AMBER - His to Reclaim: 50 Loving States, New York Pt. 2

2. I Won’t Dance

Two

I Won’t Dance

Luca

“Sorry, but the video’s in the wind,” Stone tells me on my secure burner of the month a few hours after Joey drops me off at my Ferraro Disaster Management office, which sits right above the largest of our Jersey-side Hudson River warehouses.

I curse softly because having video evidence of my enforcer pulling a social worker out of her home is the last thing I need.

“Has it shown up anywhere online yet?” I ask as I push out of my chair and go to stand at one of the casement windows that line my work space’s outer wall. This warehouse set up ain’t exactly Holt’s corner real estate at the New York Cal-Mart offices. But hey, at least I don’t have to answer to shareholders. Also, I’ve got a pretty nice view of the other side of the Hudson, which helps to calm me down when I get news I don’t like.

Not today though. A container ship with Chinese characters plastered all over it trundles along in the cold grey water. No logos though, so I’m guessing Chinese mafia. Maybe even those Silent Triad motherfucks who’ve been encroaching on more and more of our territories ever since setting up shop in Rhode Island a few years back. Probably just bad timing for staring out the window to calm the f**k down therapy, but the s**t feels ominous. Like a sign, especially when the boat crosses right in front of my Tribeca apartment building in the distance.

Not a skyscraper necessarily, but close enough to be called obnoxious by a few of the residential buildings behind us, who got their view ruined when Zahir and I decided to go in on the building project together.

At the time, I’d wanted something to call my own. A bachelor pad to impress the ladies before kicking them out after s*x.

But now I’m using that state-of-the-art real estate acquisition to hold my ex-wife prisoner, because…hell, I’m still not sure why I’m doing this.

There’s revenge, yeah. However, I’m also working the proximity formula again with this dinner every night move. And this time my end goal ain’t nearly as clear as when I went after her like a big game hunter in grad school.

All I’m sure of is that I don’t have any intention of letting her go. She’s pregnant. With my baby. And she lied to me about it. Her duplicity cancels out all previous agreements. That means she’s mine now. Whether she likes it or not.

“Not yet,” Stone answers my question about the video. And he sounds just as grim as me as he says, “Lemme get Rock on the three-way.”

The story doesn’t get much better with Rock on the line. Apparently, Stone and a few of the Ferraro soldiers bust into Amber’s office to find…well, nothing but a cold cup of coffee and one stale cronut still in the bag. There was no sign of the assistant we’re pretty sure caught everything Stone said and did to Naima on tape. Stone phoned Rock, who immediately sent a hacker to join Stone at the office—or as Rock calls it, “hack up.” Meanwhile, Rock and Joey went to case Amber’s place.

Rock was able to use Amber’s laptop to announce to her entire mailing list that 1) she was pregnant, 2) I was the father, and 3) she’d decided on doctor’s orders to take a leave of absence from work for the rest of her pregnancy, and 4) move in with me. So my tracks are covered, but neither Rock nor his best hacker contact could pull anything related to the possible assistant off Amber’s laptop or work computer.

“Whoever set her up with those sunglasses wiped her desktop. They might have even done a remote job on Amber’s laptop, too,” Rock tells me, sounding a little impressed. “I’m still thinking it’s an assistant, though, because according to Amber’s bank records, she’s been sending a bi-weekly direct deposit to an offshore account.”

“Did you guys follow the money?” I ask.

“’Course,” Stone answers.

“But the account’s been closed as of this morning,” Rock finishes with an apologetic tone. “It was probably a bounce-around job anyways.”

“Bounce-around,” I repeat. “You mean her assistant made the account untraceable by running it through a few other accounts?”

“Yep. Total ghost,” Stone answers, his voice more annoyed than impressed.

“For all we know, this assistant of hers is some 12-year-old boy in Singapore,” Rock admits.

“That’s why I hate these dark web assholes,” Stone says. “Nothing to grab and choke to death.”

