by Soraya Naomi
Every encounter with Michael Carrion leaves me baffled yet spikes my curiosity – he’s beginning to seep into my psyche. This man in black may sometimes act like an ass, but at least he’s a caring ass.
THE NEXT AFTERNOON, I start work at one p.m., and when I arrive at Palermo, the host opens the heavy black doors, leading the way inside. “By the way, the food delivery already came today – the groceries will be delivered at the front entrance from now on.”
“Why?” I ask as we walk alongside the banquettes to go toward the bar.
“We were ordered by management not to use the back alley.”
“Okay, thanks.”
Reaching the end of the bar, I slip through the door into the kitchen and find the baskets of fresh products already sitting on the island. I take off my coat and purse to hang them on the rack and switch them for my black chef’s jacket.
At that moment, the door opens and Fallon peeks in. “Hey!”
“Hey, Fallon! What are you doing here so early?” I button up my jacket.
“I was looking for Michael, but I don’t think he’s here yet.”
“I haven’t seen him, but I just got in.”
“I heard he’s in the kitchen a lot.” She widens the door but doesn’t step inside, an entertained expression on her face.
I smirk, turning around to the basket on the island. “He’s been in here every day to steal my rum cakes.”
“Really?” She frowns as though she’s surprised.
“Yeah, he’s strange though.”
“Why?”
“Sometimes he makes me uncomfortable, and he can be really moody. I know he’s management, but he’s very...bossy.”
“Most people get that with Michael. It’s not personal. He...he has some things to work through.”
So I was right when I believed I noticed an undercurrent of pain in him. “What kind of things?”
“He’s going through some personal stuff; he lost someone close to him,” she reveals just as her phone chimes in.
Baguette in hand, I freeze as my thoughts start to organize.
“I have to go home to my twins and relieve the babysitter. I’ll see you later; Luca and I are having dinner here.”
“Okay, see you tonight,” I call out right before she closes the door.
At last, I realize the reason why Michael’s inconsistent behavior seems familiar. He has moods similar to the ones I experienced for months after my parents died. For so long, I didn’t understand why they had to die, and my temper would flare chaotically, causing me to lash out at people who offered me help. And although my initial misery thankfully faded, it still took a year for me to feel somewhat like myself again. However, the hurt of missing them never wanes, especially during pivotal life moments, like when I graduated or now, when I’m learning the ins and outs of a new job. These are the times I miss them most.
Evidently, Michael’s not feeling like himself, which explains his hot and cold behavior. Now I know that he’s grieving someone. But who? Parents? Siblings? A loved one?
Out of the blue, I hear a loud thud on the other side of the fire exit, so I rush around the island and throw open the door. Looking to the side, I see Michael pressing his arm into a medium-built man’s throat while he pushes him against the brick wall.
Both their gazes whip to me, and Michael’s dark hair topples across his forehead as he breathes raggedly and orders, “Go inside. Now!”
CHAPTER 10
Michael
“GO INSIDE. NOW!” I roar, attempting to control my captive and digging my fingers into his cheeks – he can’t speak to her and mention the Syndicate.
Of all people, Brielle needs to witness this?! Fate is putting her in my path too often.
“H-hel...” he stammers as I cut off his airway by pushing my forearm into his throat, making him gasp for air.
Brielle stands there motionless, so I repeat in a low tone, “Go back inside. I’m handling this.”
“W-who is this?” she asks, alarmed, and steps forward.
Knowing this man is armed, I growl out for her safety, “Brielle! Do as I say! Go inside!”
She startles from the sharpness in my voice and glances back and forth several times in the span of a few seconds before turning around while watching us. Then she hurries into the building and lets the door slam closed.
I hurl my fist into the man’s nose, making him grunt as blood trickles down his chin, and I grind out, “What the fuck are you doing here? You aren’t allowed to come here to Palermo. As a mere soldier, you should know that.”
“I wanted to talk to one of you.” He attempts to pull down my forearm.
I keep it pressed against his throat. “I don’t care. Palermo is off limits for soldiers, and you sure as hell can’t come prowling around here in the alley behind the kitchen,” I snarl, but doubt creeps into my mind – we’re still searching for Reymario’s spy. “What was so important that you would defy the rules just to talk to us? Or are you here to spy?”
He frowns. “Spy? No, I’m Logan’s soldier. I work for the captains. I wanted to know what happened to John, but no one will tell me. He’s my friend.”
Quickly, I snatch his phone from his pocket and read his messages and most recent calls, seeing nothing but local numbers and no sign that he’s had any contact with a Mexican number. It hits me that this is a rookie soldier who’s simply moronic and not fit to be a member. Storing his phone back in his pocket, I release him by lowering my forearm, yet I don’t step back as he massages his throat and scowls at me.
“If he was your friend, he would’ve told you where he went,” I say. “Clearly, he didn’t want anyone to know. But you just ruined your career in the Syndicate by disobeying the rules. This is the last time I expect to see you here. You’re not a Syndicate soldier anymore; you only get one chance in our organization.”
“But—”
“If you want me to hand you over to the boss, we can go inside – he won’t be as lenient as I am, and you still won’t get your answer...” I inform him, straightening my collar.
