Pay Back (The Ferrari Family Book 3) Read online

  She didn’t say it in full, but it didn’t need to be said out loud. It was hard to expand the circle when we could only see each other a few days a year in person.

  “Aside from the logistical aspect of it,” she continued, understanding I knew what the implied message was, “I need to know where you are and what you feel. This shit has to be hard, huh?”

  “A little,” I admitted as I continued to munch on breakfast. “You will probably need to drag the words out of me for some time. But for right now, I would say that memories of my family make me emotional. I would like to try again someday. I like the idea of it, much as you like the idea of us being something more. But…”

  I guess we both struggled to complete our sentences.

  “It was me saying I felt close to you five years ago that scared you off,” she said. “And now you feel the same way?”

  “Now I have awareness that that is why I ran off, yes,” I said. “So I will not run off so quick. But I cannot pretend that awareness solves the issue. It still remains.”

  I knew Layla had hoped that we could at least make this an open dialogue, but right now, it felt like picking at an open wound. I did not care to recall Justine, Tony, and Boris while in front of her. They had their place in my memory, and they would have a place in our dialogue, but I did not want that moment to be right now.

  “Well—”

  “I am afraid, Layla, that this conversation hurts,” I said. “We can continue to have it as we move forward. But at the risk of making myself seem more delicate and fragile than China plates, I must ask that we shelve this conversation for now.”

  I could see the disappointment on her face, as well as her struggle not to feel it. Perhaps she believed that because I had not run off as before, she should not feel so disappointed. But I had learned rather recently that attempts to discredit one’s own emotions was the fastest way to make sure they came back to stab you when you least suspected it.

  “Just remember I fly out Monday.”

  “Right, but I will also be in the United States on occasion,” I said. “After all, I do have investment interests in the area.”

  “I know, but…”

  Like many other threads of dialogue, we did not unravel that particular weave, preferring to leave it a crumpled mess. And it allowed us to return to simpler topics, such as gossip of the week and amusing, lighthearted stories of the last five weeks.

  When breakfast ended and our plates were taken, Layla smirked.

  “So, what now?”

  I shrugged.

  “There are plenty of events still. We could explore Paris on our own. We could...what?”

  A growing smile was forming on her face, and I knew it had nothing to do with the particular suggestions I was giving.

  “Perhaps it’s bad karma to suggest this, Pierre, but would it be bad to just do what we did five years ago? Stay in bed all weekend? Have fun? Minus the whole skipping out without a word?”

  I laughed. No, it would not be so bad after all. The bad part…

  The bad part was the beginning of this breakfast. I knew I’d have to take that medicine eventually. But this part?

  “It would not be bad at all,” I said.

  * * *

  We returned upstairs, and though Layla curled up on me, both of us felt the fatigue of not sleeping much the night before and just from the pleasure of intercourse. She fell asleep on my chest, her breathing steady, her soft body against mine as beautiful and calming a sensation as anything in this world.

  I enjoyed the mere sight of watching her nostrils flare in and out, of hearing her gentle breathing. These moments of silence, when I did not have to live in my own head but could see another’s, were the most relaxing. These were the moments that made me feel closest to Layla, that made me feel like I could and should follow her across the globe.

  Not conversation.

  But that wasn’t how Layla operated, and it was probably healthier. I was much too accustomed to silence. It had taken a spectacularly devastating evening Thursday for me to even say my deceased family’s names out loud, and it was unlikely anything would happen anytime soon.

  Still, at some point…

  My phone buzzed on the desk beside the bed. I quickly grabbed it, wanting to not awaken Layla. I looked down and saw an American phone number calling me with a 702 area code. I hit Ignore, put the phone on the bed, and put my arm back by my side.

  And then the phone rang again. And again, it was the same number. I might have been justified in ignoring the number once, but twice...

  I gently scooted myself out from under Layla’s arms, moved to the bathroom, and spoke quietly.

  “Hello?” I said.

  “Mr. Perocheau.”

  The voice on the other line was certainly American, and it spoke with a certain ease. I did not recognize it at first, but it was not necessarily a voice that sounded so foreign.

  “This is he.”

  “I want to make sure you will be here for our meeting this upcoming week at my furniture shop.”

  Oh, shit.

  In the rush of my fortieth birthday, in the festivities of Fashion Week, in the captivating events with Layla, I had all but forgotten my work schedule. I was not only scheduled to meet with the owner of Polozzi Furniture, but I was also scheduled to do so in Las Vegas.

  Suddenly, I was grateful to have taken this phone call. Instead of feeling pulled away from Layla, I now had an excuse to follow her to the United States. Whether this would mean anything after this business trip was to be seen, but it seemed that our time together would not end Monday morning.

  “Yes, I will fly out on Monday. I will be in touch once I arrive. I believe our visit is scheduled for Tuesday?”

  “That is correct. Until then.”

  And then, without a word, the man on the other end of the line hung up. It had not been the owner of Polozzi Furniture, but the voice did have a vaguely growing familiarity, like it had been one of his associates or something.

  I came back to the bed to see Layla now fully awakened, a little bit of a disappointed look on her face.

