Page 40 of Bitter Prince
My mother sized up my new apartment in the heart of Paris. The first rays of dawn flickered over the city, outlining the landmarks. Only I knew Reina’s apartment was a mere two blocks away.
I had only bought it a few months ago, and it was my mother’s first time visiting me in Paris. The location was part of my grand plan. I’d get close to my cinnamon girl, and then I’d use her against her bastard father by getting access to his safe. Dante and I had been trying to locate Romero’s safe for years without any success, and our mother’s desperation grew for the document she believed he had.
“Want some coffee, Mamma?”
“I’d rather have some tea,” she answered, making her way toward the kitchen. Fuck, if she was making herself comfortable, it’d be a longer conversation than I was in the mood for right now. “Want me to make it?”
I shook my head. “No, give me a second and I will.”
I went into the bedroom, dug out a plain white T-shirt and pulled it over my head, then returned to the kitchen only to find my mother already pulling out my kyusu—a traditional Japanese teapot.
“Mamma, let me.” I took the pot from her. “Sit down. I’m guessing you don’t want Earl Grey.”
She never wanted store-brand tea.
“I’d prefer sencha.”
I smiled. “Okay, sencha it is.”
“Start by adding the leaves to the teapot,” she instructed as I started preparing it. I couldn’t help but let out an amused breath. I’d fixed this tea for her hundreds of times, but she still couldn’t help issuing step-by-step instructions. “One teaspoon per cup. Then add boiling water. Only brew it for one to two minutes.”
Mamma was big on chakai, a tea ceremony that ritualized serving tea. She, much like most of my Japanese relatives and friends, believed serving tea to be an art form. In my household, it was just something to make my mother happy. Probably due to my upbringing in Italy.
As she recited instructions that were ingrained in me, my thoughts drifted back to Reina. The unfortunate truth was that when I was around that girl, I tended to forget my plan, my mother, and both our families. Maybe she put a spell on me, the way her mother had cast a spell on Tomaso Romero. It was something I used to tell myself when trying to understand why he’d promise to marry my mother, only to leave her and marry Grace Bergman. Well, that, and then there was the fact she was a world-famous movie star.
God, Buddha, Kami—Shinto gods that were revered by my Japanese ancestors—must be laughing at me, because it shaped Reina into the most perfect, beautiful package that any man on this earth could want.
From the moment we’d crossed paths again, something about the way she watched me brought a deep, unnerving fire out of me.
I’d be lying if I said that I didn’t like her unapologetic, quiet strength. The way she unabashedly asked me out to dinner. The way she stared at me, unashamed. And fuck if it hadn’t made me feel itchy as shit. The softness in her eyes reminded me of cobalt-blue skies and was an oasis that brought a strange kind of peace and contentment. The kind I had never known.
And her blush… that flush of her cheeks alone got me hard, which was wrong, considering her age and who she was. Yet here I was, thinking about her like it was my job, all the while going through with my plan to use her in the destruction of her father.
My mind whispered she was innocent. For some reason, she trusted me blindly. And that pissed me off even more because it made my conscience whisper things I didn’t want to hear.
Ten minutes later, I sat at the table in the kitchen as the sun rose higher, waiting and watching my mother sip her tea. In recent months—almost a year, actually—her skin had been free of bruises, but I contributed that to the fact that Father had moved on to other women. Or even possibly other families to backstab.
“Oba said you were with Reina Romero.” It was what I loved about my mother. She rarely beat around the bush.
“Yes.”
“I don’t want you to see her anymore.”
We watched each other in thick silence—a tense silence. My mother hadn’t told me what to do in almost two decades. She advised me, gave me recommendations, but she never gave me orders. I guess there was a first time for everything.
“I’m sorry, Mamma, but no.”
Several heartbeats passed before she said, “Are you dating her?”
I leaned back in the chair, studying her face as she sipped her tea. She didn’t look frazzled, but something was bothering her. And it wasn’t who I was or wasn’t dating.
“No.”Not yet.It’d be a lie if I said I didn’t like Reina. There was a softness and innocence about her that appealed to me. I couldn’t remember ever feeling innocent. The world was never roses and rainbows in my experience, but that girl behaved as though it was.
A sharp pang of guilt pierced through me, knowing that I’d use her to locate her papà’s safe locations so I could retrieve the document my mother so desperately wanted. It didn’t deter me from it though.
“Do you want to date her?” Nowthatwas the question of the century. The girl was… I searched for the right word, failing to find a single one that would adequately describe Reina Romero. The cinnamon girl that seemed to walk through life like a ray of sunshine.
“No.”Liar.
