The Banker Page 14

  “This bed isn’t big enough for the both of us.”

  “You can just sleep on me.”

  She propped herself up on her elbow. “Do you always try to sleep over when a woman asks you to leave?”

  No. Because I’d never tried to stay. I kicked the sheets back and rose to my feet.

  She stayed in bed and pulled the sheets to her shoulder. “Good night.”

  I stood naked at her bedside, shocked once again. “You aren’t going to walk me out?”

  “You know where the front door is.”

  I always thought I was an asshole, but it looked like I met my match. “You need to lock the door after I leave.”

  “I’m not scared of anyone. I have a gun, and I’m not afraid to use it.”

  I lingered at her bedside, having no reason to stay and not a word to utter. Her indifference confounded me. Her coldness seared me. Any woman would kill for my attention, but it didn’t mean a damn thing to her.

  I left her bedroom and grabbed my clothes downstairs. I pulled everything on then checked my phone. Of course, there were ten missed calls from various people. One of them was Bates.

  I walked out the door and got into my Bugatti, my security team spread out around the perimeter over the course of a mile. I drove away and called my brother back.

  “Where are you?” he asked the second he picked up.

  It was pitch black outside, and I headed back to Tuscany instead of my place in Florence. I didn’t get to drive as much as I wanted, so it was a rare treat. With no music, I could hear the sound of the powerful engine as it carried me across the beautiful landscape. “What do you want?”

  “Whenever you don’t answer me, that means you’re doing something you shouldn’t—or doing someone you shouldn’t.”

  “Don’t worry about my dick, and I won’t worry about yours.”

  “You don’t need to worry about mine—because it’s not stupid.”

  “That’s debatable.”

  “Anyway, rumor has it the Beck Brothers are going bankrupt. Their adventures in oil reservoirs have gone belly up. Information isn’t public, but I always have one man on the inside.”

  I’d loaned them half a billion dollars to fund the project with a hefty interest rate in return. Their agenda seemed so simple that I was dumbfounded they could screw it up. “Hopefully, your informant is wrong.”

  “He’s not, Cato. They’ve spent half the investment, and apparently, it’s gone. We’ll be lucky to get the second half back.”

  “They’ll recoup what they lost—one way or another.”

  “That’s a lot of money, Cato—even for us.”

  I drove with one hand on the steering wheel and noticed the lights from the cars behind me. It was easy to spot me in the middle of nowhere because a dozen cars packed with men and weapons accompanied me everywhere I went. Even when I was alone, I was never really alone. “People trust our money because we always make our clients pay. It keeps us liquid. We will get that money back one way or another. I’ll see to it.”

  “Or we could execute them.”

  “Killing them is too easy. Putting them to work is more practical.”

  “But we’ve got to kill them anyway.”

  Everyone knew that was a risk once they borrowed money from me. I had the cash to make their investments come true, but they were bartering with their lives. If they failed to make good on their promises, they would face torture and death. There were no exceptions. “Yes. I’ll do it myself.” I’d killed so many people it didn’t faze me. I didn’t lose a moment of sleep over it. Most of my business associates were criminals anyway, so it wasn’t like I murdered innocent people. I did business with the rest of the world, families that needed a loan to buy their first home, but that was a completely separate side of my business. That was the public version, the one that was written about in the newspapers. The underworld was where I made my real money. I was a glorified gangster in a pretty suit.

  “I’ll do some more digging and let you know.”

  “Alright.” The phone call seemed finished, so I was about to hang up.

  “Were you with the art buyer?”

  My finger hovered over the button. “I’m not sharing her, so stop asking.”

  He chuckled. “I’m not interested in sharing. I’m interested in getting rid of her. If she turns out to be the worm I think she is—”

  “I’ll put a bullet in her brain myself.”

  I sat in the conference room alone and took my time enjoying my cigar. The smoke filled my lungs with pleasurable electricity before it slowly filtered out of my nose. I’d finished paperwork, emails, and phone calls, but I was in no rush to leave. Time passed slowly, and I sat there, thinking about nothing.

