STRIPPED 2 (A Ferro Family Novel) (8 page)

W
e drive
down a few blocks to a Midtown heliport. Cassie blinks at me as I coax her inside.

“But where’s the pilot?”

“You’re looking at him.” I grab my headset and start pre-flight checks.

I feel her eyes on the side of my face. She says something, but I can’t hear her while wearing the headset. I reach across and flick on her microphone. “Say that again.”

“Where’s the cocky slacker version of Jon Ferro?”

I laugh. “Back in high school where he belongs. Did you really think I’d put all my eggs in one basket? You saw who holds the handles, right? My parents are insane.” I swallow the rest of my reasons before they come rushing out. She’s not certain of me anymore. This doesn’t mesh with what she knows about me, but that was years ago.

I didn’t stop living when we parted ways. If anything, I pulled my shit together because of her. I realized my mother could cut me off at her whim, so I took my money and stopped dicking around. I sold off the toys, invested here and there, and figured out what I needed to do.

The pilot's license was a necessary evil. If I needed to cut my budget, I didn’t want to get stuck flying commercial between my businesses, wasting time with airport security and delays. After getting those licenses, it seemed stupid to skip the helicopter certification. It’s helpful to be able to dart above the city—especially at rush hour. So, I bought a few planes, a jet, the helicopter, and started another business offering private flights to individuals and companies who don’t want to deal with owning an aircraft. Everything I possess is dual purpose, making life easier while making money. I hate to admit it, but I learned that from Dad.

That man is a genius. Everyone thinks Mom came with an endless pile of cash, but Dad’s the one that keeps a large portion of it regenerating. I didn’t understand until I got back from that summer with Cassie and caught hell from Mom. After, Dad called me into his office—which I'd always thought was there for show—and sat me down. I expected him to finish tearing me a new one, but, instead, he asked me about my net value and possessions. He listened thoughtfully as I spoke, then suggested I downsize my jet and lease it when I wasn’t using it. He explained in detail how I could earn money from it by providing an economical flight option to time-conscious businessmen, while I stared at him, shocked.

That’s why mom doesn't walk away, why she lets him have his affairs. She needs him. She’s good at getting her fingers into everything, exerting pressure, and wielding power. Dad’s skills, though more subtle, are just as integral to running an empire—which is exactly what they’re doing.

“Is this safe?” She glances around, yelling in the headset as she strangles her seat belt.

I continue preparing for lift off and say something to the tower, before answering her. “Perfectly. Sit back and enjoy the ride. It’ll only be a few minutes.”

“Where are we going?”

“To the yacht club on the upper east side. I’m taking you sailing.”

“Ooh! On a boat?” Cass is excited, and when I glance over at her, she’s beaming at me.

She makes me laugh. The way she says it isn’t condescending. Some men would flinch at the size reference, but I know she would have called the Queen Mary 2 a boat as well. To her, it means floating, and that’s fun. I see it in her eyes.

“Yup, on a boat.”

T
he ride
over the city was unreal. I’ve lived here for years without experiencing it like that. Flying in a helicopter isn’t the same as a plane. Instead of a rumbling horizontal ascent, you take off vertically like an elevator, shooting up into the sky and soaring over the skyscrapers. Landing is a similarly abrupt plummet through the air before parallel parking between two other helicopters. I was nervous watching Jon do it, but he didn’t act like it was a big deal. His confidence has grown up and internalized. He’s sure of himself. He doesn’t project it the way he did when we were younger. He just knows what to do and does it.

When we land at the heliport, a limo is waiting. We take the short ride to the yacht club. I glance around, seeing famous people and trying not to stare. I look over at Jon across the room. He’s speaking with someone, a man, about the yacht.

Jon stands there smiling warmly, one hand in his pocket and a confident look in his eyes. He nods and says something, then waits for a reply. The arrogant boy who never listened is gone. He’s soaking up every word the man says.

Jon thanks him and walks back to me. “Ready?”

I nod, stand, and smooth my skirt. “Yup!” I’m too excited to control my grinning. My face starts to ache. When he asked me to go out this morning, I thought he meant McDonald’s. I never expected this.

A few minutes later, we’re on the boat, and several men help to prep the vessel. Satisfied that everything is in order, the guys from the yacht club disembark and head back to the marina. I watch as Jon alone maneuvers the ship away from the dock in complete control.

As we pull away, we head up the river and toward the Atlantic. I sit there, happy to feel the sun on my face and the spray of salt on my skin. Before we left, Jon pointed out different areas of the ship I might want to explore. I stand, kick off my shoes, and pad around the deck, ducking my head into different cabins and wandering through a large sitting area adjoining a beautiful dining room. I’m watching a chandelier sparkle and sway in time with the water when Jon walks up behind me.

“Are you hungry?”

“Yes, but don’t you need to steer?”

He laughs and shakes his head, making that dark hair fall into his eyes. He pushes it back. “No, the ship has automation for that. Dinner was prepared and brought on board before we left. Should we eat in here and then have dessert on the deck after the sun sets?”

