For Logan (Chicago Syndicate Book 5) (8 page)

Wrapping my fingers around her wrist, I hold her hand still. First, I get a whiff of her rose-scented perfume and am overly responsive to the softness of her skin. Yet I focus and also detect liquor. “Alcohol?”

“Yes.”

“I see...” I’m much too fascinated by Rosa.

Apparently, so is Henry. He asks her, “Do you know more tricks?”

“I do,” she replies with confidence and a tad bit of flirtatiousness.

“Where’d you learn them?” he probes.

“I study biological chemistry,” she answers and stashes the bill in her back pocket, exposing a sliver of her smooth stomach as the hem of her shirt tightens with the sensual movement.

Somehow, I’m more interested by the second. I didn’t know she studied chemistry.

Meanwhile, the club is becoming busier. Some girls come up to Rosa, who surreptitiously expels a frustrated sigh, and I swear, she glances at me with what seems like longing.

A redhead greets me, “Hi, Wade.”

“Hey...” She seems familiar. Isn’t this the redhead who was at the party? “...Meghan.”

Meghan sneers at Rosa and comments, “Is she showing her cute tricks again?”

That’s unnecessarily demeaning. Instantly, I understand Rosa’s frustration and like how she doesn’t take this girl’s bait.

When Meghan steps forward and touches my arm, I grab my beer and shake her off, noticing that Rosa seems upset, which troubles me. Taking the high road isn’t easy.

“Actually, yes,” I respond and look at Henry, “she was just about to show us how she did it.”

He pays no heed to Meghan, adding, “Yes, Rosalia, show us.”

Meghan’s lips turn down in an unattractive scowl, yet Henry and I ignore her and face Rosa.

She displays that eye-catching dimple and says to me, “Pay attention, you’re about to learn something.”

I give a doubtful laugh. “Learn, you say?”

Grinning, she seizes the dollar bill from her pocket, turns sideways toward the bar, and dunks it into a glass of clear liquid. “This is water mixed with vodka,” she explains as she nabs the cigarette lighter next to the glass and flicks it open in one sharp motion. Yet she doesn’t light it. Instead, she arcs her eyebrow in delight. “Do you want to do it?” She gives me the bill and the lighter. “Just try it. If you don’t extinguish it quickly, it’ll burn.”

I take both of the items from her. “That’s it? I can do that.” I click open the lighter and let the flame lick the edge of the money. Then I present it to her and Henry and shake it out.

Rosa grabs my wrist and inches closer, her thigh touching mine. I’m enjoying her forward behavior.

“Oh.” She shakes her head at me.

I prepare for a mocking observation.

“It’s a bit burned around the edge,” she complains playfully.

“Then maybe my teacher should’ve told me to snuff it out sooner, Rosa.”

Her lips flatten into a line when I still refuse to call her by her given name, but she replies huskily, “No. It’s all in the touch.”

Is that a double entendre in her statement?
This has gone beyond a simple chat in a bar and has progressed to something bordering on flirtation.

The bartender drops a glass, bringing us back to reality, and we awkwardly break apart. Thank God, Fallon has already disappeared; she probably saw Luca. However, Meghan and Henry are still with us, and Meghan is desperately trying to engage Henry in conversation, making Rosa and me laugh.

“I think you lost Henry to Meghan, Rosa,” I tease.

She casts me questioning look. “I never wanted him.”

Silence ensues after her words linger between us.

She then adds, “Thank you.”

“You’re welcome. What’s with you two?”

“I don’t know. Meghan’s passive aggressive to everyone.”

Meghan is the kind of girl I thought Rosa was – entitled, privileged, and spoiled – but Rosa’s the exact opposite of Meghan.

“When she calls you pretty, she actually means ugly; that kind of girl,” she explains with an eye roll, causing me to chuckle at her refreshing honesty.

As she leans back against the bar, I follow, standing pressed next to her. “I wouldn’t call you
pretty
.”

She clutches her chest theatrically. “Oh, you don’t find me pretty. Well, color me shocked—”

“No,” I cut her off and dip my head. “I’d call you beautiful.”

Rosa turns her face to me and an endearing blush colors her cheeks. She’s astonishingly quiet at the compliment, and I feel the corner of my lip lifting up into a smirk, but we’re interrupted.