  I wasn’t just the richest man in this country, but I was also the youngest to accomplish the feat. My mother never had to worry about money ever again, and my brother and I would never have to struggle for the rest of our lives. Sitting at the top of the world should give me a beautiful view, a climax that never faded.

  But it felt bland, boring, and artificial.

  Was this depression? Was this hopelessness? I didn’t have a single complaint to make, but yet, I felt empty inside.

  Why?

  Giovanni knocked before he opened the door. “Miss Siena is here to see you, sir.”

  I kept smoking my cigar. “Send her in.” I’d forgotten she was stopping by that afternoon. Decorating my home was a large task that would take her at least a month, and every time she moved on from one room to the next, she needed my approval.

  She stepped inside a moment later, dressed in black with white pearls. Her elegance was respectable, but anytime I looked at her, I pictured that hourglass shape, those luscious tits, and that wet pussy that could service my dick like a pro. Her folder was under her arm, and she helped herself to the seat on my left, remaining as professional as ever.

  I didn’t put out my cigar like a gentleman. I continued to draw the smoke into my lungs as I stared at her, admired the woman who was so indifferent to me it was a miracle she remembered my name.

  She crossed her legs then opened the folder on the table.

  I waited for her to tell me to put out the cigar.

  “You seem moody today.” She flipped to the correct page then clicked the top of her pen.

  “I’m always moody.”

  Today, her hair wasn’t pulled back in the rigid librarian look. It was curled and thick, framing her face and reaching past her shoulders. Pearl earrings were in her lobes, and her bright red lipstick was the perfect shade for her skin tone. She was a gorgeous woman whether her hair was up or down. She could be dressed in a potato sack with no makeup, and I would still find her fascinating. Something about this woman drove me wild, but I hadn’t figured out what that quality was.

  She watched me bring the cigar to my lips and puff the smoke into the air.

  I waited for her to tell me to put it out.

  “You’re being awfully rude.”

  “Am I?” I set it in the ashtray, letting the smoke rise to the ceiling.

  “You don’t offer me a cigar?”

  I did my best to hide the surprise from my face, but I couldn’t. Instead of nagging me to be healthier, she wanted to join in on the fun. I grabbed another cigar and placed it in my mouth to light it. Then I handed it over.

  She held it between her fingers and took a deep breath, the smoke dancing around her slightly open mouth.

  I’d never seen anything so sexy.

  She slowly let the white smoke escape from her mouth and nostrils before it rose to the ceiling. She took another drag, closing her eyes like she was really treasuring it. Then she set it in the ashtray and turned to her notes.

  “Most women would ask me to stop.”

  “Most women have never enjoyed a good cigar.” She turned her papers toward me and showed me pictures of the new paintings she wanted to hang on my walls. “I visited Milan the other day, and I found these. Since you h
ost important clients in this room, I thought we should put our most stunning pieces here.”

  I looked at the pictures she’d taken with her phone, but the flash and poor quality didn’t do the work justice. “Bring them here like the others so I can see in person.” The paintings weren’t that important to me, but seeing them with the naked guy was a much better way to judge the impression.

  “I can’t do that with these. They’re being housed at the museum. You never gave me a budget, so I wasn’t sure what price range you were looking for. But these are also some of the most expensive pieces in the world.”

  The arrogant asshole inside me wanted to laugh. “Money is no object, baby.”

  “This one alone is ten million euros.” She pointed to the Monet. “It’s been at this museum for twenty years, and they aren’t willing to let it go for a euro less.”

  My Tuscan home was a power symbol, a subtle way to impress and intimidate the men I worked for. There was nothing too expensive or outlandish. “The price is fair. We’ll head to Milan and see the painting in person.”

  “Alright. Just let me know when.”

  “How about now?”