He holds up his palms in surrender. “Okay, okay. I’ll go.”
When I don’t move, he shifts to the side and trudges out of the alley pathetically.
Letting out an aggravated breath, I rake my hair back with both hands, knowing I have another problem to take care of. A certain person on Palermo’s staff seems to regularly catch me – I’m being too reckless and have no idea how to deal with her, but I’m forced to do exactly that when I open the fire exit and Brielle’s standing right there.
Barging through the door, I force her to stumble backward until we reach the kitchen island, and I lash out, “Don’t ever go into that alley alone and put yourself in danger like that!”
Her heart-shaped face is a mask of disbelief. “Don’t shout at me! What the hell was that?”
“Nothing! He wasn’t supposed to be here because he worked here before and got fired. He won’t come back.”
Her brow furrows – I’m not sure if she believes me. “Um...okay. Shouldn’t we call the police?”
For the love of god, back off, woman.
“No, we shouldn’t call the police; there’s no need for that,” I say in a firm tone and furiously scrub my hand over my mouth, wondering if she’s beginning to suspect that Palermo is a front.
“Okay, then we don’t call the police. Calm down. You’re practically vibrating with rage. Are you okay?” she probes, surprising me with the kind question.
And I realize that I’ve had a bad temper every time I’ve seen her and shouldn’t bark at her. Particularly, when I notice her studying me in an unnerving manner, as though she’s peeling back my layers. “I’m fine.”
She continues to assess me, and I wonder when she’s going to broach the topic of yesterday.
I still have to keep doing damage control because she’s seen too much, and I brace myself for a discussion when I command, “Just don’t go in the back alley.”
“Okay,” is all she says, though, before she grabs a lemon from the basket that’s sitting on the island.
I merely stare at her, speechless, as one issue fixes itself since she’s so easygoing. “Just be careful.”
“I will. I promise,” she replies in that husky tone and casts me an inquisitive side look, as if she’s trying to figure me out.
I dip my chin and turn to leave, feeling less on edge than I anticipated I would, which is a welcome emotion. But because I still need to check Brielle’s apartment to verify whether or not she has an ulterior motive, I contemplate how to handle her with more caution.
CHAPTER 11
Brielle
I WATCH MICHAEL’S RETREATING back until he slips through the door, biting my lip because I’m positive I saw a genuine smile lighting his fine-looking features before he left.
Once more, I’m thrown by the actual reason he and I bump into each other, but I guess the fired employee is probably persona non grata around here, so it’s understandable that Michael would need to get rid of him. Although his demanding behavior puzzles me, I’m touched by his concern. I also get the sense I make him as uncomfortable now as he made me when we first met, and somehow, that fact pleases me.
When the head chef and three servers enter the kitchen, their loud voices pull me out of my thoughts. I spin around to go to my prep area, but Michael’s on my mind constantly. While pouring the batter for my rum cakes, I make two extras, and after they’ve finished baking, I put them in a carton on my counter. But unfortunately, I don’t come across Michael for the rest of the day, and Palermo is closed on Sunday, at which time I seize the opportunity to lounge around at home, completely beat after my first week of work.
AFTER I ARRIVE AT PALERMO on Monday morning, I discover that the two rum cakes have been eaten, but I still don’t see Michael all day. I’m almost ready to drill Marliya about his whereabouts, but after I think twice about it, I forego it.
However, on Tuesday, while I’m whipping cream to top off my lemon squares and the entire staff is bustling around as the sound of clanking pots and pans fills the kitchen, the door swings open and none other than the man in black enters. Two waitresses waiting for orders ogle him as he closes the distance to me.
“Hey, long time no see,” I blurt out and berate myself inwardly.
His lips twitch, though I’m not sure if it’s a hint of a smile or from being a bit stunned by my greeting. “Hey.”
“Did you come for rum cakes?” I inquire, and his brows rise. “You stole some again yesterday.”
“It’s not really stealing if they’re just lying out there,” he retorts playfully, seemingly in a better mood than last week.
“Potayto, potahto.”
“Can I steal more?” he asks around a devilish grin that sends my heart racing, which shocks me.
I suspect he’s a man very much accustomed to having his way, but I enjoy how he devours my food, so I offer, “I’m making them later – you may steal a few then.”
He flashes me a smirk, and I find myself wanting to see more of it as I notice the absence of dark circles around his eyes, but a pan clatters to the floor and we both quickly look away.
“Come back later,” I murmur and he nods before strolling back through the door.
Again, I watch him go, much too curious to learn more about this mysterious man.
Regrettably, at the end of my shift, Michael doesn’t come by, even though I stay ten minutes longer. And I only get confused by my increasing infatuation with this guy.
I TREAD INSIDE PALERMO the next morning and can’t suppress a huge smile when I see Michael. He half sits, half leans against the white marble dessert counter, his angular jaw clean-shaven and his thick hair an untamed mess. He’s dressed in his customary black slacks and dress shirt, the sleeves rolled up to his elbows to expose the olive skin of his forearms and an expensive chrome watch around his wrist.
