by Callie Hart
“What’s wrong with a dude reading a romance novel?”
“Everything is wrong with a…” He trails off, looking around, as if he’s searching for someone to back him up. Sadly for Jake, the hotel bar is deserted. “I just want you to listen to yourself for a moment. Listen really hard. You’re talking about a thirty-four-year-old woman. A woman who’s been married. To someone else. She had someone else’s kid, and that kid fucking died. How can you think chasing after this person is a good idea? I am really trying to understand your thought process, but it’s just completely and utterly fucking beyond me. You gotta help me out here, man.”
I stare down at my hands, clasped around the rocks glass I’m holding, which seems to be lit up from the inside with luminous, glowing amber liquid. “It’s simple,” I tell him. “There is no thought process. It’s just what’s happening, and I’m okay with it.”
TWELVE
LA CUCINA DEL DIAVOLO
SASHA
I’m nervous. I’m actually weirdly nervous. I may have been reading romance novels for years now, but it’s been so long since I really thought about my own love life. This is by no means an ideal date situation; after all, my date for the evening is only twenty-three years old. Honestly, this whole thing feels like a bit of a joke. I feel like this is a prank that’s being played on me, and for some reason I’m actually going along with it, even though I can see how ridiculous it all is.
I pick out a gold sequin dress and my favorite black heels, and I apply enough makeup to make a Kardashian proud. I wear some gold hoop earrings, surprising myself when I find that the holes haven’t closed up—it’s been over a year since I remember wearing jewelry—and as I survey myself in front of the full-length mirror in my bedroom, I’m shocked. Looking at my reflection, I see how little I’ve changed in the past five years. I’m a different person since Christopher died. Beyond different. I’m not even the same species of human being I used to be before the accident. It seems odd that I should appear on the outside, for all intents and purposes, like I haven’t even aged let alone transformed in the most monumental of ways.
I slowly brush a loose curl back behind my ear, studying myself. What does Rooke see when he looks at me? A stranger to win over? An older woman to charm? A challenge to overcome? A broken shell of a human being, easy to take advantage of? I don’t even know what he sees, but his interest seems out of the ordinary.
I do something then that makes me question my own sanity. I head downstairs, directly to the liquor cabinet that Andrew always used to keep locked, and I take out a bottle of vodka. I crack the lid, hold the cool, beveled glass rim of the bottle to my lips, and I drink. This isn’t just a shot of Dutch courage. This isn’t even two or three shots of Dutch courage. This is a defibrillator to my heart, the alcohol burning intensely as it flows down my throat, gathering in a pool of fire in the pit of my stomach. I’m good at drinking like this. I’m really fucking good at it. When Christopher died, I became an expert, in fact. For long months, I would stand in the small downstairs bathroom with a bottle of something strong and inappropriate pressed to my mouth, chugging back the liquid. Andrew never said anything. He never remarked on the fact that I was literally stumbling through my own life like a disheveled, half-dead stranger. A padlock simply showed up on the liquor cabinet door one day, and that was his none-too-subtle hint that I had taken things too far.
The thing about Andrew was that he never thought outside the box, though. Alcohol lives in the liquor cabinet, ergo if he locks the cabinet, I can’t drink anything. He didn’t take into consideration that alcohol could be kept in a pantry. Or in a shoebox. Or under the kitchen sink, where he was never likely to look.
My drinking problem never really came to a head. It just fizzled out slowly, along with the rest of me. After so much time fighting to even get out of bed in the morning, finding the energy to drink just became too hard.
I don’t seem to be having any problems now, though. I only stop pulling at the bottle when my head begins to buzz on the inside. I screw the lid back onto the bottle and put it back into the cabinet, then straighten out my dress like nothing ever happened.
