Chapter 37 Thirty Seven
AMELIA XAVIER
If someone said I was enjoying myself, I would've punched the person in the face till the fucker’s nose broke. I sat on an empty seat casually sipping wine, boredom was written all over my face as I checked and rechecked if I could sight Kayla.
No sign of her.
It was hopeless.
I decided to focus more on the paintings that hung on the wall, and without anyone telling me, I knew they were the original art.
“I like that one over there,” someone said, coming up to me and sitting beside me, his legs crossed.
“Which one?”
He pointed to the rear end where someone stood, his back to me caressing the painting. A little girl looking into a dark tunnel and holding a dying lamp.
“It's nice, do you know the artist?” I asked, curious to know. The young man chuckled, his laugh breaking.
“The mafia heir to the house of Devon. Paul Devon, the mafia with a heart, but dead,” he explained, his gaze not leaving my face. “I've never heard of them,” I muttered a bit embarrassed, but it seemed he didn't care.
“You probably have never, sweetheart, their deaths were unknown, one morning the news declared them dead and no autopsy was made, the case died,” he said.
I gulped down my wine to keep from thinking about what had led to their deaths.
“But I suspect it was the Winters. No. It was Owen Winters, he was so close to them at that time and after they died, he left Paris for London,” he whispered into my ears.
It wasn't possible, Owen couldn't do such a thing and as always, my emotions came in. I was disgusted.
“I don't think so,” I retorted, standing to leave. The man held my palm. “The daughter of the great Xavier, you seem to have sparked some attention here in Paris . Just be careful,” he warned, his gaze still not leaving my face.
I pulled my hand away, rubbing them together. “Don't tell me what to do,” I said and walked out not caring to know his name.
“Care for some wine?” A waiter asked. I took a glass still walking to whoever knows where.
My mind flooded with thoughts, I bumped into someone, but he was quick enough to push the wine away and it shattered on the floor. I held my nose to check if it was broken. It wasn't.
“I'm sorry, senor,” I apologized, my hand rubbing the bridge of my nose.
“Senor? That's not even french, Oh Amelia, you're still so naive,” the person said, startling me.
I looked up at him, his skin, golden brown and eyes like frost from the first snow.
Owen Winters.
OWEN WINTERS
“Welcome Mr Winters, to the Erin ball party,” the usher said as I entered the hall. The room looked nice-but-not-my taste except that they were flowery paintings hung on the wall which of course was un-mafia like. Well, what can I say? Kayla Xavier was a fan of art; paintings, music and dance.
I sat on the seat designated to me watching with disgust or deep interest as the art of manipulation between groups and families took place — the real event didn't matter to them. I tried to focus more on the instrumentalists playing slow music and the dancers displaying the art of pole dancing. It looked like the 20s, only better.
“Coming here was a bad idea,” I muttered under my breath staring into space.
“Do you care for a small talk, house of the Winters,” someone said from behind me. Turning, I met the gaze of the lady who looked like she was in her late 40s standing, her smile wild and eyes devious. “Ah! Lady Clarkson, I'm blessed to have set my eyes on you,” I greeted, kissing her fingers. “It's Pierre now, divorced,” she muttered, her voice failing her expression.
“Pierre, soothing in the mouth,” I praised her not that I wanted to get on her good side, but this beautiful woman who stood elegantly before me was a snake. “And how're you doing? Heard you've fully taken over your father's business,” she asked as her lips curled into a fake smile.
So readable. Pathetic.
“Of course, I'm his only child,” I retorted, minding my words.
“Or adopted?”
“And how does that matter to you, Miss Pierre, let's enjoy the evening. Do you love wine or spirit?” I asked, carefully changing the topic. It worked.
“Spirit, I need to get high tonight, my divorce really drained the beauty out of me,” Miss Pierre complained as I poured the raw alcohol in a wine glass and handed it to her.
“You're still as young as the petals of a flower in bloom,” I mused, patting her shoulder.
“Young people and their words!”
After downing three glasses of wine, I expected it to take over my thinking or cloud my fucking judgements, but I was as alive as a night watchman.
Hell, I need air.
Standing to leave, I noticed a particular painting that was hung at the rear end of the hall, it reminded me of something… no, someone.
To be honest, innocence was far from me when it came to art since in one of my many missions, I burnt down an art gallery. This painting held so many memories that I didn't know how I moved from my seat or how I stood before the painting caressing it.
“It's the original work of the not so famous artist, and mafia heir, may his soul rest in peace, Devon,” someone explained behind me, I didn't care to turn… I didn't want to, knowing that the fallen house of Devon was entirely my fault. I had played along with them, then at the last minute I struck, erasing the only mafia family that accepted me, except the Xavier's — it was my duty. I had to. My hands trembled as I felt the beautiful and smooth texture of the painting.
I stared at the black and white painting; a little girl staring into a dark tunnel while holding a dying lamp.
“The painting was the last thing that was left of them after that tragic incident,” she continued.
“Sad. I should join the party, is that up for sale?” I asked, finally turning from the painting.
“No. The lady Kayla said it was special…”
“It's fine, I should get going,” I interrupted quickly, walking away and not giving the painting even a last glance. Sad things should be forgotten.
Still in my thoughts, I miscalculated my steps, my frame ramming into someone and before the drink she held could splash on me, I pushed it away. It smashed on the floor, its content staining my shoes.
“I'm sorry, senor,” she said with a familiar voice.
I looked at her trying to ascertain where I had seen such a lovely face and memories from eleven years flooded in, call it fate or destiny, but I was standing before the woman I so badly wanted to see and at the same time, to avoid.
I smirked.
“Senor? That's not even french. Oh Amelia, you're still so naive”