Chapter 3
Vin diPietro sat on a silk-covered sofa in a living room decorated in gold, red and creamy white. The black marble floors were covered with antique rugs, the bookcases were filled with first editions, and all around his collection of crystal, ebony, and bronze statuary gleamed. But the real showstopper was the view of the city over to the right.
Thanks to a glass wall that ran the entire length of the room, Caldwell's twin bridges and all of its skyscrapers were as much a part of the decorations as the drapes and the floor coverings and the objets d'art. The sprawling vista was urban splendor at its best, a vast, glimmering landscape that was never the same, even though the buildings didn't change.
Vin's duplex in the Commodore took up all of the twenty-eighth and twenty-ninth floors of the luxury high-rise, for a total of ten thousand square feet. He had six bedrooms, a maid's suite, an exercise room, and a movie theater. Eight bathrooms. Four parking spaces in the underground parking garage. And inside everything was exactly as he wanted it, every square of marble, slab of granite, yard of fabric, plank of hardwood, foot of carpet - all of it had been handpicked from the best of the best by him.
He was ready to move out.
With the way things were going, he figured he'd be ready to hand over the keys to its next owner in another four months. Maybe three, depending on how fast the crews were at the construction site.
If this condo was nice, what Vin was building on the banks of the Hudson River was going to make the duplex look like subsidized housing. He'd had to buy up a half dozen old hunting lodges and camps to get the kind of acreage and shoreline he wanted, but everything had fallen into place. He'd razed the shacks, cleared the land, and dug a cellar hole big enough to play football in. The crew was framing now and working on the roof; then his fleet of electricians would install the house's central nervous system and his plumbers would put in the arteries. Finally, it would be the detail crap with thecounters and tiles, the appliances and fixtures, and the decorators.
It was all coming together, just like magic. And not only about where he would live.
In front of him, on the glass-topped table, was the velvet box from Reinhardt's.
As the grandfather clock in the hall struck midnight, Vin sat back into the sofa cushions and crossed his legs. He was not a romantic, never had been, and neither was Devina - which was only one of the reasons they were perfect together. She gave him his space, kept herself busy, and was always ready to hop on a plane when he needed her to. And she didn't want children, which was a huge plus.
He couldn't go there. Sins of the fathers and all that.
He and Devina hadn't known each other for all that long, but when it was right, it was right. Kind of like buying land to develop. You just knew as you stared over the ground that here is where I need to be building.
Looking out at the city from a perch high above so many others, he thought of the house he'd grown up in. Back then, his view had been of the crappy little two-story next door, and he'd spent a lot of nights trying to see past where he was from. Over the din of his mother and father's drunken fighting, the only thing he'd wanted was out. Out from under his parents. Out of that pathetic lower-middleclass neighborhood. Out of himself and what separated him from everyone else. And what do you know, that was exactly what had happened.
He infinitely preferred this life, this landscape. He'd sacrificed a lot to get up here, but luck had always been with him - like magic.
But then, the harder you worked, the luckier you got. And damn everything and everyone, this was where he was going to stay.
When Vin checked his watch again, forty-five minutes had passed. And then another half hour.
Just as he reached forward and palmed the velvet box, the click and release of the front door brought his head around. Out in the hall, stilettos clipped on the marble and came down toward him. Or passed him was more like it.
As Devina walked by the living room's archway, she was taking off her white mink, exposing a blue Herve Leger dress she'd bought with his money. Talk about knockout: Her body's perfect curves were showing those fabric bands who was in charge, her long legs had better lines than the red-soled Louboutins she had on, and her dark hair gleamed brighter than the crystal chandelier over her head.
Resplendent. As always.
"Where have you been?" he asked.
She froze and looked over at him. "I didn't know you were home."
"I've been waiting for you."
"You should have called." She had spectacular eyes, almond shaped and darker than her hair. "I would have come if you'd called."
"Thought I'd surprise you."
"You...don't do surprises."
Vin got to his feet and kept the box hidden within his palm. "How was your night?"
"Good."
"Where did you go?"
She folded the fur over her arm. "Just to a club."
As he came up to her, Vin opened his mouth, his hand tightening on what he'd bought for her. Be my wife. Devina frowned. "Are you okay?" Be my wife. Devina, be my wife.
He narrowed his eyes on her lips. They were puffier than usual. Redder. And for once she had no lipstick on.
The conclusion he slammed into teed off a brief, vivid memory of his mother and father. The pair of them were screaming at each other and throwing things, both drunk off their asses. The subject was what it always had been, and he could hear his father's raging voice clear as day: Who were you with? What the hell you been doing, woman?
After that, the next thing on the agenda would be his mother's ashtray banging off the wall. Thanks to all the practice she got, she'd had good arm strength, but the vodka tended to throw off her aim, so she hit his father's head only one out of every ten shots.
Vin slipped the ring box into the pocket of his suit coat. "You have a good time?"
Devina narrowed her eyes like she was having trouble judging his mood. "I just went out for a little bit."
He nodded, wondering whether her hair's tousled effect was styling or another man's hands. "Good. I'm glad. I'm just going to go do some work."
"Okay."
Vin turned and walked through the living room and into the library and down to his study. All the while, he kept his eyes on the walls of glass and the view.
His father had believed two things about women: You could never trust them; and they would walk all over you if you gave them the upper hand. And as much as Vin didn't want any legacy from that son of a bitch, he couldn't shake the memories he had of his dad.
The guy had always been convinced his wife was cheating on him - which had been hard to believe. Vin's old lady had bleached her hair only twice a year, sported circles under her eyes the color of thunderclouds, and had a wardrobe limited to a housecoat that she cleaned with the same frequency the Clairol box made it home. The woman never left the house, smoked like a bonfire, and had alcohol breath that could melt paint off a car.
Yet his father somehow thought men would be attracted to that. Or that she, who never lifted a finger unless there was a cigarette to light, regularly summoned the gumption to go out and find joes whose taste in chicks ran toward ashtrays and empties.
They'd both beaten him. At least until he'd gotten old enough to move faster than they could. And probably the kindest thing they did for him as parents was killing each other when he was seventeen - which was pretty f**king pathetic.
When Vin got to his study, he took a seat behind the marble-topped desk and faced off at his office away from the office. He had two computers, a phone with six lines on it, a fax, and a pair of bronze lamps. Chair was bloodred leather. Carpet was the color of the bird's-eye maple paneling. Drapes were black and cream and red.
Tucking the ring between one of the lamps and the phone console, he swiveled away from business and resumed his watch over the city.
Be my wife, Devina.
"I've changed into something more comfortable." Vin looked over his shoulder and got a load of his woman, who was now draped in see-through black.
He swiveled his chair around. "You certainly did."
As she came over to him, her br**sts swayed back and forth beneath the sheer fabric and he could feel himself harden. He'd always loved her br**sts. When she'd told him she wanted implants, he'd nixed that idea fast. She was perfect.
"I'm really sorry I wasn't here when you wanted me," she said, sweeping that translucent robe out and easing down onto her knees in front of him. "I truly am."
Vin lifted his hand and ran his thumb back and forth over her full lower lip. "What happened to your lipstick?"