Page 28 of Gilded Saint

We have an arrangement.

Those words continue nonstop in my head like an intrusive melody. I itch to combine shades of red on a palette, drench my brush, and flick the paint for a blood spatter effect. What does it say about my mindset that I am aching to mimic blood spatter?

I didn’t pack my clothes, nor did I know anyone was in the suite when I opened the bedroom door. How could I have expected he would rip my wedding dress to shreds when unbuttoning the back? If he’d taken his time, the strapless dress wouldn’t have fallen to my knees.

The light pink Chanel skirt suit hanging in the closet taunts me. It belongs on a dignified, proper woman twice my age. The outfit symbolizes the woman my mother wishes for me to be.

I’ll donate it after we arrive in London, since it’s nothing I would choose to wear. My mother packed it, but I packed the trunks with my clothes that were shipped to England.

Yes, this is an arrangement, and an odd one. But I need to focus on the positive. I am officially independent. The good news about the airport outfit is that it shouldn’t be a problem for Leo. The sleeveless silk top is demure and the skirt skims my knees.

Leo did me a favor, and I’ll do him one. I’ll do everything I can to stay out of his way, focus on my art, and build a career for myself. With luck, the arrangement will continue until I’m financially independent and have distanced myself enough from the family that when Leo and I separate, there will be no talk of my returning to Italy.

I always believed my father would look out for me, and with this arrangement, he did. It’s not the ideal scenario, but everything will work out. Day in and day out, perseverance is my friend. With perseverance, the snail made it to the ark. Are there any other truisms to call upon? Things could be much worse. That’s another one.

The iron has cooled, and I wrap the cord and stow it away. I exit the bathroom to dress in my travel suit…which, by the way, Mamma, no one wears travel suits anymore. My toes squeeze into the front of the heels, and I have to suck in my breath to button the skirt, but this is the last time I’ll be required to squeeze into an outfit. Come to think of it, I should toss the wedding dress in the rubbish. It’s ripped, and it made me look like a doll wrapped in meringue.

Dressed, I press my ear to the bedroom door. There are no sounds, so I crack it open and peer into the living area of the suite.

“Leo?”

A folded blanket lies on one end of the rumpled sofa where he slept. I would’ve been willing to sleep there, but he’d insisted.

Intellectually, I recognize he’s a good man. He agreed to help me, after all. But he’d been furious. His brown eyes darkened and his lips pressed together, and I feared he would lash out to teach me a lesson. Of course, he’s never given me a reason to fear him. Scarlet’s stories are in my head. I barely know Leo Sullivan. He’s not in the Lupi Grigi, but people say the syndicate is worse.

His reaction last night terrified and mortified me. He made me feel repulsive and dirty.

I press my palms over the front of my Chanel jacket, smoothing it.

“Leo?” I call again.

A piece of paper catches my eye at the same time there’s a knock on the door. I read the scrap of paper on the way to answer the hotel room door.

Willow,

I have some business to take care of out of town. Matthew will pick you up from the hotel at ten, will fly with you to London, and deliver you to my flat. Judy, the housekeeper, can assist with any of your needs.

Leo

I check my watch. It’s five minutes after ten.

He couldn’t knock and tell me?

I open the door and explain I’m running behind, then rush to gather everything. Matthew waits patiently by the hotel room door, arms folded in front of him, like an obedient security detail. He’s tall with dark hair and an olive complexion.

“I’m sorry,” I say as I approach the door with my suitcase and handbag. His gaze flits to the pile of white draping over the circular trash can by the decorative desk.

He takes the handle of my suitcase and wordlessly holds the door for me.

In case he doesn’t understand English—although that’s doubtful, given his occupation—I repeat myself in Italian. He remains mute.

At the airport, he scans the crowd at all times, at least, that is, until our flight departs. We’re flying first class, but it’s a short flight and not particularly decadent. He insists I take the window seat, not with words, but with gestures.

There are buds in his ears, and I’m not sure if they are hearing aids or communication devices. He’s not carrying a weapon that I can see, but based on his build and the way his arms never quite rest until we sit, I suspect his hands legally qualify as weapons.

Security isn’t a new concept for me. His dark trousers, white Oxford with the top button undone, and a black suit coat remind me of the wardrobe choice of the security team my father employs. Given it’s clear he has no intention of carrying on a conversation, I recline my seat and close my eyes. I didn’t sleep well last night, too startled and undone by Leo’s reaction to me in undergarments. I had more clothes on than if we’d met up at the beach to go swimming.

My brother assumed he was gay, but he said he’s not. If he’s attracted to women, or if he has sexual needs, he clearly has no intention of sating those needs with me. When he saw me, his nostrils flared and he looked almost feral.

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