I apologize if there are any awful typos in this. I had edited this twice. I was on the third time when a certain site freaked the f*** out and my changes weren't saved! Through angry tears, I tried to reconstruct the changes I had made to the best of my ability. I hope you enjoy the chapter and thank you for reading! :D
Daniella tapped on the door of her father's office before twisting the knob to go inside without waiting for a verbal invitation. Her father had called her here and was expecting her at this time so her arrival should not come as a surprise to him. However, the presence of Miles at this little meeting did come as a surprise to her. She stopped short after entering the room, blinking at him like a startled deer dazzled by the headlights of a car.
Miles Mayer stood behind her father's chair like a dutiful manservant, his hands held behind his back. The automatic pistol he always carried was displayed prominently against his ribs in its holster since he was not wearing his jacket to cover it. His eyes were averted, staring at something to his right. Or perhaps looking at nothing at all. Whatever the case, he made it clear he did not want to lay eyes on her.
"You wanted to see me," Daniella announced when her father continued shuffling papers on his desk.
Her father was distracted, totally oblivious of her proximity In contrast to Miles' more active and purposeful endeavor to ignore her.
"Yes. Yes, I did," her father stated as if baffled as to why he had wanted to see her. He patted the pockets of his jacket like he was searching for something. His deeply creased brow smoothed out in relief before he exclaimed 'aha!' triumphantly. He reached into the inside pocket of his jacket to withdraw a silver lighter engraved with his initials.
Daniella smiled when he flicked the vintage Zippo lighter open with a satisfying pop to light the cigarette hanging from his mouth. Her mother had given him that lighter as a peace offering of sorts when she confessed her unexpected pregnancy to him. Her father had told her that Moira had been terrified that he would be furious. He wasn't exactly thrilled upon learning that he was going to be a father, but once he got over the shock he could not have been happier. That lighter was the first and last present her mother ever gave him. Besides her, of course, he had said when recounting the events to her. Her smile broadened upon recalling the genuine affection in his voice when he had told her that story. There was always an underlying sadness in his eyes when he talked about her mother that made tears sting the backs of her eyeballs every time.
"There's a job I need you to do for me," he began, pausing with a decidedly dramatic flair while Miles lifted the brown leather briefcase onto the desk. "I have a delivery for a private collector."
Without having to be told, having done this many times before, Miles opened the case to reveal the contents.
"Private collector, huh?" Her eyes were drawn to the open briefcase that had been modified into a custom gun case with the use of black colored eggshell crate foam.
Two antique dueling pistols were nestled into the foam. Daniella carefully picked up one of the beautifully designed, handcrafted weapons to examine it more closely. It was heavy for its size, the barrel as long as her forearm, with a smooth and highly polished black walnut handle. "French, single shot, flintlock, rifled, .58 caliber, blued steel. Early 1800's?"
"Nicolas Noel Boutet made these. 1795 to be precise. You were close. I'm impressed," her father complimented her. "But then again, you've always known your guns. I'm surprised you're not a collector."
"She prefers to collect other things," Miles muttered, his eyes catching hers. The anger held in his eyes blatantly pushed home the underlying meaning of his words. "But those things are just as dangerous and explosive."
Daniella's eyes narrowed into slits of fury. She positioned the gun in her hand with her finger on the trigger aiming it at Miles who glowered at her without moving a muscle.
"It's not loaded," her father informed her, calming expelling a cloud of white smoke from his mouth.
"Damn," Daniella growled with disappointment. She returned the weapon to the case, gingerly pushing it into the space cut out for it.
"You know better than to play with weapons like that. Loaded or not," he admonished her lightly as if scolding her severely might hurt her feelings.
Miles slammed the lid of the briefcase closed, punching the brass locks with his thumbs to engage them. He stood the briefcase on its bottom side before pushing it across the desk toward her.
"The customer will be meeting you in the basement of the cigar shop. Will you pick me up another box of those cigars while you're there?"
"Sure, Daddy." She grasped the handle of the briefcase, lifting it from the desk.
"Baby?" her father called to her when her hand touched the doorknob. "Be careful and come back to me in one piece."
Daniella looked back over her shoulder, giving him a wink and a smile. "Always."
Daniel Monroe sighed heavily once the door closed behind his daughter. "Miles, I love that girl," he declared for no particular reason except to express the thoughts running around inside his head. "I worry about her."
Yeah, me too. On both accounts, Miles thought to himself without uttering a word.