The doorbell rings at five minutes to seven. He’s early—a good start. I answer the door, trying not to stumble and roll my ankle in my heels. Rooke’s dressed all in black—ripped jeans, another smart button-down shirt with a black crest stitched onto the breast pocket, and a pair of highly polished black leather shoes. His eyes are dark and stormy when they meet mine; I can’t decipher his expression beyond the fact that he looks angry. He holds out a small, understated bunch of flowers. Nothing so obvious as roses. The blooms are simple and pretty, wild flowers, the kind that would be really hard to get in the middle of winter in New York.
I take them from him, holding them absently to my nose—they smell beautiful. I don’t even know when I last had flowers in the house. They remind me of funerals. These, however, are too fresh, too innocent to bring back memories of the grand lilies, irises and orchids people had delivered to our doorstep when Christopher died.
“I’ll put these in water.” I head quickly to the kitchen, placing the flowers in a tall glass and filling it with water. Rooke follows me into the house. I can feel him standing behind me, his presence searing at my skin. I know he’s watching me; I can feel his eyes burning into my skin. The hair on the back of my neck stands on end.
“You look beautiful, you know,” he says quietly. “So fucking beautiful. That dress…”
I turn around, leaning back against the sink, taking a deep breath. I need to calm my nerves. “It’s nothing special,” I say.
Rooke gives me a critical look. “Oh, but it is. You’re wearing it.” He’s looking at me like he can see right through the damn dress, which makes me shift uncomfortably.
“Don’t,” I tell him.
“Don’t what?”
“Look at me like that. It’s not part of the deal.”
“The deal where you get through the next few hours, and then you demand I never contact you again?”
“Yes.”
Rooke sighs quietly, looking around the kitchen. “You and I both know that deal is bullshit. You’re going to see me again, Sasha. You’re going to want to see me again real soon.”
Oh, he’s going to be sore when he realizes I’m serious about that deal. I keep my mouth shut, though. It’s just dinner. Like he said, I can get through the next few hours. I can. Just because he’s the hottest guy I’ve ever laid eyes on doesn’t mean I’ll be dropping my panties for him and waiting for him to call me every day. I’m sure that’s what he’s used to, but not this time.
Rooke’s voice is even and calm when he speaks. “Bring a coat. I’ll be walking you home, and it’s cold out.”
“You’re not walking me home.”
“I fucking am.”
“I can get a cab.”
“I know you can, but you’re not going to. I’m walking you back, and I’m going to kiss you right here before you invite me inside for coffee. We both know coffee means sex. From the look on your face, you obviously don’t think that’s going to happen, but I can guarantee you…it will.”
I have to bite back stunned laughter. “You are so full of yourself. How did you end up like this? So damned sure of yourself all the time?”
He shrugs, scratching at his lip. The action makes me focus there, on his mouth; I know my eyes linger a little too long, but I can’t seem to force my gaze in another direction. “Experience,” he says slowly. “Lots and lots of experience in getting my own way. I’m a spoiled rich kid, after all.” He licks his lips, and I can feel blood rushing to my cheeks. He did that on purpose. Asshole. “Are you hungry?” he asks.
”Sure.” I’m not. I have a belly full of vodka. Vodka and butterflies. The bitches are drunk.
“Good.” Rooke crosses the kitchen, then offers me his arm. “You know how this date thing works, right? You don’t shout or scream at me in public. We enjoy a nice meal together without you
trying to sabotage the night at every turn.”
It would be so easy for me to snipe back with something caustic and awful right now, but he looks like he’s one hundred percent serious. “I know how to behave on a date,” I say.
“Great. Feel free to swoon over me. I know I look good in black.”
******
ROOKE
The restaurant I direct our cab driver to isn’t one you’ll find on Yelp. It doesn’t have a website. You can’t call and book a table. Even the president of the United States himself wouldn’t be able to get a reservation unless he knew someone who knew someone. There are no huge, grand signs on the outside of the building. There are no doormen standing out in the cold with their collars popped, waiting to tell you that the place is full.