“Good morning,” I say, and when he dips his chin in a dignified manner, I note that the icy gleam in his irises that he often shows me is gone.
As I remove my coat and hang it on the rack next to the door, I shiver since I’m only wearing a form-fitting tank top, and from the corner of my eye, I catch his gaze scanning the length of my body before lingering at my breasts.
When I turn to him, his stare shoots up, yet his expression doesn’t change. I decide to skip my baggy chef’s jacket because, deep down, I want him to notice that I’m blessed with a full B-cup and a narrow waist, the same way I notice his raw, masculine charm.
“Are you looking for someone?” I ask.
“Yes, you,” he answers, causing my heart rate to rise. “You said come back later.”
“Oh, I was waiting for you last night. I did make extra cakes for you.” I walk past him.
He straightens, responding in complete disbelief, “You made extra and waited for me?”
“Yeah, it’s no big deal. I had excess batter,” I lie.
His formal demeanor changes as he looks at the door as if he’s searching for an escape, and I don’t get why.
“You didn’t have to do that,” he says.
“What? Wait for you or make extra?”
“Both.”
“But I wanted to,” I tell him honestly, flipping open a box to remove a cake and hold it out to him. “For you.”
Grey collides with green as he takes it, making sure his fingers don’t touch mine, and speaks in a kind tone I haven’t heard from him before, “Thank you.”
“You’re welcome. Although I am stuffing you with sugar, so I’m not sure you should be thanking me,” I tease, and his expression becomes amused before we’re interrupted by a line of servers barging into the kitchen, including slim, tall Marliya.
Michael rears away from me when she struts up to us and stops really close to him, effectively making me a third wheel and excluding me from their tête-à-tête.
“Brielle, come here,” Gianni yells, beckoning me over to the center of the room where everyone’s gathering around the island. “Let’s go over today’s specials.”
I grab my chef’s jacket to throw it on as I cross the space in a few strides. And when I glance back and see Marliya talking enthusiastically to Michael while he doesn’t speak and simply eats my cake, it thrills me – until she walks out and he follows her.
“Today we have...” I’m distracted by Gianni, but his words trail off as I wonder what’s going on between Marliya and Michael.
Does he have a similar relationship with her as he has with me – where he can be furious and protective at the same time?
The green monster rears its head, so I redirect my train of thought and start my day by prepping.
While I’m rolling out a piece of dough, I sense someone approaching me, so I look to the side just as a scrawny blond waiter named Jared comes up behind me and says, “Brielle, I’m hungry. Do you have any extras?”
Setting the rolling pin on the countertop, I swivel around and hold out my arms in defense to block my counter as I fake glare at him. “No! You guys have got to stop eating everything.”
“Aw, come on. Let me have one lemon square. I saw them on the specials...” He leans forward and reaches past me to pick up something, but I plant my palms on his chest and we clash together, chuckling.
“No,” I repeat and try to force him backward, but he laughs and doesn’t move. “Go steal food from Gianni.”
All of a sudden, the sounds of voices and dishes around us stop, so we both turn in unison to see Michael darkening the doorway, giving us that stony stare he’s honed to perfection.
Jared steps back and makes a face, mouthing, “Management.” Then he spins around to resume working and rushes to the door where Michael slowly shifts out of the way before moving inside.
As Michael’s unreadable gaze holds mine, I’m glad for the diversion when Gianni shouts, “Brielle, can you make me a brioche for the steak?”
“Yes, chef.” I turn around and reach to the left side of my
counter where I have balls of dough prepared, but when I turn back with two in hand, I’m startled to find Michael standing at the end of my counter in his usual spot.
“Seems like I’m not the only one stealing your cakes.” A corner of his luscious mouth quirks up.
You’re the only who I let get away with it.
As I roll out the two balls of dough, he adds, “The rum cake was different today.”
“I used a bit more rum for you.”
“For me...” he muses aloud, observing my every move, yet I’m becoming less uncomfortable around him since his perpetual scowl seems to waver every now and then.
“I’m actually hungry again. What are you making?” he drawls, wearing confidence with ease as he flips open a carton with one finger to peek inside.
“A sweet bread to go with the steak.” I place two round pieces of dough on a metal tray and turn around toward the island to hand it over so that the chef can place it in the oven. “Wait five minutes and I’ll let you taste.” Then I continue rolling the dough I was working on before Jared interrupted.
To my surprise, Michael decides to stay and questions, “Do you work daily? I think I’ve seen you here every day.”
Has he? I didn’t see him on Monday.
After sprinkling more flour on my dough because it’s sticking too much, I reply, “I did work every day this first week, but from now on, I’ll work five days and will have my weekend on Saturday and Sunday one week and then Sunday and Monday the next.”
“Are you planning on moving?” he asks directly, and I stop to look at him, so he explains, “I’m just wondering...”
“So that you won’t have to follow employees home?” I counter.
He releases a tight laugh. “That would be nice too.”
“Actually, I am planning to move as soon as I get my first paycheck, and I already applied for some listings here in the Loop. But most realtors don’t want to rent to me until I get a long-term employment contract. I have one for six months right now, and while my income is higher than usual, it’s still not enough to get into the good neighborhoods.”