~..'..~
'Hey, handsome, want to run an errand with me? I have a job to do,' Daniella signed to Nic who was waiting for her in the hallway.
Nicolas answered with a singular nod. His hand covered hers when he reached to take the briefcase from her. There eyes met, and he smiled, an awkward lopsided grin, that looked wholly out of place on his face.
The extraordinary sight of him smiling made her heart skid to a stop before it tripped and slammed into her sternum to start beating again. Her free hand grasped the front of his black t-shirt, wadding the material in her fist while she pulled him down the few inches required to reach his lips. The kiss started out rough and passionate, their lips meeting with bruising pressure before separating quickly. They immediately came together for a more tender and equally fervent kiss.
Nicolas pulled back from her, pushing his fingers through her hair, following the curve of her ear with his fingertips. His hand slid down her neck to rest on her shoulder. When she leaned forward to kiss him, he pushed her back, shaking his head.
"You're right," she sighed in agreement. "We should go or we'll never leave."
"Later," he assured her.
Her fingers uncurled from the handle so he could take complete hold of the case. Her fingers brushed across his, making her face flush from the flash of heat that warmed her inside and out from her head to her toes.
"All right, Nicky. Business before pleasure. We'll make this delivery then I'll take you out on a date. Deal?"
His quick nod of affirmation made her smile broaden until her lips separated revealing her straight white teeth. She wore the big, stupid, toothy grin all the way to the meeting.
"My, my don't you look happy today," the store owner greeted her when she walked into the cigar shop.
Daniella self-consciously pushed a lock of her hair behind her ear while a faint blush colored her cheeks.
The shopkeeper, an older man with white hair, sharp gray eyes, and a thick handle bar mustache, chuckled like a genial grandfather. He looked like he should sing in a barber shop quartet for a hobby. His store had been a part of the Ergastulum landscape since she was a child. Her father always brought her along when he came to buy cigarettes or supplies for his cherished lighter.
"Mr. Hartsell, my father sent me here for a business meeting."
"Through there," he said, pointing to a door to his right.
At first the door was barely visible, blending in with the dark wood paneling of the walls surrounding it.
"Be careful. The stairs are steep," he cautioned her.
"Do you have anymore of those Cuban cigars I bought last time?"
"Of course. I ordered more because I was sure your father would like them. Two boxes of cigarettes too?"
"Yeah. Thanks."
"I'll have them waiting for you."
Nicolas stepped in front of her to open the door to the basement. He walked down the stairs first, allowing her to use his shoulder to maintain her balance while traversing the narrow, slanted steps made even more treacherous by her high heels.
Daniella wore a black pencil skirt with white pin stripes and long sleeved white button down business shirt. Wanting to appear professional yet casual, she had rolled the sleeves up to her elbows and forgone wearing the jacket. Her one fashion mistake was wearing the black, patent leather peep toe pumps with five inch heels. The flats would have been much better and would not have put her at risk for a twisted ankle or worse yet, a bad spill down the stairs. But then, Nicolas, her hero, was allowing her to use him as a human handrail to steady herself to keep her from falling.
Nicolas was dressed all in black: BDU pants, t-shirt, and tactical jacket along with his heavy black military boots. The white wrapped handle of the katana sticking out above his shoulder sat in stark contrast to his dark attire. Despite his short stature, his hard set face and quiet demeanor made him quite an intimidating figure as evidenced by the startled expressions on the faces of the three people waiting in the basement room.
The room was designed like a rich and elegant study fit for a mansion. Floor to ceiling bookshelves lined three walls. A large square table made of deep colored almost black wood sat between the four dark brown leather upholstered smoking chairs arranged facing each other.
An older gentleman with short steel gray hair and a neatly trimmed beard and mustache sat in one of the chairs. He was wearing a crimson and black smoking jacket over pressed gray trousers that clad his delicately crossed legs. A thin stream of white smoke rose from the cigar held loosely in one hand. In the other hand, he held a snifter of brandy. He looked like a picture out of a magazine advertising the relaxation habits of the stereotypical rich and ridiculous.
Completing the picture of an old man with new money, a still life of elitism at its finest, standing beside him like a decoration was a pretty young woman. She was probably the same age as Daniella. Her strawberry blond hair had been brushed into smooth waves and hid one of her sleepy looking, heavily made up, brown eyes. Diamonds dripped from her neck and wrist, and her lovely figure was wrapped in red silk.
A tall, wide man with a bald head and black suit, stood behind the man's chair and next to the woman. He was wearing sunglasses and a gun just like a good bodyguard should.
