Pay Back (The Ferrari Family Book 3) Page 15

  But I could definitely say that having him listen with such an open ear, without judgment and only curiosity, was something that made me feel much closer to him. I felt like I could confide in him about anything. I had shown him quite possibly the ugliest side of our family, and not only had he not run away, he had not even flinched.

  I opened my mouth to thank him, but something stopped me.

  Five years ago, I had confessed how close I had felt to him. Two minutes later, I had gone to shower and went five hellish years without seeing him. Could I find the courage to admit the same?

  The fear was real. I felt my hands go clammy and my head start to sweat a little. If I said this, and he walked away...even if it was polite, would I ever be able to bear my soul to anyone?

  But on the other hand, if I didn’t say anything now, had anything really changed? Would the depth of whatever we had really be able to match the passion and enthrallment I felt for Pierre?

  I bit my lip.

  “You know…”

  Pierre looked up. I pretended to be embarrassed, but I’d set the trap for myself.

  “I had never shared that story with anyone before you,” I said. “And I think it speaks volumes about how close I feel to you. I appreciate that you shared your story with me and that you allowed me to share mine with you. I know for both of us, it can be a sensitive topic, and I know it’s hard to relive it. But know that you are always welcome to talk to me whenever you want.”

  As I spoke, I could see Pierre start to feel the weight of my words. That had to be inevitable. I could not pretend that my words would not burden Pierre some.

  What was not inevitable was his action. Was he going to smile, say thank you, and continue on to lighter topics? Or was he going to withdraw, go cold, and tell me within twenty-four hours that this wasn’t going to work out? I was sort of glad I had spilled my guts before I had had those thoughts, because if I had, I wasn’t sure at all that I would have said anything.

  Pierre looked down, bit his lip, and nodded. This told me nothing other than that he was thinking about everything. I sat in the chair in silence, wanting to say more but knowing that I had said everything I had needed to. Saying what I wanted to would have the opposite effect of what I intended.

  Pierre stood up. To be honest, my immediate reaction was to think that he was walking away, it was just that this time he had the “courage” to do it to my face. I squirmed in my seat.

  But instead of walking away, Pierre walked around the table to me. He leaned forward. And he kissed me gently on the lips.

  I felt so emotional, so tender that my eyes began to well. I did not cry, but I would be lying if I said that I might have in the hotel room or somewhere else more private. I could not believe that the man who had walked out on me five years ago was now taking me in in a moment like this.

  “I appreciate you more than you can ever know, Layla,” he said with a smile. “I am relieved to hear you say this. I do not know what I did to deserve this—heaven knows I have done plenty to deserve a fate much crueler and more dismissive than this—but I am going to treasure this and do all I can to have it last.”

  Oh, Pierre.

  “For now, though, let us drink and enjoy our evening.”

  “Cheers,” I said, holding up my glass.

  We clinked, sipped back, and downshifted into more lighthearted topics such as our favorite places to travel outside of France. The mood was so much more relaxed and playful after that. I loved that Pierre was not going anywhere by his own decision. I loved that I could talk to this man without worry that my words would drive him away. I loved…

  It still felt too soon.

  But boy, the feeling that I loved him was becoming stronger and stronger and stronger.

  I guess the only reason I did not admit to it was because I knew fate could be a cruel fucking bitch. Just because the two of us were now connected did not mean that life could not find a way to split us apart. Life had been pretty damn miserable for both of us at times.

  But for now, I only had to focus on the man in front of me.

  We ate our steaks, drank some wine, had some dessert, went upstairs, had more great sex on the couch, and passed out.

  It was a perfect kind of evening precisely because of how imperfect a conversation we’d had.

  Chapter 18: Pierre

  Two Days Later

  “Good morning, ladies and gentlemen; we are now beginning our initial descent into San Francisco.”

  The pilot’s announcement stirred me from the very shallow sleep—if you could even call it that—in our first-class seats. Layla and I had fallen asleep on each other from this seven a.m. flight, although Layla seemed to fall asleep more easily than I. I was grateful that she did, because if she knew why I struggled to sleep, I am not sure that she could have done so herself.

  I still had not said a word to Gio since Monday afternoon. While I had told him I needed until the end of the week, I had my suspicions that he was not going to be so generous as the days passed, especially since I had not responded to a message of his late last night. I needed more information about the Nimicos and their goals, but I didn’t know how to get it without ruffling some feathers.

  The Ferraris seemed like they would have knowledge. But if Uncle Nick, whom we had met at In-n-Out yesterday, had not discussed anything more serious than the prospect of procuring seats to a UEFA soccer game, than I somehow found it unlikely and frankly a little uncouth to discuss it with Layla’s family. I did not want my first impression with them to be of a Frenchman inquiring about the skeletons in the basement closet.

  I suppose that eventually, I would have to just make a decision with the limited knowledge I had. But I had to make one that protected Layla first. She did not deserve to get dragged into my nightmare of a business circle just because she had fallen for me.