I almost laugh. Almost.

“But the good news is, whoever was behind the recording doesn’t seem to walk on the same entirely legal side of the street as your special guest,” Rock says. “That means she might not be a threat.”

Stone just harrumphs, and though he doesn’t say it, I can tell he’s thinking his twin’s “on that Pollyanna s**t,” again.

“And in other good news,” Rock continues on, as if he can’t hear his brother, “I got hold of Naima’s laptop, too, and fed them a story about her having to go back to Hispaniola to help her parents with an emergency. Her boss agreed to a leave of absence, no questions asked. It was a nice conversation actually. Just goes to show you not all social workers are jaded and burned out. Naima works with good people who appreciate her. And I brought a bunch of things back with me from her house, so she’ll really feel at home.”

“Are you serious with this s**t?” Stone asks. “She’s not our f*****g guest. You know that, right? She’s a prisoner. Leverage.”

“Maybe. But we don’t have to make her feel like that,” Rock answers.

“There’s no ‘maybe’ about it—” Stone starts to say.

But Rock railroads through his brother’s contradiction to tell me, “Also, Amber’s agreed to cook dinner for you, no problem.”

I squint, and now it’s my turn to question the veracity of Rock’s cheery announcement. “Seriously?”

“Seriously,” Rock confirms, and I can hear the grin in his voice. “She just made a list and gave it to me. I’m about to go shopping now and take it back to her.”

What the hell? That doesn’t even sound like Amber. I’d expected much more of a fight from her. But before I can question Rock any further, my official phone vibrates once on top of my desk.

With a bad feeling, I saunter back over to my desk to check the iPhone I use for all my legitimate business.

After the Face ID sees me, the “Attachment: 1 Movie” message disappears, and a thumbnail with a play triangle appears on the right side of the notification box.

Fuck… “I’ll call you guys back,” I say, suspecting the worse as I end the call with one hand and open the text to click on the video link with the other one.

My suspicion turns out to be right. A black screen with words “Let her go” appears followed by an edited video of Stone threatening the hell out of Naima.

“Who is this?” I type when the video finishes.

“Give her back, or I send this to the police.”

“Good luck with your fake tape, but I doubt any of my friends will believe it’s real. And I’ve got friends in every borough.” I answer. Not incriminating myself over text but coming as close as I can to saying outright that any police officer she sent that tape to is either on my payroll or knows he will be if he does right by me.

There’s a couple of dots, then…no answer.

But I’ve got the feeling Amber’s ghost assistant isn’t backing down, just not answering. For now, at least. And I’m still not sure if this new issue is a pesky fly or an incoming bomb.

For that reason and more, I’m not exactly trusting Rock’s assurances that Amber easily agreed to my dinner order. But when I walk into the apartment later that night, there’s loud Latin music playing, and I find Amber exactly where Rock said she’d be. In my apartment’s white and ceramic luxury kitchen with Naima and Rock. Rock’s sitting at the counter, but Naima and Amber are shaking their hips to the music as they move pots, pans, and dishes around, rearranging them inside the kitchen’s ivory cabinets.

A renowned design team crafted this particular space to be what our marketing team called “a home cook’s dream” in the brochure. It has chef caliber appliances and a special teppanyaki cooktop, which in most cases means you can cook like a pro while looking out on the Manhattan skyline.

But despite not being able to enjoy the view, Amber seems right at home in the kitchen I only ever use to Ninja Bullet protein shakes in the morning. Or at least she’s in the process of making the kitchen her home. I know that’s what she’s doing because I still remember how she reconfigured the kitchen at both my old Upper East Side place and our apartment in Queens. First things first, even before she unpacked her clothes.

The memory hits me with a pang, see-sawing my icy heart. Because watching her like this. Like she used to be before we fell apart, makes my chest ache with an emotion that’s definitely not in the “make that b***h pay for what she tried to do to you” territory.

