I only hoped we’d survive it.
24
Lucian
We had just a few days before the paparazzi would go insane. Just a few days before our presence would be known around the globe. I’d already seen the gossip columns. I knew the rumors were flying and I knew that our course ahead was clear. Me and her, standing strong.
I needed to be ready for it.
My web of connections here on UK soil was sealed in stone, secure and invested. Devon Quentin was at the head of a network that would keep Elaine and me at the heart of an empire. This was our place now. This was our life now.
She was my life now. Forever.
In between meetings I’d already started seeking out our own manor. We’d have our own palace very soon.
As well as setting up the Morelli-Constantine Manor, I was going to demonstrate my love for Elaine in the most spectacular of ways, and had already started on the arrangements, but first of all I had a much more pressing engagement to be putting my attention into.
“Are you sure this is a sound idea?” Quentin asked on the limo ride back to the manor. “The West End will be a fantastic venue to strut around in your first public appearance, but it will be… dramatic.”
“Are you trying to back out of the invitation to have us included on the VIP list like a pussy?” I asked him with a smirk on my face.
He rolled his eyes at me. “No, of course not, Morelli. I’m no pussy. I’m just well aware it will cause some controversy overseas.”
“Not as well aware as I am,” I replied. “I’m very well aware it will cause some controversy.”
He’d been looking into US gossip news too, I could see it. It was probably being whispered about behind every closed door in his corporate HQ. Morelli and Constantine, shhh. He was probably shitting his pants that he’d be caught up in the crossfire if my family opted to take us out on the red carpet that weekend.
“Fine, then,” he said. “If you’re signing your own death warrant, that’s your call.”
I’d been weighing that up myself, and I was undoubtedly signing my own death warrant. Whether they’d come for us outside a London West End theater was a different matter. I didn’t think even my family or Elaine’s would be quite so dumb as to take us out so blatantly in public. Still, I could be surprised. They could try.
Hopefully they wouldn’t. Hopefully both sides of the battlefield would realize that we weren’t just escapees on the run looking for an easy life anymore, we were standing proud and firm, ready for the fight.
At least, I was. I’d fight with flying axes and fists and machine guns happily enough all day long, but my Elaine was a beautiful little darling who deserved protection from every flying fist on the planet. I’d give everything to give her that protection.
We were approaching the driveway when Quentin’s cell buzzed. His eyes went straight to mine once he’d read the message.
“Those things you wanted,” he said, clearly aware of the driver’s ears in the front seat.
“Yes?” I prompted, knowing full well what things he was referring to.
“They’ll be ready soon,” he told me. “Sunday evening most likely. They’ll be delivered by nightfall.”
I was pleased. Very fucking pleased.
“Thank you,” I said.
“You’re welcome,” he replied.
My tiredness was catching up with me as we left the limo on the drive and stepped back into the manor. I’d barely slept the night before, but my senses were on high alert as Elaine came charging on down the hallway, flinging herself into my arms.
“Welcome home, baby,” she whispered, peppering my cheeks with kisses.
Home.
Yet another use of the word out of the blue. I couldn’t wait to see her exclamation when she saw the home of our own. It appeared the impetus to move out of Quentin Manor wouldn’t be coming from the Quentins anytime soon, though. Both Francesca and Devon looked very enthusiastic when the housekeeper approached us about dinner that evening, asking us what time we’d be sitting down to eat.
“What time works for you?” Devon asked, looking at me, but I looked at Elaine, in her hot new day clothes, her time more valuable to me than mine.
She shrugged, innocently. “Whenever works for you.”
She was so fucking cute. A woman like Elaine Constantine could be looking down her nose at any human being she chose to, even the Quentins, but she was doing anything but. You’d think they were our lords and saviors.
Quite possibly because they were. They just didn’t realize it.
“We’ll see you at seven,” I told Devon, stepping in to seal the decision.
“Seven,” he told the housekeeper, and my word was law.
Elaine didn’t bother getting dressed more extravagantly for the meal once we’d made our way upstairs to the wing. She was still buzzing with happiness to see me, but I could see a conversation brewing on her face. Nerves.