  She was about to take a drag from her cigar, but she lowered it back into the ashtray. “This second?”

  “Yes.” I made my own schedule. I could do what I wanted, when I wanted. “We’ll take my plane. We can leave in thirty minutes, arrive in Milan in an hour, and then have dinner before we return.”

  Siena wasn’t as suave as she usually was. All of that information caught her by surprise. She knew I was rich, but she probably didn’t realize how easily I could make things happen with the snap of my fingers. Her father had an impressive empire, but it was dwarfed by mine. “Alright. I’ll call the museum and let them know we’re coming.”

  The exhibit was closed off to the public, so we could see it in private. Anytime I did anything, I usually shut down the building because I wasn’t a big people person. I wasn’t concerned about being assassinated or kidnapped. I simply liked my own space.

  Siena stood by my side, and we examined the Monet masterpiece in silence. The watercolors were breathtaking, and even after all these decades, it was still marvelous. Time hadn’t worn it down, not when it was so meticulously preserved. Most famous artists were penniless and starving, and I always wondered how they would feel about their work being revered—and sold for millions.

  Siena was quiet beside me, her black dress stopping above her knees. She wore black stilettos that gave her several inches of extra height. Her posture was always so focused, always so perfect. She seemed like a model rather than an average person. She had more elegance than the Queen herself. “It’s beautiful, isn’t it?” She was standoffish and cold most of the time, but right now, her sincerity was heavy. It was thick enough to have substance, to feel like a physical object. “I wish I could paint.”

  “Why don’t you?”

  “Because I’m terrible at it,” she said with a chuckle. “Trust me, I’ve tried. My work looks like a child’s finger painting. To paint something like this, you need to have a special quality. Whether it’s in the hands, in the mind, or the soul…it has to be distinct. It seems like a lot of famous artists have deficits, but those inhibitions somehow give rise to something unique and beautiful.”

  I’d never been a conversationalist, but I loved listening to her speak. With other women, I asked as few questions as possible. Getting to know them was never on my to-do list. The less I knew, the better. “There are other forms of art. Pottery, poetry…”

  “Being an art buyer is as close as I’m going to get. And it’s the greatest job I ever could have asked for.” Her hands came together at the front of her waist as she stayed several inches away from me. When we weren’t alone in a bedroom together, she kept her distance, keeping it professional between us like we weren’t sleeping together. “What do you think?”

  I didn’t think I could leave behind a painting that she admired so much. It made the image more meaningful to me, made me feel like I owned a piece of her. “I’ll take it.”

  She turned her head my way, her green eyes beautiful under the art lights. If someone painted a portrait of her, I would buy it in a heartbeat—whatever the price might be. “You’re sure? It’s a big responsibility.”

  “Having a painting?” I asked incredulously.

  “This isn’t just a painting. It’s a piece of history. Artwork isn’t something you ever truly own. It’s like a home. You keep it for a while, enjoy it for decades. But when you’re finished, you sell it to someone else. It’s never really yours to begin with. You’re just paying to borrow it—for a period of time.”

  I hated listening to anyone talk, but I could listen to her talk forever. “Don’t worry, I’ll take care of it.”

  “It’ll have to hang on the northern wall so it doesn’t get direct sunlight. As long as no one bumps into it or anything, it should be okay. If any of your clients knows anything about art, they’ll recognize it right away. And that could always be a good conversation starter.”

  There wasn’t much talking that took place between my clients and me—except about money. “Let’s make the transfer. Then we’ll have dinner.”

  “Of course.” Siena left the hall to handle the deal with the manager of the museum.

  I stayed behind and stared at the painting I’d just bought—something that would remind me of Siena every time I looked at it.

  The painting would be carefully transported by car the following day, so Siena and I went to dinner at one of my favorite bistros. Giovanni called ahead and told them I was coming, so they set aside their private room just for me and my date.