I don’t know how to feel about that, or the fact she and Naima seem to be having a ball. Singing along and wiggling their hips to some guy who sounds like a smooth, Spanish version of Justin Bieber. Rock’s into it, too. His head’s bopping right along to the beat, and his appreciative gaze follows the swing of Naima’s wide hips as she restocks all the plates in the cabinet across from the stove.

They definitely don’t look like prisoners, and he ain’t acting anything like their warden.

“Luca!”

The grand old time comes to an abrupt end when Naima sees me standing there on the edge of the open kitchen.

She cuts off dancing, and with the pause of her hips, Rock calls, “Alexa, stop!” to the sss Echo device, hanging out on the kitchen’s inner counter, right next to the Ninja Bullet.

Amber turns in my direction just as the music stops playing, one hand jerking up to her belly as if an out of control gorilla has suddenly entered the room, and she’s got to protect it.

And just like that icy rage settles right back in, blasting the memories from our marriage year to pieces.

“Dinner’s not ready yet,” she tells me, her voice carefully level. “Rock and Naima said they weren’t starving, so I’ll start it when we’re done putting away the last of these dishes.”

I don’t answer, just look at Rock.

And he says, “Hey Naima, let’s get out of here. I know a great steak place, just a few blocks walk.”

“No, I can’t. I have to help Amber with…”

“It’s not an invitation, Nai,” Amber informs her.

Naima’s eyes widen, and she looks between Amber and me, before coming back with a quiet, “Oh.”

“I promise I’ll be good company to you,” Rock says, scooting away from the counter and getting out of his seat. “Good food, good jokes. You won’t suffer at all.”

Naima smiles at Rock’s promise, but she eyes Amber worriedly.

As if sensing her hesitation, Amber says, “Go on with him, Nai. I’ll be fine. Seriously.” Her voice is gentle, caring. The way it gets with the select few people she lets in—the way it used to get with me.

“You know you’re the only man other than my father, who I ever loved.” She told me that once. Out of the blue. No special occasion. She just thought I should know. It’s another memory trying to pierce a hole in my ice-covered chest.

“And Luca, tonight’s meal is super simple. Lo mein noodles. You can wait for me at the dining room table, maybe enjoy a glass of wine while I put it together.” The offer is courteous enough, and her face stays composed, bordering on serene. But I can’t tell if she’s serious, or just putting on a front for Naima.

Either way, it works. “Oh, then…okay, I guess,” Naima says, giving in with a smile.

Stone confiscated Naima’s purse, so she just has to grab a coat, and the two of them are gone. Soon after, I take a seat at the dining room table, ignoring Amber’s invitation to pair my wait with some wine.

Usually, I have a glass or two with dinner. But not tonight.

Yeah, I’ve set it up so that Amber has no choice but to stay here with me, and I know there’s nothing she can do about it. But I don’t like how easily she’s submitting to me. I take my seat at the dining table, tense and brittle as an iceberg, sitting underneath and unexpectedly hot sun.

My wariness proves correct when Amber comes out.

A fresh cold front of fury blasts through me when I see the platter in her hands. Lo mein noodles, covered in a spaghetti sauce with a couple of huge meatballs on top.

The same meal she chose as my very last when I was her father’s teenage prisoner.

I don’t like Italian food. To be clear, I used to, just like every other Italian kid who grew up in Jersey with early Sunday dinners after Catholic church. But now I can’t touch the stuff, because it reminds me of that week in the woods. Of Amber’s father beating the s**t out of me, then sending in his beautiful daughter with a plate of delicious Italian food, even better than my mom’s and Aunt Peg’s.

Amber knows that. She’s the only person on Earth, other than my twin cousins and parents who know why I don’t touch the stuff.

Fuck you.

That’s what this dinner is. One big plate of f**k you served with an insincere smile.

“Mangiamo!” Amber says, taking a seat across from me.