There is only a small blue neon cross lit up on the side of the dark, shadowy warehouse of a building, higher up than the average person would ever look, and a small metal grate in a heavy steel roller door. Sasha looks nervous as we climb out of the cab and into the rain.
“I really don’t think there are any places to eat around here,” she says. “Are you sure you’ve got the right address?”
I tip the cab driver and he burns off down the street without so much as a thank you; this really isn’t a safe area to be loitering around after dark. If you’re connected, though… If you’re on the guest list at La Cucina del Diavolo, no one will dare touch you. It just so happens that I am on that guest list. When the Barbieri family needs an unmarked car or something fast to get them from point A to B, they have me on speed dial. They pay well, and they pay on delivery, which means I pick up their calls whenever I see their number lighting up my cell. One of the perks of occasionally working for one of the most dangerous families in New York is that I have access to places like this.
Sasha’s hand tightens around my arm. She has a wired, hazy look on her face. “I think we should find another cab, Rooke. This is a shitty neighborhood.”
“It’s fine. I’m not going to let anything bad happen to you. Just hold on for a second and we’ll be inside. You’ll see for yourself.” She’s shocked when I walk up to the warehouse shutter doors in front of us—I can see how instantly wary she is. Someone slides back the metal grate in the shutter door, and a grim, sour-faced Italian man in his late fifties eyeballs us, first me and then Sasha.
“Name?” he demands.
“Blackheath.”
He doesn’t even blink. On the other side of the shutter door, a number of bolts slide free, and then the shutter is flying upward, bathing us in a shaft of pale blue neon light. “Straight through,” the Italian heavy says. “Second room. We have a private function on tonight. I highly recommend you don’t walk through any doors marked with an X.”
“Got it.” I take Sasha’s hand again and lead her forward before she can object. This is probably scary for her right now, but it won’t be for long. Once we’re seated and we’re looking at a menu, the experience will be a familiar one. A glass of wine will calm her nerves, and then we can get on with the business of the evening.
I head through another heavy steel door, and suddenly the air is filled with smoke and the sound of many conversations taking place at once. The first dining room is packed, full of New York’s underground criminal elite. The men wear expensive Italian suits and smoke cigars at their tables; the women are scantily dressed with smoky eyes, dripping with diamonds that even an Arabic sheik couldn’t afford. People watch us as we weave through the space, heading toward the back room.
Yet another heavy, studded door…
A long, dark corridor stretches out before us, doors on either side. These are the rooms the doorman warned us against. Small blue crosses like the one on the outside of the building glow dimly by the door handles. Sasha jerks my arm, finally trying to pull me to a stop. “What is this place?” she hisses. “I don’t think I’m meant to be here, Rooke. This is a really bad idea.”
She really isn’t meant to be here. This isn’t a part of the city she will have encountered before. No doubt she would never have encountered it if she hadn’t run into me. She did run into me, though, and I want her to know about this.
Maybe I’m sick, and maybe I’m deluded, but I’ve been thinking about this a lot. I’m going to tell her everything about me. I’m going to tell her all of the nefarious, illegal things I’ve done in my lifetime, as well as all of the nefarious, illegal things I’ll probably do in the future. I’m going to tell her all of this tonight as we eat dinner. It’ll be a crapshoot. She’s probably going to get up and storm out of here without even considering what I’m telling her. But, on the other hand… she might not. She might listen to what I have to say and decide it’s not such a big deal. Wouldn’t that be a fucking kicker?
“Look. You’re one hundred percent safe right now, okay?” I tell her. “I said I was going to look out for you, and I am. If you really want to leave, though, I’ll take us to The Cheesecake Factory or something and we can have a perfectly bland, perfectly boring night instead. If you want to try something new, something exciting, then stop worrying and follow me.”
