by Soraya Naomi
“And the new guards for our families are doing well, Michael,” Adriano commends, which pleases me.
The rest of the high ranking men have significant others, and as head of security, I command a handful of Syndicate guards who I’ve trained to protect the wives and children at all times when they’re out and about.
“How did everything go with the staff?” Adriano inquires.
“I think it went well. They have no idea we’re the Syndicate.” Logan rakes a hand through his blond hair to comb it back.
After blowing out a stream of smoke, Adriano points out, “I don’t need to tell any of you how important it is that it stays that way.”
This is the exact reason why Brielle finding out I carry a gun is a concern to me. If she tells anyone, the staff might start to ask questions and pry into business that’s not theirs. If that happens, it will have consequences for me because I was the one who was careless enough to forget my gun.
Fuck! Why did Brielle have to find it?!
“Make sure the Capos and other members also remember to keep it on the down low. If a civilian employee were to discover that Palermo is the mafia, I’d be forced to fire them or possibly even end them. This set-up is already dangerous – too many Capos and soldiers know that Palermo is the Syndicate since we have dozens of soldiers on our payroll who unload the weekly dock shipments and another dozen or so Capos who sell the product for us. So we can’t afford for anyone else to find out, capisce?” He puts out his cigarette and eyes each of us as we all nod. “Another thing I want to discuss is the problem we’re having with an increasing amount of the supply being confiscated by customs. Our contact with the Mexicans has offered a new opportunity.”
“What kind of opportunity?” I ask.
“The Mexican cartel claims they’ve found a route to import one large shipment of cocaine and heroin a year, which would mean we could downsize substantially. At this rate, the Syndicate is becoming so large that the six of us won’t be able to manage the entire organization. I’m also being bothered too often about minor issues that I don’t want to be involved in. If we have one cargo delivery a year that a handful of soldiers can pick up and stock up north at the warehouse where we have plenty of room, we could let go of many lower ranking members. That’s also safer for us.”
“What percentage gets confiscated?” Luca’s interest is piqued.
“They say twenty percent.”
“If it’s twenty percent of one shipment, then we’d still have enough to meet demand. We have to make sure we’d be able to maintain our position or else another organization could swoop in and push us out,” Carmine informs. “If we don’t accept the offer, someone else will...”
“I know, but my first priority is downsizing this organization to protect Palermo’s name. It’s just a matter of time before a soldier or Capo shows up here, and since they don’t belong in this elite world, they’ll stand out.”
“Are you seriously contemplating it?” I inquire.
“Yes. Have you heard of Reymario?”
“I have. When I was in New York, I heard that he took over the Mexican cartel a few months ago.”
“Do you know who he is exactly?”
“He’s ruthless and secretive about his family life, like we are. And as far I’ve heard, he’s a good business partner, just pretty arrogant.”
“Also like us,” Adriano states jokingly.
“But because he’s secretive, we don’t know exactly how he’s setting up the routes. And if we ask, he won’t tell us.” I suppress a yawn to hide my lack of sleep.
“I need to know more about his cartel, and our contact has offered a test shipment in May. I’m inclined to do it. We have enough blow in stock to last us until June. And the only issue with doing yearly shipments in the past was money. We’ll need millions to pay at that one drop-off because it will be hundreds of kilos. And we’ll have those millions with the extra money Palermo will be making.”
“So you want to go ahead and suspend the current shipments?” Carmine appears surprised.
“Yes, only to avoid raising suspicion with Reymario though. I’ll agree to working with him but without sharing any personal info. I don’t want him to know everything about us. So we do the test shipment, but in the meantime, we send a spy to Mexico to infiltrate and check out his organization. If he’s not trustworthy or if our spy finds anything indicating that he’s lying about the safety of the route, then I’ll cancel the test shipment, saying I find it too risky, and continue with the weekly shipment.”
“That could work,” I advise. “If Reymario can pull it off once a year, it would lessen our workload.”