Daniella wanted to laugh. It was like seeing a living joke, a cliched example of bored privilege, people with too much money and too much time. She sighed and rolled her eyes. Oh, well, money was money even when it came from painfully pretentious people.
"Miss Monroe?" the man inquired, his voice surprisingly smooth and pleasant.
She had expected his voice to be gravelly and grating on the ear.
"I am. And you are..."
"Blackburn. Harold Blackburn," he inserted into the audible blank she had left open for him. He stood to his feet, extending his hand toward her.
Daniella shook his hand. The palm was dry, soft, and smooth. He had never done a real day's work in his life. Nor did he shoot a gun on a regular basis. He would have had callouses on his fingers from gripping the gun but his hand was baby soft and unsullied. Actually, he had probably never fired a gun - and never would. He was a collector. The guns would be for display only, a conversation piece at cocktail parties. What a waste.
By contrast, she was a connoisseur. Connoisseurs immersed themselves in every aspect of their chosen vice. The kick of gun when fired, feeling the force that pushed against the hands and thrust back the shoulders, was to be savored. The distinctive crack or roar of the gun, unique to each weapon. The brilliant flash of the muzzle upon firing. Feeling the weight and balance of the gun in the hand. All of these combined to create a full range sensory experience. Cleaning a weapon after a satisfying shooting session was a peaceful, reverential ritual that once again afforded one a plethora of sensory input. The sweet scent of the gun oil, the rasp of the cloth wiping away traces of gunpowder residue, disassembling and reassembling the weapon like fitting together the pieces of a three dimensional puzzle. She relished every last nuance of guns. Her nose wrinkled in disgust when she gazed at the presumptuous collector.
"Please, my dear, call me, Harold," he gushed. He held her hand for a longer than polite time for introductions while giving her a languid and salacious once over with his nearly colorless blue eyes.
"Mr. Blackburn, here is your merchandise," she said, motioning to Nicolas to set the briefcase on the table.
Nicolas opened the case for display in the same manner Miles had used in her father's office.
"Won't you have a seat, Miss Monroe? Lottie here will be happy to get you a drink if you wish."
With a glare at Daniella punctuated by a haughty sniff, Lottie raised her cute little button nose into the air. She most certainly would NOT be happy to get a drink for the guest who was stealing her boyfriend's attention.
"I'd rather stand. I'm here to conduct a business transaction," Daniella reminded him in a steely voice. "This is not a social visit."
Blackburn's smile slipped before he quickly positioned it back on his face in all of its lurid glory. His eyes slid away from Daniella to examine the contents of the case. He picked up one of the guns, carefully inspecting it. Squeezing one eye closed, he stared down the barrel with the other.
Moron, Daniella thought, rolling her eyes once more like an angsty teenager.
"Very nice," Mr. Blackburn commented, his pale blue eyes dancing when they met hers.
Daniella was not sure if he was talking about the guns or her.
"Miss Monroe, you're a beautiful woman."
Ugh! He was talking about her. Mr. Blackburn was annoying her by constantly using her name. Although he was using a title rather than her first name, which she had purposely not given him, the way he said it still sounded lecherous, making her feel dirty.
The already miffed Lottie scoffed indelicately, thoroughly put out with her flirtatious boyfriend at this point. Crossing her arms over her generous chest that he had no doubt paid for, she resorted to sulking like an infuriated toddler. Taking into account their vast age difference, dear Lottie was nothing more than a mere child in comparison to her lover.
"There's something I would like to know," Mr. Blackburn proclaimed, returning the gun to the case. "What would make a woman like you participate in such an ugly business?"
"I was born into it," she admitted with a hint of pride in her voice. "One day, this ugly business will be mine."
"Aw, nepotism is alive and well," he murmured.
"There is nothing wrong with creating a successful business and grooming a child to be a more than capable successor," she replied evenly. It took every ounce of self-control she possessed not to lash out with a few choice words and venomous insults. Her eyes flicked over to the pouting Lottie before returning to the arrogant old man. "You're not embarrassed to be dating a woman who people will mistake for your granddaughter?"
Lottie actually snickered, pleased that Daniella could not be less interested in his advances.
Mr. Blackburn clucked his tongue disapprovingly, shaking his head as if disappointed by her kindly spoken but spiteful insult. "No reason to take offense, my dear. I did not mean for your inevitable inheritance of a successful empire built by your father to be taken as a personal slight. Shall I take you to dinner to make amends for my unintentional transgression?"