  Siena sat across from me with her shoulders back and her posture perfect. The menu was open in her hands, and her hair naturally settled across her shoulders with her slight movements.

  I ignored the menu and focused on her instead. I could have taken her to my home in Milan and fucked her instead of taking her out to dinner, but spending the evening with her over a bottle of wine didn’t sound so terrible.

  It was the most interesting part of my day.

  “I’m getting the lasagna.” She shut the menu. “What about you?”

  “The chicken.” I filled my glass and took another drink.

  She opened the menu again and took a peek. “That doesn’t come with cheese.”

  “So?”

  “Who goes to an Italian restaurant and orders something without cheese?” She examined the bottle on the table and read the label. “This is a good bottle of wine. You’re a fan of the Barsetti vineyards?”

  “They make the best wine. And no, I don’t eat cheese.”

  “Lactose intolerant?”

  “No.” I couldn’t eat anything with fat or carbs to keep up this appearance.

  “If the doctors told me I couldn’t eat cheese, I would just do it anyway. There’s no consequence I wouldn’t face.” She swirled her wine as she looked around the empty room. The other side of the restaurant was full of people, but our side was nearly silent. Low-burning candles were at the empty tables, and the distant sound of classical music came from the other room. She looked out the window for a few seconds before her eyes turned back to me.

  Brilliant like gems, her green eyes were as vibrant as the forest after a spring rain. They were so clear and bright, reflecting the light from the candles but also emitting their own sparkle. She wasn’t just a beautiful woman, the likes of which could be found by the dozen. Her unique qualities made her unforgettable, like the sexy curve of her upper lip and the plumpness of her bottom one. Her beauty was easily dwarfed by her poise. While some women were vain about their appearance, she was simply confident. She didn’t think too much about her looks, but not too little either.

  I was so transfixed by her perfection I nearly failed to notice the waiter approach our table. “The lady will have the lasagna. I’ll take the chicken.” I handed over the menus and listened to his footsteps as he walked away.

&
nbsp; “So, are you excited about your painting?”

  I’d stopped thinking about it the second we left the museum. “Not much to be excited about.”

  “You’ll have a masterpiece in your conference room. That’s a bold statement.”

  “I make bold statements every day.”

  The corner of her mouth rose in a smile. “Can I ask you something?”

  “Anything.” Conversations with her never seemed stale. She didn’t ramble on like most people, choosing to get to the point and not drag her feet. There was nothing more obnoxious than listening to someone talk just to hear their own voice.

  “Be careful, Cato.”

  “I’m not afraid of anything.” I certainly wasn’t afraid of the truth.

  “That man you shot in your driveway… Do you really think he deserved it?”

  I hadn’t anticipated such an interesting question. I hadn’t anticipated her bluntness. None of my men would be dumb enough to question the validity of my decision. She obviously felt comfortable playing with fire. “Yes.”

  “Why did you do it?”

  “I have enemies in Russia. They infiltrated my security detail with one of their own. He was planted there to spy on me, to find any information that might be relevant. He was only there for ten days before my men caught on to his tricks. Once they shared their suspicions with me, I handled it.”

  She suddenly turned timid and quiet, the beautiful blush in her cheeks fading to the color of snow. Her posture was still graceful, but it took on a cowering appearance, rigid like all her muscles were tightening at the same time. Her eyes remained focused on me, not blinking for so long, it seemed like she forgot how to blink at all.

  “I could have had my men handle it for me, but I like to do the dirty work.”

  She tilted her head down and grabbed a piece of bread from the basket. She placed it on the plate in front of her and tore off a piece. She dipped it in the dish of oil but didn’t place it in her mouth. It was the first time she’d fidgeted in my presence. “Does that happen a lot?”

  “When you’re at the top of the food chain, everyone wants what you have. Some men are stupid enough to believe I can be overthrown. Those men aren’t executed in a merciless way. Those men are tortured first. Their families are tortured. Everything they love is ripped apart before I finally put them out of their misery.”