“Let’s go upstairs. We have safe places to check,” Henry says to me and winks at Rosa, much to my dismay.

Especially when she smiles back before mouthing to me, “Bye, Logan.”

By now, I’m getting used to her calling me Logan, so I grin. “Until next time.” And trail Henry toward the black staircase on the opposite side of the club.

“Well, that was interesting,” Henry puts in.

I don’t speak a word.

“Maybe I’ll ask Rosalia out?” he continues.

“Maybe you won’t,” I warn in a low voice,

He gives me a pleased look. “You can’t have it all, Wade. Isn’t she a bit young for your taste?”

I don’t even reply. Initially, I would’ve agreed. Nonetheless, as I’m learning more about Rosa, I’m beginning to understand that she’s not at all the young, reckless woman she depicts.

I’m filled with a mix of desire and decreasing antipathy for Rosa Calderone and that damn dimple I’m unable to forget. Over the years, I’ve seduced many women without a second thought. Yet in this case, I can’t as long as I’m still an associate. And that’s becoming even more challenging now that I’ve discovered that this developing attraction between us is mutual.

She’s kindling an emotion I’m unaccustomed to, and it’s absolutely unsettling while I’m in this uncertain position, because yearning can be a treacherous emotion in the mafia.

***

T
he next day, Henry and I are still going through all the Ukrainian safe place addresses in the decoded document in the office at Club 7 when I receive a call from Luca.

My phone vibrates on the desk. As soon as I tap
answer
, Luca orders, “Get Rosalia. Ukrainians have been spotted at the University of Chicago, probably searching for her.”

“Okay,” I confirm and cut the call.

Snatching my suit jacket off the desk, I shuck it on and tell Henry, who’s seated behind the computer, “Locate Rosa for me and text me the address.”

I dash out of the club and into my vehicle parked at the back entrance. Henry sends me a message within minutes.

Henry: She’s at a hospital, not with Cam at Northwestern but at 11 West Harrison Street.

After entering the address into my GPS, I follow the directions as rain begins to splatter against my windshield. I reach the building within fifteen minutes, parking at the curb and jumping out just as she shuffles through the revolving doors and tightens the belt of her red trench coat.

When she looks up with moisture in her eyes, she stops, and I mirror the movement as thunder rumbles high in the sky.

“Please, not now. I’m not in the mood for you,” she murmurs and disappears around the corner.

I tense up, not knowing what to do, but then I trail her, examining her shaken state and the fact that she’s staring at the ground. Without thinking, I stay behind her to give her some time to get her composure, yet her stricken behavior is affecting me – something is very wrong.

Rosalia

––––––––

I
’m waiting for Dr. Rydon in her sterile office, settled in a chair in front of her desk. During my last appointment, blood was drawn and she ran a series of tests to determine my ovarian function, and now I’m here to get the results.

While I wait, I’m daydreaming about one man. One man who has revealed that he isn’t such an assface after all. Logan’s the first guy who hasn’t discounted me to score points with lean Meghan. He came to my aid, which is something I cherished all last night and this morning. Usually, I feel plump and invisible – with my flared hips and generous bosom – compared to girls like Meghan. But Logan made me feel exceptionally good, and I never expected that from him.

I’m forced out of my reverie when Dr. Rydon steps inside with her immaculate white coat on. “Good afternoon, Rosalia.”

“Hey, doctor.”

She shakes my hand and claims her seat behind her desk. “Rosalia, I’m going to get right to the point. As you know, we’ve done several diagnostic tests, and unfortunately, we found that you’ve missed your period because you’re going through premature menopause.”

“What does that mean?” I ask, dreading the answer.

“It means that you’re in early menopause because your ovaries have stopped functioning normally. One medical cause of this is premature ovarian failure.”

“But I don’t feel any different.”

“You’ve mentioned having hot flashes, which is one of the symptoms. Sometimes symptoms don’t occur or you might not have noticed them.”

“So I’ll never get my period again?” I question.

“Yes, that’s correct. The cycle has stopped.”

“How’s this possible?”

“Most of the time, we can’t find an explanation for it, but known causes are genetic conditions, autoimmune disorders, and infections.”

“And what’s the treatment?”

“Unfortunately, there’s no reverse treatment for premature menopause,” she informs me as she checks her computer screen where my file is opened.

