Relieved to escape Eric, for now at least, I head to the elevator. I look at the garment bag now draped over my forearm. A small lace ribbon catches my attention. Lifting it up, I notice there is a small gift bag attached to it. Before I look to see what is in the bag, I untie the ribbon that secures the handles with a note attached to it.
On the front of the note there is a picture of a large, golden moon in the background of a steep, darkened hill surrounded by a pumpkin patch. Admiring the detail of the watercolor design, I see a small arrow in the bottom corner. I flip it over, revealing a handwritten note.
Please, wear this tonight. Do not try to open, as nothing will be able to. Only I have the key.
Carmine Moretti
Chapter23
Sienna
Seriously?Don’t try to open it, only I have the key?
What kind of weird, poetic nonsense is that? Obviously, he knows nothing about me, because once I am told not to do something, it only fuels my fire to do so that much more. I have lived my entire life with people trying to tell me what to do, and the rebel deep within my soul has had enough. So, if he tells me not to try to open whatever is in this gift bag, then I guess the first order of business when I get up to the apartment is to try to open whatever I shouldn’t be opening.
As soon as I enter the apartment, I toss my purse and the garment bag on the floor as I begin to tear at the bag, unintentionally ripping it. Curiosity swarms inside of me, wanting to know what tricks this unpredictable man has up his sleeve now.
The bag is so light; it feels like it is empty. I fish my hands inside, trying to feel for what it could be in it that adds barely any weight to the bag. Moving my hand inside, the feel of cold, delicate metal brushes up against my fingertips, unexpectedly causing a tingling sensation starting to work its way down my center. Desire begins to dance with my peaked curiosity, blurring lines that I shouldn’t cross.
Gently grabbing hold of what feels to me like a thin chain, I carefully glide it out of the bag, revealing a beautiful, heart-shaped locket. There are intricate etchings all throughout the front and back on the jewelry making it look like an antique.
I scan to see where the latch is to open the locket. Two small tabs stick out on the side. I try to grasp them, but my fingers slip. Scanning the kitchen for something small enough to nudge the locket open, I see nothing. I try again with my fingers, but to no avail, they slip once more.
Defeated, I grab the garment bag from the floor, and with the locket in hand, I go to my room to get changed.
Standing in front of the mirror, I watch my reflection as I slip into the dress that was hand-selected for me. I scoff at the thought, but as I seal myself inside the dress as I bring the zipper upwards, I am in awe of the delicate fabric.
I do a side spin, admiring how fabric caresses my every curve. A flush of heat stirs in my middle, traveling down my warming front. I notice the same woodsy scent of cologne that Carmine wore in the office lingering ever so slightly on the fabric, making me wonder if he hand-delivered the dress to the car.
A tingling sensation overtakes my body as I am temporarily lost in the taboo reverie of my now boss’ hands on the fabric that adorns my body. Taking in my silhouette once more, I feel proud of the woman who stares back at me. She has been through hell and deserves whatever this night has in store for her.
If Mama were still here, she would tell me to not be foolish, to act like a lady. The difference is, her definition and mine of what a lady is couldn’t be more opposite. Mama preached that a true lady needed to always be the pinnacle of perfection. Standing in the background while society and men tell her what to feel, what to think, what to do. To me, however, a lady is to be whatever the fuck she wants to be. She can fuck whoever she wants to fuck and shouldn’t care about the opinions of others.
I go to put on the gift from Carmine when I hear the front door to the apartment creak open. Startled, I toss the necklace in my purse and slowly inch toward my bedroom door. I place my ear on the wood, trying to hear what is happening on the other side. I hear shuffling and slamming of drawers. Then, I hear Nessa talking. Relieved it's her and not Eric, or even worse, an intruder, I relax and head to the kitchen to see her.
Head hung low; she scans the drawers of her desk frantically, not acknowledging me entering the kitchen.
“Where the fuck is it?” she mutters to herself, exasperated.
I walk closer to Nes to help her find whatever she is looking for. Before I can offer her any help, my heels click against the old wood, causing her to finally look up from whatever has her all frazzled.
She subtly scans me from head to toe, bringing her hands to her hips. “Well, you look nice.” She seems surprised to see me so dressed up. Nes has known me long enough to know that I am a t-shirt and leggings girl, through and through.
“Thanks, I’m having dinner with someone.” I ignore the judgment I’m detecting from her as she is still studying my dress, as if it’s going to help her find what she was looking for just moments before.
“Dressed like that? Must be fancy.”
“Yea, I guess. Carmine gave it to me.”
“Wait a minute, Carmine who?” she asks, making it clear she already knows the answer to her own question. The look in her eyes has shifted from Nessa my friend to Nessa the cop.
Her arms move from her hips to crossing in front of her as she begins to pace. A habit she formed in college when she was trying to talk herself out of confronting the girl who stole her date at a party we went to. Except now, it looks like Carmine is the object of her anger.
“Are you talking about Carmine Moretti as in the sketchy CEO of Marked Inc., Carmine? Yea, he left that detail out last night at The Sandy Claws.” Nessa says as she rolls her eyes, still pacing.
“Ok, first of all, I had no idea that was Carmine last night at the bar, and neither did you.” I don’t know why I feel like I need to defend myself, but again, cop Nessa is very different than my friend. Once she is onto something, that’s it, she won’t stop until every loose end is tied tightly in a bow of whatever design she deems appropriate.
Uncrossing her arms, she heads back to her desk, continuing her search as she talks.