  I peered down at Layla, who was still sleeping. She had figured out I was nervous as early as the dinner Monday night, but after that, she had taken my moments of nervousness as me being fearful of meeting her family. Although I could not say that I expected a warm welcome, age had made me less concerned with the impression I would make on her family when I had already had one of my own. I knew what kind of a reputation I had, and I did not need to sell it upon first visitation so quickly.

  I grabbed my phone from my pocket and using the airplane’s Wi-Fi, I did the one thing that I had not confessed to Layla yet. I continued my own research on the Ferrari family, from everything officially verified by them in various interviews to the wide swath of rumors that peppered everything from articles to message boards. She would not like it, but I would expect her at some point to do her own research of the Perocheau name too.

  So far, what I had discovered in official sources more or less aligned with what Layla had told me. Her great-grandfather had immigrated from Italy with her grandfather, raising everyone in Las Vegas. Her grandfather and grandmother had moved out of Las Vegas sometime in the sixties, and since then, they had run Ferrari Wines. It seemed like the prototypical rags-to-riches, “American Dream” story of an immigrant family.

  But when I got passed the fluff pieces in the wine magazines, the bigger newspapers, and even one piece in the New York Times, I began to find articles in less reputable sources that nevertheless raised some curious questions and rumors.

  For one, apparently, Alf Ferrari had taken his family out of Las Vegas not in the pursuit of building a winery but because of a crime that had left one of his children dead. He had found the winery not so much as a dream but as a way of leaving a nightmare behind. Layla had never, ever made mention of a deceased aunt or uncle; I suspected that it was not so much that she was hiding something as it was she had never been told.

  There were rumors of him being involved with the Las Vegas Mafia, but nowhere could I find anything with the name Gio Nimico that connected him to Alf Ferrari. Gio certainly had his fair share of articles about him, but none ever linked the two. It was as much a guessin
g game as it was anything else. There were also much wilder and insane rumors, like that Alf and the mafia had run the city of Las Vegas and had had a falling out; or that Alf Ferrari was actually an undercover CIA agent who got exposed; or even that Ferrari Wines was a cover for dealing drugs and other sorts of things.

  While I loved a good rumor, the family of the woman I cared so passionately about was not something to joke around about, and my gut said that those rumors of the ridiculous nature were just not true. I believed that Layla and her brothers were clean.

  But her grandfather and her father and uncles?

  That was something that I felt had yet to be told.

  “Hey, you,” Layla said, stirring from her sleep. I quickly locked my phone. “Whatcha doing?”

  I smiled, nodded toward the window, and kissed her on the forehead.

  “Thinking about how I can’t wait to learn more about your family.”

  * * *

  As soon as we landed, we had a limo waiting to pick us up. The chauffeur opened the door for us, and I took my seat in the back. The car ride was absent of any heavy conversation, but for the first time pretty much since we arrived in the States, I felt some nervousness about going to see her family. I did not think that I would get dragged into some meeting and forced to discuss what I knew—life was not the movies—but I could not imagine that Layla had not ever discussed what had happened five years ago.

  If her grandfather or parents did not care, then I sure as hell suspected her brothers would have something to say to me.

  It was easy to be dismissive of how they felt in the air. But knowing I was going to be face to face with them in a matter of minutes put a pit in my stomach that could not be so easily shaken.

  “We’re going to first go to Ferrari Wines so I can show you around,” she said. “Then we can go back to my place. I think my father had made mention of a family gathering tonight or in the next couple of days, so you’ll meet everyone then. I hope that doesn’t make you too nervous.”

  I chuckled.

  “I am excited to meet your family, Layla. My care lies in you, so whatever happens with them, happens.”

  I was not convinced Layla just bought what I said entirely, because the doubt was pretty easily visible on her face. She had to know that there was something I had not told her about what I knew.

  When we pulled up and got out of the car, Layla spread her arms wide, as if showing me a magical castle that had appeared out of thin air. I smiled.

  “I actually am quite familiar with Ferrari Wines,” I said. “Remember, I have worked in the wine industry for some time. Your name—both you, Layla Ferrari, and the Ferrari name—are well known in the community.”

  “Oh,” Layla said, somehow both disappointed and embarrassed at the augustness of her name at the same time.

  “But do not worry, I have never taken a tour of this place before,” I said. “I would love to learn more.”

  “Well, my brother Brett said he wants to meet you first.”

  I smiled.

  “And do I have any reason to be nervous about such a meeting with—”

  I cut myself off when I saw the front door open and a man who had to be Brett Ferrari standing there. He wore a suit and a black bow tie, and at the risk of sounding a bit ridiculous, he looked exactly like what I expected a brother of Layla Ferrari to look like—rugged, handsome, and with an air of confidence and presence to him.

  He also did not look the slightest bit welcoming of me. His eyes were steeled on his sister, refusing to so much as glance my way, and his hands were folded in front of him. His jaw was clenched tightly before me. I did not expect a fight, but it was clear I was not going to get a hug and a warm welcome.

  “Brett!” she said.

  “Hi, Layla,” he said somewhat dryly.

