“I thought I was going back to my flat.” She glanced toward the driver who had said he had her address.
“To get your passport and any other personal items you don’t want to leave for the movers. Am I speaking English? Why are you staring at me like that?”
“When did I agree to move in with you? Do I get my own room?”
“Do you want one?” he asked, sounding oh-so-reasonable against her high pitch of disbelief, but the knowing slant to his half-closed lids made the question not just annoying, but far too rhetorical.
She didn’t know how to be sophisticated and blasé about agreeing to be his lover. She was still fighting the longing to. Deep down, however, she knew she wanted to go to bed with him, and very likely would, which was the most aggravating part of it all.
Thankfully her phone buzzed. She glanced to see her new assistant was loading her calendar.
Gwyn scanned through, seeing that she had legal meetings, appointments with her PR assistant, stylists, boutiques—
“A spa?” she said sharply to Vito.
“All the women in my family frequent it. Don’t worry. It’s secure.”
Luncheons, dinners—
“Berlin?”
“I have meetings.” He shrugged.
London, Paris, back to Milan then three stops in Asia.
“What am I doing while you’re working in all these places?” she asked, mind whirling.
“You’ll have a security detail. Do whatever you want. Shop, visit the museums. You won’t have as much time as you think. I’ll need you at my side quite often.”
She spent the rest of the drive answering questions for her assistant: Did she have any special dietary requirements or allergies? Any requests for products to have on hand at Vito’s apartment or while she traveled? Was she due for any dental or medical appointments that should be scheduled? What about prescription refills?
More birth control pills? Was that what she was asking, Gwyn wondered with mild hysteria?
When they arrived in the city, they went straight to her building where a handful of photographers quickly snapped to attention from slouching on scooters and hovering on stoops. Vito’s security guards kept them at a respectful distance and movers arrived shortly after Gwyn entered her flat.
The place was untouched, her plate with toast crumbs from a few days ago still sitting by the sink, but everything had changed. Not just her life, but there was something in her that was changing. She was a self-sufficient person, didn’t want to look to Vito to rescue her like some kind of damsel needing a white knight, but as he gave instructions and spoke to her landlord to assure him the crowds at the entrance to the building would cease now that she was leaving, she felt grateful to have him on her side.
She hated feeling weak and managed and powerless, but if someone else was stealing control of her life, she was glad the rudder had wound up in his unerring hands.
She trusted him, she realized. It was a weird sort of trust. He could and probably would hurt her, but he wasn’t making any false promises not to. He wouldn’t lie to her, even if the truth was harsh and unpalatable.
His governance over her world proved very advantageous when she made her statement to the police, too. Had she been merely a midlevel bank employee with no connections or legal team behind her, her complaint probably wouldn’t have been such a priority, but she was assured charges against her masseuse would be forthcoming.
The rest of the day passed in a blur. There was a very short press conference announcing the birth of Paolo’s son, Vito’s assumption of his cousin’s position for the next few weeks and he confirmed rumors that a formal internal investigation had been launched against an unnamed, but high profile account.
“For privacy and legal reasons, we can’t expound on that,” Vito said.
Then he sent a look to Gwyn that said everything his mouth did not. His expression spoke of regret and guardianship and the suppressed anger of a warrior who must wait for the war. Which might have been a bit of overacting for the cameras, but she thought it had its seeds in what he had said earlier about Jensen not going unpunished.
And she was touched all over again.
The press conference had been held at a hotel where Vito was due to meet with various heads of the bank’s branches before attending a mixer with those same people, their spouses and an exclusive list of their top-tier investors.
“It was scheduled a year ago, long before any of this hit the fan,” he said, sending her to a penthouse suite with an entourage who coached her on everything from staying on message—The investigation is ongoing. I can’t comment.—to how to lengthen her lashes most effectively.