“Can I still get pregnant?”

“Oh, definitely; however, you can’t use your own eggs.”

That isn’t an option for me; I’m Catholic. I need to know if I’ll be able to conceive a child of my own. “But can I have children of my own?”

“Not biological, no. I’m so sorry, Rosalia,” she explains in an empathetic tone. “There are other options, though. In select cases, pregnancy can be achieved using donor eggs, and when that time comes, I’ll be happy to recommend a very good specialist. In the meantime, an important thing to remember about premature menopause is that there’s an increased risk for low bone density due to the longer period of time you’ll be experiencing a decrease in estrogen production. I’m going to give you prescriptions for calcium and vitamin D supplements. If you experience unpleasant symptoms, we also have treatment options such as hormone therapy pills or antidepressant medication.” 

“Okay.” I’m lost in thought while sadness descends on me. “I didn’t expect anything like this, so I’m a little in shock.”

“I understand, and again, I’m very sorry. If you want to talk to someone else, I can refer you to a therapist.”

“No. Not now. I just need to process this.” In a daze, I rise and snatch my purse and hooded red trench coat that are hanging off the back of the chair.

“My assistant will give you your prescriptions and set up a follow-up appointment, Rosalia.”

This depresses me immensely, so I say goodbye quietly and throw on my coat. After stopping at the front desk, I tread outside and come across Logan.

“Please, not now,” I plead. “I’m not in the mood for you.”

Then I round the corner of the building while my thoughts run wild. The clouds cast a literal shadow on my frame of mind, and water sprinkles down to earth. For blocks, I wander, passing countless pedestrians, until I’m alongside the river at the rows of steel benches. Thick raindrops tumble from the sky onto my neck. When I sink down onto a bench, I notice a shadow from the corner of my eye, and my gaze shifts to Logan, whose jacket is soaked from following me the entire way. We lock eyes with the rain wetting our hair.

Getting up from the bench, I take the few steps to him. His hands cover my cheeks, yet he doesn’t say a word as my sorrow breaks free and I rest my forehead against his chest while tears scald my skin. Logan’s arms circle around my middle, and he embraces me tightly as I grip the lapels of his jacket, finding comfort in the heat of his solid chest and having his strong arms around me.

Eventually, he tucks my hair behind my ear and asks, “What’s wrong, cricket?”

“Cricket?” I echo.

“Yeah, it fits you. I’m surprised you aren’t chattering and chirping,” he teases.

A laugh escapes me. Somehow, I don’t mind this pet name. I pull back and look up through my lashes. “I don’t chirp.”

“Usually, when you talk, all I hear is chirping.” He smirks.

A drop of water trickles down his blond hair that’s falling over his forehead, and I wipe it away, tracing his eyebrow as I get lost in his blue eyes. I inhale a deep breath, but nothing comes out as the pouring rain turns into a light drizzle.

“Tell me what happened,” he prompts, firmer, sounding worried. “Are you sick?”

I shake my head.

“Then why were you at the doctor?” His palm is stroking my back in a soothing way.

“She told me I’m in premature menopause. I can’t have children,” I confess, needing to tell another person.

He touches my dimple as a sympathetic look crosses his angular face.

“It was just a shock to find out,” I add.

“Do you want children?” He caresses my temples and cheeks, warming my skin with the heat of his, erasing the rain and tears in the gentlest manner.

“Yes, I’ve always wanted children of my own,” I admit, and a small smile tugs at his lips. “It’s not like I was trying to get pregnant now, but I suddenly feel lost.”

“You feel the loss of the child you know you wanted,” he comments with a melancholic flicker in his eyes.

Then his arms drop from around my waist as if he’s just realized the bizarre intimacy of our stance. He points to the bench as the clouds break open. A ray of sunlight streams through as we sit down. Logan stretches his arm behind my back, and without thinking, I snuggle into his side and he stiffens for a split-second.

Oh, shit, that wasn’t an invitation to cuddle again.
I stay where I am anyway, and he relaxes gradually.

I continue, “Yes, actually, that’s exactly what it is,” and look up at him in question.

As he speaks, he’s in another world. “I know how it is to lose a child. The feeling of loss never goes away, and I wouldn’t wish that upon anyone.”

I gape at him. “You had a child?”