  He could not have had a more cliché American voice if he tried. I was trying not to be judgmental, but heavens…

  “Oh, Brett, act like you’re happy to see me,” she said as she embraced him. “I have someone I’d like you to meet. This is—”

  “Pierre Perocheau, I know,” he said.

  He extended his hand to me and shook. His grip was firm, too firm to be anything but as strongly done as possible. He was trying to send me a message.

  I was happy to send one back to him—one of understanding, but one that was not going to back down at any point. It was not so much an ego thing simply as it was a refusal to bend my boundaries for respect to anyone, no matter how closely related they were to the woman I cared for so greatly.

  “Brett, did you Google him?”

  “Of course,” Brett said. “I had to find out who the man was that has been such a part of my sister’s life all this time.”

  I smiled.

  “I am appreciative of your hospitality in welcoming me in, Brett.”

  I had honestly meant the statement as sincere and somewhat flattering, but it occurred to me by Brett’s reaction that such words had probably come across as a little sarcastic and condescending. His face started to form a sneer, but perhaps cognizant of his sister’s presence right by him, he relaxed and turned to her.

  “I have some wine in the board room,” he said. “Let’s go relax, shall we?”

  Never once did he look at me from that point on to when we got into the board room. I strode as calmly and normally as I could with Layla. She tried to hold my hand a couple times, but I felt the gesture was over the top and unbecoming of her in her workspace; I appreciated it, but the timing was not right for her.

  When we got into the board room, Brett pulled out a delightful vintage from a Sauvignon blanc collection. He poured the two of us glasses, poured himself one, and held it out.

  “Cheers,” he said. “To beginning the day with the best wine on the market.”

  “Cheers,” I said with Layla. Who was I to argue? It was no secret Ferrari Wines had some of the best product in the world.

  I took a sip. Brett took a huge gulp before putting his glass on the table.

  “So, Pierre,” he said. “I hear that you are in a questionable situation with some businessmen, no?”

  Wait...he knows?

  I did not dare look at Layla with a questioning gaze, fully aware that doing so would perhaps undermine my own credibility and give Brett reason to distrust me. As it was, even just from here, I could practically feel her squirming, like Brett was not supposed to do this. I had reasons for disliking this, but it had nothing to do with Layla.

  “I suppose that you know most of the details,” I said.

  “Actually, I don’t,” Brett said. “But I know that they somehow knew my sister. And if they know her, they know me, and they know all the Ferraris. So I want to know what happened.”

  I supposed he had a good point, but I really hated this. The more people that knew—even if they had a justified reason for knowing—the more reason Gio would have for seeing me as not being discreet, and the more trouble we would face.

  “Well,” I began.

  And from there, I outlined some of what had happened. I explained that Gio had said that he knew Layla and that he and the Ferraris had a history. I said he wanted to make a deal off the back of one of my businesses to deal in what I suspected were illegal products. I did not, however, mention Marco, the fact that I’d first gotten into this circle through Polozzi Furniture, or that I suspected they were dealing drugs. I did my best to only tell Brett what he needed to know and not anything more.

  But even then, I knew that I was probably saying far too much.

  “So with all of that said,” Brett said, his expression unchanging the entire time that I spoke. “After all of that, how long do you think you have until they might try to, shall we say, increase the pressure?”

  “I asked them to give me until Sunday,” I said. “That is when I am currently scheduled to fly back to France.”

  I could feel Layla’s eyes turn to me. She had caught the phrase that indicated my uncertainty—for the better—about the f
uture. Scheduled to.

  Unfortunately, part of the reason that I had chosen to consider delaying returning was the very topic of the conversation and the fact that Layla could face consequences if we were not careful.

  “I see,” Brett said. “Layla, what do you think our family knows about ties to organized crime?”

  “I’m sorry?” she said, half-surprised, half-angry.

  “You know what I mean.”

  I looked at her. She stole a glance at me, bit her lip, and glared back at Brett.

  “I never asked for details on that, and I don’t think it had anything to do with that.”

  “Well, forgive me for being so blunt, but given that your French lover here has somehow gotten you entangled—”

  “Brett!”

  “—I think it’s time that we use our family resources to defend ourselves. I think the three of us are a little bit in over our heads.”

  “Are you sure that’s a good idea?” I said, less of a question and more of a warning.

  “Why would it not be?”

  Brett’s hand was tightening around his glass and his jaw was clenching.

  “This is not my first time with men of dubious distinction,” I said firmly. “I can handle this on my own.”

  “Oh, I’m not doing this for you,” Brett said. “I’m doing this for my sister.”

  “And why do you think I am doing it?”

  “Guys,” Layla said, but her tone implied she felt like a helpless mouse caught between two hissing cats.

  “Well, I would like to believe you are doing it for the sake of my sister, but you’ll forgive me for doubting you after the way you treated her five years ago.”

  Now my fist clenched. I was not going to punch Brett on the grounds of Ferrari Wines, but even I had my limits for what I could take without showing some visible reaction.

  “I can barely forgive myself for what happened then,” I said. “But Layla herself will tell you that we have moved on.”

  “Good on her; she’s blind for you,” Brett said. “I’m not. Just because she forgave you so stupidly doesn’t mean I will.”