It’s like he’s staring into my soul to make sure I’m okay. To let me know that he’s here for me and not going anywhere.
I’ve never felt that before.
Ever.
He looks past me toward my sister.
“Chiara,” he nods.
“Bane,” she smiles back.
“I was hoping to have a word with my wife.”
It’s truly scary how much I like the sound of that from his mouth.
“Yeah…” Chiara’s eyes flit to mine, her brow raising to checking if that’s okay. I give a subtle nod back, and her lips curl up before she looks at Bane. “Yeah, of course.” She reaches over and squeezes my hand. “Hey… Call me sometime, okay? I feel like we…” She glances at Bane quickly before her eyes slide back to me. “Just call me.”
I suddenly hug her, which I don’t think we’ve done inyears.
“Count on it,” I say quietly.
I watch her walk over to our dad before I look up at Bane.
“We’re getting out of here for a while,” he says quietly.
I nod. “Fine by me. I hate hospitals?—”
“I don’t mean the hospital.”
He takes my hands in his and looks down into my eyes.
“I’m taking you away from New York.”
31
BANE
She needed this.
I glance over at her, grinning when I see her staring wide-eyed at the cliffs dropping dramatically down from the side of the road to the French Riviera.
New York was already turning into amadhouseof media frenzy, and I knew I had to get her away from it: the reporters, the online chatter, the rumor mill already pegging her for that motherfucker Lorenzo’s death.
…Although if shedidkill that monster, she should be getting a fucking hero’s parade for it.
But now, in the wake of the gas explosion at the Marchetti house, the constant background noise concerning all things Marchetti has hit a crescendo.
So I’ve removed her from it. If I didn’t, there’s no doubt in my mind that even someone as armored and walled off as her would collapse.
Or explode.
I spent most of the private flight over to Nice on the phone: calling in favors, greasing palms, generally making it okay that I’m taking someone considered a person of interest in a re-opened murder investigation out of the country.
I don't give a shit about that myself, but the whole point is to bring her a measure of peace right now. I don’t need French police breaking down our door trying to extradite her back to New York.
From Nice, it was a short train ride to Èze-sur-Mer, where we picked up the vintage Porsche 912—big thanks to Sergey for arranging that. And that's what we're in as we wind up the stunning cliffside roads to the village of Èze itself, high above the Mediterranean.
I haven’t told her specifically where we’re going. But I get the impression that she truly doesn’t give a shit, as long as it’s away from the noise back home.
