The Prince of Chicago

Chapter 13

Angelo

Yesterday Isabelle asked to leave the penthouse, and today I awoke early, unable to sleep. I had made my way downstairs around 4:30, occupying myself by reading the newspaper. The conversation we had in the file room yesterday played on repeat in my head. Had I been too harsh? I thought, worrying that my cool demeanor was pushing Isabelle away, rather than helping her warm up to me. But on the flip side, I also can’t have her thinking I’m some sweet, cuddly teddy bear. I’m a damn mafia boss, the Prince of Chicago!

Something about that woman really got to me. From the moment I’d seen her, I knew I wanted her. But I have a complex life, and not one very conducive to having a woman around. Had we met under different circumstances, I would have just taken her home with me to get it out of my system. I cursed fate for forcing us together in the way we had been, while in the same thought also feeling a strange gratitude for the situation. I couldn’t help but admit to myself I’d enjoyed things so much more since Isabelle had been around: work, leisure time, meals, all of it.

At the end of the day, that’s probably why I agreed to Isabelle’s little trip outside. I felt in no way great about taking her out - the opposite actually - but despite my better judgment, I could tell she was becoming stir crazy and dissatisfied with being cooped up in the penthouse day after day. A short, personally supervised trip to the warehouse, which I needed to do anyway but had been putting off, was the best way to placate the request and boost her morale.

Rose shuffled into the kitchen carrying grocery bags, and looked startled to see me downstairs so early.

“Well, good morning, my dear,” she said.

“Morning,” I replied, giving her a brisk nod.

“This is a bit early for breakfast, don’t you think?” She asked. “Isabelle won’t even be up for another two hours.” The clock on the stove read 5:12.

“Wanted to get a jump on some things before we take off later,” I replied, not looking up from the paper. “Don’t worry about fixing me anything now, I’ll take breakfast at the usual time.” No response came from Rose, but I could picture the questioning look she was giving me. A few beats later, I stood and folded the paper on the counter, about to make my way toward the hall and my office.

“This is good, Angelo,” Rose said. Her back was to me, prepping some produce that was sure to be part of breakfast on the counter opposite the island I had been seated at. I paused, but didn’t respond. The sound of Rose’s chopping echoed through the otherwise silent, open space of the penthouse.

“Trust is earned,” Rose spoke again, quieter this time. “Isabelle wants to trust you, she just needs an opportunity to see you earn it.” I let another moment of silence fall between us as her words echoed, seemingly louder than her chopping.

“Please ensure the suit I sent down last night is pressed by the end of breakfast. I’d like to change before we leave,” I finally said.

“Of course, dear,” Rose replied, dropping the subject. I turned and took off down the hall.

* * *

At half past seven, I heard Isabelle’s voice fill the living space, chatting with Rose about how the weather was cooling off. By quarter to eight I decided it was time to emerge. Despite my silence earlier in the morning, Rose’s words had done exactly what I was sure she intended. Very little work was done as my mind swam through each channel of how this day could unfold. After all and as usual, Rose was right: I couldn’t just keep Isabelle cooped up like some sort of Rapunzel in this high rise forever. Eventually, she would need to return to a normal life, and to do that, we needed to build a bond of trust between us. Today would hopefully be an inch closer to that.

As I rounded the corner from the hallway and came around the sprawling stairs into the kitchen, Isabelle looked up from her mug of tea and smiled warmly. The smell of maple filled the air, and the pop of sizzling bacon on Rose’s cast iron reverberated through the kitchen.

“Good morning, you early riser!” she said, even more chipper than usual. Seems like she was more excited for this little trip than I anticipated. Maybe this was overdue, I thought to myself. I nodded to her, giving a small, toothless smile in return.

“Your usual for breakfast?” Rose asked over her shoulder from the stovetop.

“Sure. Thank you,” I replied to her, walking past Isabelle and sliding into one of the island’s stools a few down from her. My paper was still neatly folded on the counter where I had left it after Rose and I’s conversation earlier this morning.

“I know you’re a workaholic, Angelo,” Isabelle said as she cut a piece of her omelet and forked it. She took a slightly too large bite and forced it into her mouth. “But starting work before 5am is crazy, even for you.” She said the second part as she was chewing the too-big bite. I had to stifle a laugh. We had been eating most meals together since her arrival, and one thing I quickly learned was that Isabelle did not have the best table manners. Luckily, it came off as endearing rather than impolite.

“Not all of us can sleep as soundly as you,” I said back. She rolled her eyes, to which I raised a brow in return. “I can hear you snoring through the wall, you know,” I said quietly, leaning in as if telling a secret.

“What??” Isabelle said, loud enough to make Rose turn around from the stove. At that point, I couldn’t help but let out a laugh at the look on her face: a mixture of embarrassment and surprise. “You liar! I do not snore!”

“Tell that to the noises I hear through the wall every night,” I shot back, amused. It was always fun to tease her. That earned me a smack on the arm. Rose giggled.

"Good work, my dear," she said, winking at Isabelle. “I was just about to come around the counter and do that myself. Angelo, stop antagonizing the poor young lady!” She turned to me with a stern expression as she said this. I plastered a feigned expression of regret onto my face and spun back to Isabelle.

“My sincerest apologies, miss,” I said, tilting my head sarcastically in her direction and making a circular motion with my outstretched hand.

“I’ll consider forgiving you,” she said, trying to hide her amusement at my exaggerated gesturing. We paused then, holding each other’s gaze, a smile dancing on Isabelle’s lips. I could feel the icy exterior I usually kept up melt down, just for a moment. Then, I felt something I hadn’t felt in a very long time creep over me. It took a moment, but then I was able to place it: nerves. This woman's gaze was making me nervous! I let the foreignness of the feeling cross over me, and I challenged myself to sit in it, to hold her gaze.

Rose slid my plate in front of me then, the sound of it hitting the marble counter breaking us out of the moment. I looked up to see Rose rolling her eyes at my sarcasm. The usual chill returned, instinctively. I began picking up my utensils.

“Finish up, I’ve left a list for you on your desk. We take off for the warehouse at 10, and you can complete whatever you don’t get done when we get back,” I said as I cut into the eggs on my plate. I stole a sidelong glance back over to her, and her eyes were still fixed on me, the same small smile as before playing on her lips. I wondered if she had felt the nerves too.