“Who do we send?” Adriano asks me.
I rub my chin. “Send Capo John. He’s the most experienced member besides us. He’s a better choice than any of the guards I’m training.” I look at Logan, who’s the head captain.
“John can go. Another Capo will handle his deals,” he confirms, on board as well.
“Then send John to Mexico immediately,” Adriano concludes. “Luca and I will communicate with our contact that we want to do a test shipment.”
As the other men disperse, Adriano’s brown gaze narrows in on me. “You okay?”
“Yeah, last night was rough,” I tell him the truth.
“I understand. You can go home if you need to.”
I dip my chin, grateful that he senses my mood; nevertheless, I prefer being busy. “Thanks, but I need to get my mind off things, so I’ll stay here and check the schedules of the guards for the upcoming weeks.”
Standing up, I walk to the door, but Luca follows me and grips my shoulder. “It’ll get better, man.”
“When?” I retort, and his expression becomes sympathetic as I leave the office and head toward the staircase.
Before I reach it, a waitress with bright reddish-brown hair blocks my path. “Hey, Michael.”
I stop, speculating how she even knows my name, yet I’m distracted when I look down and see Brielle slipping inside the restaurant and hurrying toward the bar. She inconspicuously peeks around, not seeing me hidden in the shadows upstairs, before she escapes into the kitchen. Obviously, she’s avoiding me.
“I was actually wondering if—” the waitress speaks.
But I interrupt, “I have to go.” I avoid emotional entanglements and haven’t dated since Rachel.
Moving around her, I stride down the stairs, aggravated with myself that there’s even a need to handle the situation with this woman. While I want to scour Brielle’s personnel file first so that I have the upper hand, I need to verify that she believed my story about why I’m armed since she correctly pointed out that it’s uncommon for restaurant security to carry a gun. Furthermore, I find it coincidental that she works at Palermo if she is who I suspect she is. And if so, she’s a good actress.
When I storm into the kitchen, it’s empty, but the lights over the island are switched on. Then I see that the fire exit is open and I hear Brielle’s smoky voice talking to a delivery guy.
My empty stomach growls and I glance at the marble counter to my left where there’s a plate of round white cakes. Though I’m not one to eat much sugar, I pick up one and take a bite. Surprisingly, it’s infused with rum and isn’t overly sweet. Though food has tasted bland for months, I can’t deny that this is a good cake and I continue to eat.
As I’m swallowing the last bite, Brielle, who’s wearing that shapeless black chef’s jacket, steps back inside carrying a basket filled with bread and vegetables and startles when she sees me.
“Oh my god! You’ve got to stop doing that!” she shrieks in a tone that nearly deafens me, her green irises spitting fire.
CHAPTER 3
Brielle
I ACCEPT THE BASKET with fresh products and go back into Palermo through the fire exit but stop and let out a shout – a tall shadow is standing at my dessert counter like some kind of dark angel.
When I recognize who it is, I blurt out, “Oh my god! You’v
e got to stop doing that!”
Then I clamp my lips together as Michael’s ashy-grey glare pins me to my spot. His powerful frame is impossible not to notice, but his presence is especially intimidating since he’s wearing all black once again.
I feel the heat of embarrassment swarm over my face because of the reaction I had last night. I shouldn’t have charged out like that for the simple reason that I need this job. Since the day I finished culinary school a year ago, I haven’t had a steady income, and at twenty-one, I need one. Thank goodness, I saw this position online and applied immediately, and I assume they made me the pâtissière because they wanted someone to start within two weeks. I’ll never get the salary they pay me here anywhere else with my lack of experience, so I really don’t want my altercation with Michael to become an issue. I’d also like to avoid him informing the chef about the juvenile way I dealt with things. Although in my defense, this guy made me extremely uncomfortable, which makes it all the more disturbing that I still thought about him often during the night.
Summoning my composure, I try to act casual instead of panicking over what might be nothing, and I set the basket on the counter.
