Romeo and Juliet of you.”

Leo laughs, then shakes his head like it might be closer to the truth than I know. Leo is much softer than I ever gave him credit for, more forthcoming with his friendship and feelings than others in the family. I admire this about him.

“Well, for what it’s worth, I hope it works out,” I say.

“Thank you,” Leo smiles, but sadly. “Me too.”