Daniella's whole body tensed when Harold Blackburn reached for her with both hands. His bodyguard, who looked like a Secret Service Agent on steroids, slid his hand into his jacket, possibly reaching for his gun. Nicolas swiftly and soundlessly moved forward, reaching back for the handle of his sword. Daniella pressed her hand to his chest to still him when Mr. Blackburn froze with his hands outstretched in midair.
"Call off your dog," Daniella ordered the man. "If you don't, my friend here will cut off his head before he can squeeze off a single round."
"Gerald, stand down," Blackburn commanded him. Sweat beaded on his wrinkled brow. "I was merely going to shake the young lady's hand to complete the deal. Now, about that dinner - "
"Mr. Blackburn, I regret to inform you that I have other plans for this evening. If you will give me the agreed upon sum for your merchandise, I will be going so you can continue with your day as well." Her voice was stern, businesslike, remaining calm and indicating no threat. She only wanted to get the money and go. Casting a glance at Lottie, she said, "Besides, Mr. Blackburn, you already have a lovely young lady to take to dinner."
Lottie gave her a brilliant smile. The girl was so pretty and could do so much better. But money was a powerful aphrodisiac to some.
"Gerald. The money."
Gerald finally extracted his hand from under the lapel of his black dress coat. Thankfully, there was no gun in it. His eyes stayed on Nicolas who still gripped the handle of his katana. Lowering his bulky body by bending at the knees, he reached down for the black attache case that held the money. He picked it up, stiffly raising his arm. Mr. Blackburn snatched the case, glowering at the over-reactive man. Someone would no doubt be in big trouble later.
"Here you are, Miss Monroe. It's all there, but you're welcome to count it."
"That's not necessary."
Her father had taught her long ago not to count money in front of a customer. It was just rude. Besides, if someone was so stupid as to short change an arms dealer they deserved every bullet that would be coming to them later. She waved her hand toward Nicolas, indicating to Mr. Blackburn that he should pass the case to her companion and not her.
"In the future, if I should require assistance with obtaining something that strikes my fancy, may I contact you?" Mr. Blackburn shoved his hands into the deep pockets of his velvet robe in an attempt to pour on the charm of an innocent young boy. He had not been innocent or a young boy for a very, VERY long time.
"You are more than welcome to contact my father. However, you should know there are certain tastes that my father does not cater to. With that being said, I will be leaving, Mr. Blackburn. Daniel Monroe thanks you for your business and looks forward to serving you in the future," she said with an air of snobbery. Her low voice and clipped tone indicated in no uncertain terms that this business meeting was officially over.
Nicolas followed behind her, walking backwards to keep his eyes on the volatile Gerald and predatory Mr. Blackburn. At the foot of the staircase, he turned to face her back, putting one hand on her hip and the other flat on her lower back. His large hand pressed into the small of her back keeping her balanced while urging her up the stairs.
Upon returning to the shop, Daniella politely conversed about the weather with Mr. Hartsell while paying for the cigars and cigarettes. She would give one of the boxes of cigarettes to Worick. Worick had his own money and could buy his own smokes, but she liked buying them for him. She enjoyed committing little acts of kindness for him and Nicolas both.
With the promise of returning in a couple of weeks for more cigars, they left the cigar shop. Although she still felt a little queasy from the encounter with Mr. Blackburn, her stomach growled angrily at her in a verbal demand to be fed.
"Hungry?" Daniella asked Nic at the car.
Nicolas's head bobbed up and down enthusiastically. He must be starving. That was the most animated reaction he'd had all day.
Daniella stashed the smokes and briefcase in the trunk of the car. Taking Nic by the hand, she led him across the street to the diner.
"Hi, honey, how are ya?" the waitress cheerily greeted them at the door. She was the same one who had served them last time they ate here.
Grabbing two laminated menus from the plastic bin attached to the counter under the cash register, she led them to a booth in the corner away from the few other people in the small restaurant.
Embarrassed for not getting her name last time, Daniella glimpsed at the square white name tag on the blond woman's cotton candy pink uniform. Fiona was stamped into the plastic in black block letters. A Scottish name like her mother's.
"I like the new uniforms."
"Just got 'em today," Fiona proudly announced. "You two want the same thing as last time?" She smacked her gum and blew a bubble before giving them both a big grin.
"I can't believe you remembered. Yeah, that sounds fantastic."