“Why are you so jumpy?” he asks, completely poised as he glances at the silver bracelet on my left wrist.
Evidently, I’ve failed to play it cool, but I’m briefly sidetracked by his striking face and the strands of dark hair that have fallen across his forehead, making me fight the urge to sweep them back.
His gaze bathes my limbs with both fear and heat, opposing emotions I’ve never felt with another man, and I mutter, “Because you always come out of nowhere.”
“That’s happened twice,” he points out, reminding me of the other reason I ran from him the previous evening – because he irritated me.
Instead of reacting, I bite my tongue and tilt my head to the side. “Can I help you with something, Michael?”
He studies me with a calculating stare. “Actually, yes, Brielle. We didn’t finish our conversation yesterday since you ran out of here.”
“Thank you for mentioning that,” I grumble sarcastically, grabbing two baguettes from the basket and placing them on the counter.
“You’re welcome,” he actually replies, and I purse my lips in annoyance, but he either doesn’t notice or ignores it. “Before we get into another argument, I want to know if you told anyone about last night?”
I turn to him, a hint of his musk cologne drifting into my nostrils, and when I step closer, he scoots backward as his measured composure breaks for the first time. I get the sense he doesn’t like it when someone invades his personal space; he obviously wasn’t happy when he had to manhandle me.
“About your gun, you mean?” I murmur and glimpse at his torso.
“Yes.” His answer is curt.
“No, I just came in and I haven’t talked to anyone.”
“Other employees don’t need to know that I carry one. We don’t want anyone to worry,” he explains, although I’m not sure if he’s informing or ordering me.
It’s more threatening that he doesn’t exactly tell me what he wants. Regardless, I understand management’s point of view. While I mull it over, Michael looks at me like I’m a nuisance, the faint wrinkles around his eyes making me guess that he must be in his thirties. Then I get my thoughts back on track and realize that I don’t want him to see me as some inexperienced girl.
“I won’t tell anyone,” I concede, and he responds with a brisk nod, spinning around and deeming this conversation over, while I’m left a little dumbfounded.
Dashing forward, I make a half-circle around him, pressing my palms to his solid chest, but his impressive frame almost mows over me as we crash against each other. A spark of lightning flares from my fingertips when he winds his arms around me to keep me from toppling backward and we freeze, his firm, warm hold setting my nerves ablaze.
But in the next moment, the hard lines of his angular face become drenched in sadness for a split-second as he stares at me. No, through me – as if he’s seeing into the past. He doesn’t blink. He doesn’t seem to be drawing in breath. I don’t think it’s possible for him to grow any more still. Then he suddenly releases me and takes a big step back.
“Don’t touch me,” he warns in a raw tone as a waiter passes him.
I hold up my hands, alarmed yet fascinated by his vulnerable reaction. “Okay. I won’t. I wasn’t finished though.”
He arcs a dark brow.
“Can you not tell anyone about my running out last night?” I request tentatively, and I swear his lips twitch before he masks it.
“Fine,” he answers and is about to say more, but the door behind me opens and a waitress named Marliya with auburn hair comes in, stopping when she sees us.
Abruptly, Michael strides out of the kitchen, Marliya scrutinizing him before she rushes over to me.
“What was that?” we both ask in unison, chuckling.
“I’ve been trying to talk to him since yesterday,” Marliya tells me as she ties her thin black tie around her neck.
“Why?” I’m way too curious.
“I saw Michael a few times when the manager trained us, but he was always busy and dismissive, so when I finally had him alone upstairs earlier, I gave it a shot.”
“He’s rude,” I put in, although there’s a melancholy in Michael’s handsome features he can’t disguise. Nonetheless, I dislike my growing interest in him because he’s clearly out of my league. “Who is he exactly? He says he’s security director.”
“Yeah, he’s one of the higher-ups. His full name is Michael Carrion, and he just moved back from New York.”
That surprises me because he and I have something in common; I also left New York years ago. “How old is he?”