  “So I guess that’s the answer, huh?” she said, her voice sad. “You’re going to fly off to somewhere on Monday, and I’ll head back to the Bay Area. I mean, I’m not surprised. I suppose it was the most likely scenario. I just—”

  “No, Layla,” I said, a smile growing on my face. “Do you know where that somewhere is?”

  “Do I?” she said.

  It struck me how fearful she was of the answer. Guesswork was probably not something she was looking to be put through for the foreseeable future, and who could blame her?

  “I will be flying into Las Vegas on Monday morning,” I said. “I believe that that is quite close to you, no?”

  “Wait, really?” she said, her face lighting up. “Don’t lie to me. I’m not in a place for sarcasm or jokes.”

  “I swear to you on my rebuilding reputation, yes, it is Las Vegas that I am flying to.”

  She went silent for a few moments as it appeared her mind went into a deep, thinking state. She, in fact, looked like the famous statue of The Thinker, only on a bed.

  “You know,” she said. “I am supposed to fly back to San Francisco just because that is home. But I do have relatives in Las Vegas. There is no reason that I could not journey with you to Las Vegas.”

  “And there is no reason, in turn, that I couldn’t then travel from Las Vegas to the Bay Area with you,” I said. “Provided, of course, that that would be OK. I would not want to intrude on your life in that area. I know you might see me as—”

  “Pierre!” she said with a sudden jolt of energy, as if an electric shock had jolted her heart. “Don’t you get it? I’ve been trying to get you more into my life, not less! This is...this is great!”

  But there was something about the way she spoke that seemed to suggest it was hiding something, like she was afraid that this was not so much a resolution as it was a delay in the difficulties we
would soon face. And she was right to think that. That difficult moment when one of us would have to make a sacrifice to the other was but delayed for a few days.

  Yes, we could indulge in Bacchanalian and erotic fantasies for another week or so. We could explore new locations, new desires, new fantasies unlocked by being closer to home for her.

  Rather than think “but” I just preferred to think “and that is good enough for now.” We would have the hard conversations later.

  “Come here,” she said, grabbing my pants by the belt.

  And just like that, it was like five years ago again, with clothes optional so long as we were in this hotel room.

  Chapter 13: Layla

  Two Days Later

  “Good afternoon, ladies and gentlemen; we are now beginning our initial descent into Las Vegas, Nevada.”

  I looked out the window toward the early afternoon sky. Las Vegas, because of its lack of vegetation and open terrain, allowed for the kind of view that felt like it could transcend state borders; I couldn’t be sure if I was looking at Utah, Nevada, or Arizona.

  But when I looked back to my left, at the man holding my hand, his eyes closed, there wasn’t any doubt what I was looking at. I was looking at, for at least the next week, my boyfriend and my partner, Pierre Perocheau.

  I couldn’t wait to take him on all sorts of different adventures. I couldn’t wait to take him gambling. I couldn’t wait to take him to try In-n-Out burger. I couldn’t wait to see his expression at the most “American” of things, which ones he thought lived up to stereotypes and which ones he thought did not.

  True, we still had not figured out our long-term future, but given the victory just in having him come with me to the States—more or less the polar opposite of five years ago—we had decided not to have that conversation until Saturday at the earliest. We would compartmentalize whatever fear and concern we had for the sake of having a good time. Was it sustainable?

  To be frank, I didn’t really care at the moment. I was just incredibly grateful that life had given me something to celebrate.

  “One last cocktail, ma’am?”

  I smiled and shook my head at the flight attendant. Pierre had avoided drinking this plane ride, but I had had no such reservations. I was in a good mood, and the alcohol had only made me giddier, more flirtatious, touchier. I was sure some of the nearby passengers looked on with amusement, but I couldn’t have given less of a fuck.

  “I suppose we are about to land,” Pierre said, opening his eyes. “I can feel it in my stomach, how it seems to gently rise within me.”

  “About to be your first time, huh?” I said, squeezing his hand.

  “First time ever in the great Las Vegas,” Pierre said, nodding. “I have to imagine that it would be something like an amusement park for adults. Or perhaps a sort of artificial paradise, one which rewards the senses but dulls the soul.”

  His poetic, careful choice of words was even sexier when I was a little buzzed.

  “Well, as much as you make me want to do everything with you, I know you have work first, so I’ll make sure that part gets taken care of,” I said, kissing his cheek. “Caesars Palace, right?”

  Pierre nodded.

  “Can’t believe they would schedule you for a proposal meeting so soon upon landing.”

  “Well, it is my fault that I chose to fly in today. I could have easily done so yesterday or Saturday and felt rested. But…”

  He looked at me coyly, arching an eyebrow. I giggled and kissed him again. I felt like a middle schooler with a boyfriend for the first time ever, and I felt zero shame or awkwardness about that.

  “I am unsure what type of a meeting this is, but if they have brought their significant others, you can tag along.”

  “Oh, I’m so honored,” I said. “You should have me as a plus one regardless. I’m not an idiot in business, you know.”

  “I am fully aware,” he said with a bemused smirk. “The first time I heard the name Layla Ferrari was not at the hotel bar five years ago.”