It feels like I'm in a dream. “That sounds incredible.” As he places the dishes and silverware on the table, I sit and ask him about his businesses, surprised he speaks so freely. He leases this yacht as well. The club cares for it and helps procure lessees. An agent does the rest.

In the middle of our meal I glance up at him. The sun is setting, painting the room with vibrant oranges and yellows. Jon’s hair is a mess from the wind and salty spray. It’s got a ruffled thing going on that makes my fingers itch to touch it.

Jon glances up at me and places his fork and knife down. “Can I ask you something?” His tone is serious, deeper than usual with less inflection. It’s not a question he wants to ask.

“Anything.”

“What did you tell that reporter about Dad's mistresses? It's odd how they honed in on my parents' relationship but skimmed over the other more immoral issues there. It was almost as if they didn’t know.” He watches me carefully beneath those dark lashes. This is a sore spot for him, a festering wound with the blade still buried deep within.

I’ve always felt horrible about this. I accepted blame for it, but I don’t recall mentioning the mistresses. I must have, in passing maybe, without realizing it. Or maybe the guy already had his story and needed someone to corroborate it. Either way, it doesn’t matter. It was my fault the story appeared.

“I don’t remember. I didn’t think I said anything, but I must have.”

“You talked mostly about the school and the bombing?”

“The good things about the school and yes, your selflessness during the bombing. That was a story by itself, but he didn’t mention any of it. I wanted everyone to see the real you.” I smile sadly and stare at the tablecloth. “I didn’t even know the real you. I never knew you were capable of all this—the businesses, the analytical stuff, and then not flaunting it.”

The corner of his mouth rises slightly and falls. “Fledgling companies are easy to take down. I hid them on purpose so they’d have a chance.”

“You’re a lot smarter than most people recognize.”

“I’ve realized that, which is why this bothers me. If you mentioned the mistresses, you would have said it in passing, right?” I nod. “So how’d he know about the details of my parents’ relationship?”

“Another source?”

“Right, which means he flew down to Mississippi to find you.”

“That doesn't make sense either," I say, shaking my head. "This guy followed me for weeks, trying to convince me to talk about you. From what I could tell at the time, he seemed to be a local. At the very least, he was from the South.”

Jon stares off, thinking. His hands are on the table, pressing his fingertips against the fabric. He sighs and runs his hands through his hair. “He had to get the information somewhere.”

“If not from me, then from where? What are you thinking?”

“I’m thinking there was a pissing match going on between Luke and Mom, and I got in the way.”

I want to say no, that it’s not possible, but his uncle, though crazy, would not be unjustified in blasting his sister. “Did you ask him?”

Jon’s gaze doesn’t lift to meet mine. “No. When it first happened, I thought you leaked part of my family stuff on purpose. I kept waiting for you to drop the rest, but you didn’t. Luke knew everything. He must have disclosed the parts most damaging to Mom and left out the rest.”

His voice sounds lost. His fingers have turned white from pressing them against the table so hard for so long. There’s something he thinks I know, something bad, but I don’t have any clue what it is. “Jon, I don't think I talked about the mistresses. It was my fault the entire thing happened—I won’t say it’s not. It is. I did it, and the story wouldn’t have appeared without me, but I’m not sure what you’re talking about now. You think I figured out something that I don’t know.”

Jon’s gaze lifts and locks with mine. He takes a small breath and watches me, wondering if he should trust me. He thinks I already know some dark secret, but I can’t fathom what it could be.

The silence stretches between us, so I say, “You don’t have to tell me anything.”

He considers it, sits back in his chair, and folds his arms over his chest. “I want honesty. I want all the crap between us gone. I’m tired of assuming you did this when it's possible you didn’t. And if you did do it, I want to know. As for my secrets, if you don’t know them already, you should.” He swallows hard and holds my gaze with an unnerving intensity.

“Some things are hard to talk about.”

“I know.” He doesn’t bark the words, but he doesn’t sound too pleasant either.

“Be patient with me, okay?” I ask. “I think I can tell you, but it’s not like ripping off a bandage. It’s more like stabbing myself in the heart. Ripping everything open again is not something I want to do.”

Jon’s gaze drops to the table. He nods once. “You ask first.”

I wonder how direct I should be, if I should just come out and say it. Jon folds his arms over his chest and waits, not looking up at me.

“What happened when you went home that summer?” My question seems to surprise him.

“My funds were frozen, and my mother publicly emasculated me. She stripped my privileges so I couldn’t go about my daily life. Basically, I was locked in the mansion where Mom could make sure nothing else happened. It was very public within the family, a warning to anyone else who might step out of line.” There’s still pain in his voice. This went beyond humiliation, they did something to him, more than what he’s saying. I’ll circle back to it.

Jon asks point blank, “Why aren’t you divorced?”

“Oh. That.”

“Yes, that.”

“It’s complicated.”

“It isn’t. Which begs the question, why are you still married to that guy?”

Thoughts flop around in my head, obscuring the real answer. I push the usual responses away and say it. “I’m afraid of him. I'm afraid he'll do something worse, afraid that's even possible, and thought it was better if he didn’t know where I was. Also, I don't have the money. That’s not the main reason, though. It never was.”

