Page 31 of Tainted Princess
CHAPTER EIGHT
Francesca
The skinny concierge, Arnold, stared down at me, a bored look on his face, as he repeated himself for the third time.
“I’m sorry, miss, but I simply cannot let you into a suite without proof that you have permission to enter the premises.”
I sighed, trying very hard to keep my polite smile in place, but the smell of lilies from the giant flower arrangement on the desk beside us was making my head swim. I took a calming breath, forcing back the memories of funerals and caskets, and attempted to use my feminine wiles on snarly Arnold.
“I understand, and completely respect your policy, but you see, I do live here. I just moved in this afternoon, and I neglected to get a key from my husband before he left for work. This is a simple misunderstanding.”
“Why don’t you call him and have him bring you the key?” Arnold asked reasonably.
But that was the thing.
I had no idea where Enzo was or how to get in touch with him. After he’d basically fled the apartment earlier, I finished unpacking my one measly little suitcase, then wandered around the place, peeking in cupboards and looking in drawers, trying to get a sense of my new husband and the life he led.
To call the place a bachelor pad was generous. It was basically empty. Oh sure, there was furniture and dishes, but there was absolutely nothing personal anywhere. Not a photo, or a memory, not even a battered paperback laying around and gathering dust. There was nothing in the house to indicate who Enzo was as a person, which I found very strange.
So, with nothing left to hold my interest inside, I showered and dressed, then headed back to the street, hopping in a cab and getting to work.
You see, once I got over the panic of being married to a man I didn’t know, I had convinced myself to see this as an opportunity. While I might not know Enzo, he also didn’t know me. This was a chance for me to reinvent myself, not just as a woman, but as a businesswoman. It was time to start using all the skills my father had taught me, and the streets of Las Vegas seemed like the perfect place to start.
First thing I needed to do was secure myself transportation. In New York, anywhere I couldn’t get by subway was easily accessed by one of the seemingly infinite taxis in town. But as I stood on the street outside Enzo’s strangely designed apartment building, I realized that getting around town in Vegas was going to require my own wheels. So, when I was finally able to flag down a ride, that was my first stop: a car dealership.
When I asked the driver, an adorable elderly man named George who called me dollface and I couldn’t even find it in me to mind, where I should go to buy a decent vehicle, he told me that a woman of my ‘beauty and authority’ should not just have any mode of transportation, but the best available. I was more than a little surprised when he took me to the Range Rover dealership. Growing up, my father had always been a Cadillac man, but as I strolled the lot with the salesman, his balding head shining under the desert sun, I certainly appreciated the smaller body of the Velar model. It was sleek and almost feminine, looking a bit like a predator crouched on the lot, waiting to pounce.
I liked that. A lot.
After a test drive—during which I may or may not have had my little bald friend shitting his pants—I sat in his office and assembled the exact vehicle I wanted. Paint, leather, engine—all of it.
I had never had anything of my own before, all my worldly possessions having come from either my father or my grandfather. Nothing had ever truly been mine, and as I signed on the dotted line, the pride that filled me was almost overwhelming.
Paying for it in fullin cash? That was even better.
Knowing it would take a couple of days before the car would be ready, and having been promised delivery when it was, I headed off to my next destination, the bank. My new buddy George had been happy enough to keep the meter running for me while I shopped, and he chatted amiably about the sordid history of Las Vegas as he drove me to the bank. I laughed to myself as he carried on about the big bad mobsters who funded the early casinos with bloody Family money.
Walking into the bank, my black slacks and prim blouse had me looking like a Sunday school teacher, but, like always, they did the trick. I had barely cleared the entrance before a man in a cheap suit approached me, his slick smile making my skin crawl, but I covered my baser reaction with a trained smile and let him lead me to his office where he insisted that he could help me ‘personally’.
I had bank accounts, based in New York, of course, and they were very full, if I did say so myself. My work for my father had come with the same kind of paychecks that any other Made Man would receive, even if no one knew but him. But I had a plan here in the desert, and that meant distancing myself from my family, starting with separating my money.
When I had turned twenty-one, my father began moving his legitimate business holdings into a shell corporation in my name. He knew that the possibility of federal prison was real—and how fucking right he turned out to be—and he wanted both his investments and his daughter protected. Seeing as how I was the brains behind most of the moves he had been making these last few years, it didn’t seem like a bad idea to me either.
But now that I was out of the state, I couldn’t keep an eye on things like I used to. My grandfather had no idea about the work we had been doing together, and I wasn’t about to out myself to him. So, for now, I was moving funds around and just allowing things to carry on as they had. I would be in touch with my father’s business manager, Ronald, in a few days, but until then, I was planning new moves, and that would take time.
When I finished at the bank, I made my way to an electronics store, picking up a second cell phone for my new business ventures. I wanted to hit a copy and print store later as well, to make some…promotional materials. I would be using the same image that Ricki had inked onto my left shoulder blade for all my business dealings; I was starting to think of it as a talisman.
Thinking of the tattoo brought to mind the dull ache that had been my constant companion since I left Ricki’s shop last night, but it wasn’t anything I was worried about. I might not have had a tattoo before, but the pain was nothing compared to the fractured eye socket I received in a fight a few years back, and I had gotten several other injuries over the years that were even worse.
I actually kind of relished in the throbbing ache in my back, knowing that it came from the very first choice I had made for myself in this new life. There was a simple kind of pride associated with my tattoo, even if the ink Ricki had used was only black light reflective, and therefore next to impossible to see with the naked eye.
The irony of that first choice being invisible, much like all the other true aspects of my personality, was not lost on me.
As we drove around the city, I continued to chat with George, subtly quizzing him on the state of the city and what areas I might start asserting my influence in without too much resistance.
Through George I learned that the Strip was, for the most part, secure for a woman to move around on at all times of the day or night. You could find any sort of drugs you wanted, if you knew where to look, and George, acting like a benevolent grandfather, made sure to tell me exactly which places to avoid.
“Listen, dollface,” he said, his watery eyes meeting mine in the rear-view mirror. “Pretty little thing like you? You stick to the Strip and the sprawl. There are some fancy places out there in the ‘burbs, real posh-like, you get me? You stay away from the dirty joints on the fringes, and you’ll do just fine.”