It’s a risk, asking her to follow me. It’s the same as asking her to trust me, and she has absolutely no reason to do that. Not yet, anyway. By the end of the night, that will have changed, but for now…
Sasha glances around. We’re alone in the corridor. The blue neon from the crosses on the doors reflects on the gold sequins of her dress, sending showers of pale green light skittering all over the walls every time she moves. Her eyes are round and wide. Her pupils are three times the size they should be. She opens her mouth to speak, then frowns. “Okay. Fine. I have enough problems to contend with. Don’t make this another one. Deal?”
“Deal.”
The second room is less busy than the first. I’ve learned over time that this means one of the Barbieri family members must be back here, holding a meeting or having dinner. Booths line the outer edges of the room, all of which are dark and in shadow. There’s no smoke back here, thank god. The space smells like food, delicious food, and the sweet tang of alcohol. Sasha surveys the polished grey marble underfoot, the waterfalls of light cascading from the chandeliers overhead, and the rows of silverware glinting on the tables. She doesn’t look quite so gripped by fear anymore. She’s still hesitant, though, that much is very clear.
A waiter in a pristine three-piece suit seats us in a booth. Sasha looks like she wants to punch him in the face and run when he tries to take her purse.
“If you don’t mind, madam. It’s our policy that all bags, purses and cell phones are checked with the concierge while our diners enjoy their meals. It makes for a safer, more enjoyable evening.”
“What do you think I’ve got in here?” She laughs, but the sound is off, a little hollow. The waiter considers her small gold sequined clutch.
“Well. A berretta would fit in there quite nicely. Or throwing knives?”
Sasha blinks up at him like he’s a lunatic. I place my hand over hers, clearing my throat until she releases the clutch. “It’s okay, madam,” the waiter says. “I will make sure your personal items aren’t tampered with in any way.” He turns to me, holding out his hand. I place my cellphone, wallet and keys in his palm without saying a word. He bows, and then hurries off.
“Throwing knives?” Sasha hisses. “What the hell? Why would anyone bring throwing knives with them to a restaurant?”
“For protection.” Seems fairly obvious to me. I take all kinds of weaponry with me wherever I go. I left my gun at home tonight, though. It’s frowned upon to have something like that with you when you walk through the doors of The Devil’s Kitchen. The waiter comes back and gives Sasha a menu, tells us the special, offers us a complimentary glass of Sangiovese, and for a moment everything feels normal. Sasha studies the menu, picks out what she wants, orders, and I do the same. When the waiter removes the menus from the table, I reach inside my pocket and take out a different piece of paper, unfolding it and sliding it across the
table toward her.
“What’s this?” She studies the printout suspiciously.
“Read it and find out.” I grin an evil grin as she casts her gaze over the black ink on the page. I already know what it says: Gonorrhea: negative. Chlamydia: negative. Hepatitis C: negative. HIV: negative. The list is expansive and conclusive. I’m clean as a whistle.
Sasha folds up the piece of paper and hands it back to me, mouth drawn into a tight, unimpressed line. “You think you’re so funny, don’t you?”
“Actually, I think I’m rather awesome. There’s nothing more romantic than a guy voluntarily getting a swab shoved down his dick for you.”
“How did you even get that done so fast?”
“Bribery.”
She laughs—dry, scathing—as if she’s brushing off my comment as an exaggeration. It isn’t, though. I paid the technician at the family planning clinic five hundred dollars to process my results overnight. “You and I have very different ideas of romantic, Rooke. This restaurant, for example…”
“You’re still bent out of shape that I brought you to a mob restaurant?”
“You brought me to a mob restaurant?”
I’m surprised she hasn’t figured that part out already. She has no part in this world, though. No experience. No reference points. She can’t be blamed for her naivety. I don’t allow my expression to flicker. “I did.”
“Why?”
“Because I like the steak?”
“Rooke.”
“All right. I brought you here so you could see what my life is like. So you know what you’re getting yourself into. So you can experience something out of the ordinary. Do you hate it?”
She sits heavily back in her seat, her eyes roving wildly around the room. “Do I hate it? What kind of a question is that?”