Jon watches me, his eyes boring into mine, sorting through my pain and doubt. It’s all there, laid out to be seen and judged. I want to explain, but I keep my mouth shut.

“Thank you,” he says softly. “Your turn.”

“Why do you hide who you really are? Why not let people see you’re smart, shrewd, and loyal? What’s with the act you put on day in and day out?” I never judged him for it, nor would I because I do the same thing. For me, it’s a defense mechanism, a way to hold myself together. But for him, I don't understand.

His gaze drops and he inhales deeply, then lets it rush out. Jon looks at the window. The sun has almost disappeared beneath the dark blue waves. “I didn’t know who I was until after I met you. You introduced me to myself, to a guy I didn’t know existed. I didn’t like him at first and fought the transition. By the time I figured it out, most people had already pegged me for a can’t-do-shit player. Challenging expectations would have caused problems, too, for several reasons. If I act like an airhead, no one looks at me twice. If they know I have Sean’s mind and Peter’s drive, they’ll look hard. I don’t want anyone scrutinizing my life.”

Everything makes sense except that last part. I'd assume he wanted privacy, but this is Jon Ferro. He likes to show off and be in the limelight, so what’s he hiding?

Jon stares past me, out the window and asks. “How’d you find out about my involvement with the mistresses?”

“What do you mean?” I sit forward and watch as he wrestles with this one.

I watch his Adam’s apple bob in the center of his throat, and he asks again, “How did you know?”

“I didn't. I suspect I still don't.” He’s pensive for a moment, leaning on his elbows, his hands propping up his chin. “There’s something else about the mistresses, isn’t there? Something you don’t talk about, something you hope no one knows. What is it?”

When those eyes lift to meet mine, they’re cold and hollow. It’s like he’s caught on train tracks and can’t move. The truth is barreling down on him without mercy. He nods, and swallows hard. He’s looking at me but doesn’t see me. Darkness shadows his features, obscuring his handsome face with pain and regret.

“The first one, Monica.” He can barely say her name. It sticks in his throat, practically choking him. His posture remains closed off, and he folds his arms across his chest with an angry scowl on his lips. “She did things, threatened me if I didn’t comply. I was barely a teenager and didn’t realize her game until it was too late.”

“She seduced you?”

He nods. “I said no, but it didn’t matter. She kept coming to me. It was flattering at first, but it wasn’t something I would have done without her initiative. The things she wanted me to do to her were fucked up. The first time, I barely remember it. She drugged me, and I wasn’t myself. The next morning she was gone. I thought it was over, but then she wanted more. I refused and told her to fuck off. Her response was a picture of us shoved under my bedroom door with a note that said, 'Wouldn’t it be horrible if this ended up in your mother’s room?' She took it that first night we were together. I couldn’t say no after that.”

Venom spikes to the surface and I want to hurt her. My fingers flex, and it takes a lot to keep my voice even, calm. “She blackmailed you?”

“Yeah, I guess you could say that.”

“So, how’d it stop?”

He glances up at me and looks sick. His eyes dart away and sweat breaks out on his brow. “She kept fucking me every few weeks until she got a ring from Dad. After that, she stopped—until the night my mother refused to divorce Dad. All hell broke loose. My parents went insane, in opposite directions, leaving me alone with Monica.

“She was pissed, and the only one available to take it out on was me. I was about to turn fourteen and had no clue how to handle myself. I wouldn’t hit her—even when she came at me with a knife. She told me I was just like him, a fucked up perv, and I’d like what was coming to me. She held a blade to my neck and pressed until there was blood. I felt it running hot down my throat.

“Instead of pushing it in the rest of the way, she tossed it on the floor and gave me a choice—sober or wasted. Either way, she wasn’t leaving. I took the coward's way out and swallowed a pill that left me more coherent than I wanted. She recorded the entire thing. The blood, the sex, her fucking me so hard it looked like I didn’t care. You can’t tell I’m out of it, and I remember everything, lying there unable to move while she mutilated me with the knife.”

He sucks in a sharp breath and looks directly at me. “I've waited ten years for that tape to go public. I look like a fucking sadist, screwing my dad’s fiancée. She made sure her fucking engagement ring stayed in plain sight and said a bunch of shit about screwing all of us together like she was the only woman any Ferro man wanted.

“If that tape pops up, even though she never touched them—I know because Pete was grief-stricken over his first fiancée’s death, and Sean was anywhere but here—it could have serious consequences for my brothers. She implies things happened with Sean and Pete even though they didn't. It doesn’t matter. It will look true. I look like someone who can’t be trusted, ever. And the entire time she was with me, I never thought she’d do anything like that. I underestimated her. I walked into a bear trap, and didn't fucking notice until the metal teeth snapped off my leg.”

He’s breathing hard, and his hands are clutching the arms of his chair. Jon doesn’t look at me. His voice is deep, angry, “Do you still want to be with me? Do you want to be with a guy who won’t defend himself? A dickhead who did some seriously fucked up shit with his father’s fiancée? That’s hanging over my head and always will. If you stay with me, one day it might show up and take us both down.”