“Thirty-three.” She casts me a questioning look. “Someone else is interested in him too...the mystery thing surrounding him is hot, huh?” Laughing, she gets utensils from the kitchen island drawer to set the tables.
“No, no, he’s been dismissive to me as well,” I inform around a grin and turn back to my counter to start prepping the desserts.
But as time passes, I constantly watch the door for a certain male, yet I don’t know why. When service is late to pick up for the third time, I take two plates with warm chocolate lava cakes and shoulder through the door into the restaurant where the murmurs of dozens of guests echo around.
The floor, walls, and furnishings are all black, but the total effect isn’t too dark due to the hundreds of sophisticated hanging bowl lights that are suspended from the high Italian marble and wood ceiling. Their yellow glow dances off the square tables that are scattered in the middle of the room, each covered with a white tablecloth and a tall black vase with one white dahlia as a centerpiece and surrounded by velvet black padded chairs.
I move around the perimeter of the first floor where they’ve installed sleek, suede banquettes that end at the bar, which has glass shelves stocked with liquor bottles climbing up the wall. Ascending the staircase to the second floor VIP area, I head toward the designated table on the right side and see Marliya and Michael standing opposite each other.
“It’s okay,” I hear Marliya say as he glimpses at me and a frown sweeps across his face after he’s undoubtedly apologized to her for his flippant behavior.
She cocks her hip, sending him a flirtatious smile, and he smirks wolfishly, making me think he’s very aware of the effect he has on women. Regardless, he doesn’t need to flirt with our waitresses during work.
“Marliya, could you take these plates to table forty-four?” I shove them into her hands when they shoot up. “Thank you,” I add nicely, and she grins salaciously at Michael, whose facial expression doesn’t change.
Michael coolly unbuttons his expensive suit jacket as he gives me a bland look, so I state, “We have to keep the staff going so that we can close the restaurant on time.”
He blinks slowly, his gaze moving down to my lips before traveling back up as his rich cologne cloaks me.
“Is that a request or an order?” he asks, but he lifts his brows slightly in a gesture that silently yet effectively conveys his displeasure with me. “Were you watching me?”
I scoff, shifting forward when someone passes me. “What? No. I was waiting for service, and when no one showed, I brought the desserts up here myself.”
“Well, I was just apologizing to her.”
“Because you were rude to her too?”
He shows me a devilish smile, but I also catch his jawline clenching in annoyance. “Have you been asking about me, Duchenne?” he uses my last name as if he wants me to know that he’s checked my file.
“No, she told me about you all by herself, Carrion.” I make him aware of the fact that I can find out information as well.
Suddenly, his grin fades and he straightens as though he’s only now realized he’s standing right next to me, and I feel the corner of my lips quirking up, knowing he hates closeness.
“I think we’re done here.” His voice skitters over my flesh, yet he unexpectedly manages to dismiss me again, his indifferent attitude making me feel young while he’s always experienced and collected.
Strolling away, he goes down the staircase like a royal sailing through his kingdom, something about him scary yet intriguing. Women vie for his attention, but he simply ignores them and steps around them as they gawk after his commanding presence the same way I do.
At that second, I realize that it must’ve looked like I was jealous of him and Marliya, but I just want service to be on time so that I don’t have to leave last. Upset with myself about my rash behavior, I return to the kitchen; however, I’m not sure why I’m letting this affect me.
Lost in thought, I stare at the wood shelf on the charcoal painted wall above my dessert counter that’s stocked with jars of flour, sugar, cocoa powder, and other ingredients I use daily.
“Two rum cakes,” chef Gianni yells.
“Yes, chef. Two minutes.” I dip down to get plates from the storage rack beneath my counter and set them on the white marble. Grabbing the round cakes, I position them on the plates and drizzle them with raspberry coulis. Then I notice that I’m already all out of rum cakes while we still have more than an hour of service. As I place the desserts on the service tray, I tell the waitress, “We’re out of these, okay?”