  Interesting. I knew people thought of me as something of a “rising star” in the wine industry, but I had never thought that Pierre had long had interest in me. I had just simply assumed I was one of many girls he had procured at the time.

  If I thought about it, maybe it would make me feel worse, but for the moment, the confession just made me feel more special.

  “Well, we shall see in any case,” Pierre said. “I have respect for your talents and would be a fool to waste them.”

  I kissed him once more before returning my gaze back to Las Vegas. The Strip was still not in sight, but in one respect, this flight was unlike any I had ever taken before—it was my first time flying to Vegas from the east. I’d always come in from San Francisco, maybe once from Los Angeles, but never before from the east. Maybe I’d get to have a different view as a result.

  “By the way,” Pierre said. “You do know the city well, right? I am sure you know it better than I, but I want an authentic experience.”

  “As if you should doubt me,” I said. “I actually don’t come here that often. I’ve been maybe twice since I graduated college. If you want the real authentic experience…”

  You call Uncle Nick.

  But…

  “You what?” Pierre said. “Would it be too crass to say you would visit a brothel or get a prostitute?”

  “Hah, no,” I said, going to a place in my mind that didn’t allow me to have much humor. “I have some relatives out here, but, well, they aren’t exactly on the greatest of terms with my immediate family.”

  “How so?”

  I sighed. I kind of wished we weren’t having this conversation in a public place like this, but it wasn’t like I looked at anyone else in first class like they were secretly spying on the Ferrari family. I was just letting paranoia get in the way of honesty.

  “My grandfather and grandmother raised my parents and uncles in Las Vegas,” I said. “They never went into great detail, but they kept saying how there was a lot of bad elements there and that San Francisco was much safer. I once overheard grandpa mumbling to himself about how the past needs to stay buried for everyone’s sake, but I didn’t say anything, I think I was like eight. Whenever Uncle Nick’s name gets brought up at family gatherings, it’s always with an eye roll, a condescending sneer, or some sort of pejorative. And, as you probably guessed, Uncle Nick is one of the ones who lives out here.”

  “And what do you think?”

  I shrugged at first, but I knew better. I knew about the true nature of Brett and Chelsea’s marriage; I knew that Brett had gone to Las Vegas right before. Perhaps it was coincidence, but “perhaps” was a very weak word in this case.

  “I’ve heard the rumors, and I get curious sometimes, but absent hard proof, I just think it’s not my place.”

  Pierre nodded and dropped the topic, returning his gaze to straight ahead. I hadn’t hidden anything, but I could easily see why he thought I was hiding something. I was hiding something insofar as that I was hiding something from plain view; I was refusing myself the ability to explore that side of the family in more detail.

  Frankly, as long as I was making money, as long as I was safe, as long as my brothers and their wives were safe, as long as Ferrari Wines as we knew it continued to operate and experience great success, I couldn’t have cared less if some loose ends happened to have some questionable ties.

  But I guess we’d find out soon enough if ignorance was bliss or foreboding.

  * * *

  The second we got off the plane, Pierre had to pause.

  “You have slot machines...in the terminal? Like, right there?”

  I smirked.

  “Las Vegas is a different place; I told you that.”

  “I know, but...heavens, I have never seen such an American setup in my life.”

  And there it was—the most American thing Pierre thought he’d encounter. Give him time—he hasn’t even seen the line at fast food places yet.


  “Perhaps I can—”

  “After your meeting,” I said, grabbing his suit sleeve and pulling him toward the exit. “At least wait to indulge your vices until after.”

  Pierre grumbled something about how he was in the land of the free, but it was all in good jest. I arranged an Uber, got him to the car, and held his hand in the backseat as I pointed out the various casinos.

  “So the pyramid-shaped one down there? That’s Luxor. It’s got a beam of light shooting up above. Not much to it besides that, but it’s cool to see. To the right of that is Excalibur—”

  “As in, the Arthurian legend?” Pierre said.

  He sounded both utterly confused and naive, like an American would dare to rip-off something classic for the sake of...well, this. It was kind of adorable.

  “Yep. And there’s a few more, New York-New York, Aria, Cosmopolitan—that’s the one we are staying at.”

  “Cosmopolitan, eh?”

  “I had to get us the best one on the Strip. You can’t have your first experience in Las Vegas be boring and third-rate! Can’t take you to Circus Circus.”

  “Circus Circus,” he repeated. “New York-New York. What’s next, America-America? Pizza-Pizza? Blackjack-Jack?”

  I found myself laughing way too hard at his corny jokes. He just had that sort of effect on me; what could I say?

  “And where is Caesars Palace?”

  “That’s it right there,” I said, pointing out the tall white building a little bit north of Cosmopolitan. “From Cosmo, it’s probably a five-minute walk or so. Everything looks closer than it really is in Las Vegas. I’m sure it’s some sort of architectural or design trick or something.”

  “Fascinating,” he said. “Well, I’m afraid we don’t have time to stop at Cosmopolitan first—”

  “Don’t worry, I’ll take our bags to Cosmo. It’ll be fine.”

  “You’re sure?”

  “Do you even know me?” I said with a laugh. “I’m used to carrying some heavy weight.”