"This time I'll bring you one cherry coke with two straws. I'll give you as many refills as you need. Your little boyfriend is really cute," she complimented, giving Daniella a nudge and a wink before trotting off to the kitchen.
Daniella blushed and giggled like a schoolgirl in love. She hadn't felt like this in...well, ever. Even when she was in love with Romeo, their relationship had not been so innocent and carefree. So right. Thinking back, her romance with Romeo was rushed and forced, a mutual obsession.
'What was that about?' Nicolas communicated with fast hand motions that showed his impatience.
Daniella waved her hand dismissively. A furious glare from Nicolas's dark eyes prompted her to give him an answer. She quickly signed, 'Nothing.'
It didn't seem to bother him to be left out of the loop of conversation where Worick was concerned but in matters pertaining to her, he did not like not knowing everything that was going on. He flattened his palms on the table, swinging his gaze away from her face.
Obviously that answer did not please him. He must feel that she was keeping something from him. She reached across the table, laying her hands on top of his.
"Hey," she said aloud when his eyes fastened to her lips. "The waitress said you were cute." Her fingers curled around the edges of his hands. "I better hang on tight so she doesn't steal you away from me."
"You've got nothing to worry about," he told her in slow, scrupulously formed words.
"You two are adorable," Fiona commented when she sat their drink down between their hands.
"Thank you. I think." Daniella laughed.
"Your food will be out in a minute, kiddos."
Daniella leaned forward to take a sip from the straw. Taking the second straw between her thumb and forefinger, she held it toward Nicolas giving him the hint to drink. The corner of his mouth curled up in an amused little sideways smirk before he dipped his head to take the straw between his lips. Her hand returned to rest on top of his while they sipped the soda together like a lovestruck couple from a bygone era which matched the whole atmosphere of the diner.
If only they lived in a more innocent and carefree time like that. Maybe she would still have her mother. Her thumb brushed over the back of Nic's hand. Perhaps the man who held her heart wouldn't have been born addicted to a drug that was slowly killing him but would only make him die faster if he didn't take it. God, what a horrible dilemma.
Sadness covered her like a cloud making her feel chilled and gloomy. Nic's hand turned over under hers to grasp it in an effort to comfort her when tears glazed her eyes making them shiny.
"Here ya go, two burgers all the way and - " Fiona froze with the plates in mid air. "Oh, honey, what's wrong?"
"Oh, nothing. I was just thinking. Too much," Daniella added with an awkward chuckle in an effort to lift the mood. "You're name made me think of my mother. Her name was Moira. You have a beautiful name."
"Thank you, sweetie." She set the plates down on the table. "Hey, I'll bring you a brownie sundae for dessert. Chocolate always makes me feel better."
"Yeah, that would be great. But add it to the tab, please."
"Nah, my treat. Besides, you two are my favorite customers, and I want you come back to see me again and again." The waitress tossed her an infectious grin.
Daniella found herself smiling despite the tears that blurred her vision.
"I'll bring you another drink." Fiona took the empty glass from the table and walked away.
Daniella attempted to pull her hands out of Nic's, but he held on tight.
"Hey, Daniella," he called to bring her attention to his face.
"Yeah, Nic." Her eyes connected with his that held the soft, ardent expression she had seen in their black depths precious few times. Each time she saw it, that look made butterflies take flight in her belly. He affected her so deeply that it almost hurt.
"I l-l-l- " he stuttered helplessly. He pressed his lips together, aggravated with his inability to form the words he wanted to say. Leaning forward, he took a sip of the drink. Once he swallowed hard to push down the lump in his throat, he inhaled deeply then tried to form the words again.
Daniella's body tensed, her jaw muscles and tongue straining to assist him with forming the words. She felt like a rubber band stretched to its limit and about to snap when he opened his mouth.
"I l-l-like you," he stammered, his eyes locking with hers. "I really like you. A lot," he added, squeezing her hands while studying her face as if he expected her to be disappointed with his heartfelt yet clumsily delivered confession of love.
"Oh, Nic," she gasped, refusing to allow her tears to fall lest he see them as proof of letting her down.
The words had been so difficult for him to speak not just for physical reasons but due to the emotional motivation prompting him to say them. Daniella placed her feet flat on the floor, pushing her body upwards into a weird standing/crouching position to reach him across the top of the table. Her lips pressed to his for a kiss.
I really like you. A lot.
No poetic prose. No sappy declarations. No promises made that would inevitably be broken. Those few plain words, painstakingly pronounced, had been the sweetest ones she had ever heard.