by Soraya Naomi
“Oh, Brielle...”
“And I tried to just forget it, but then he comes back and now everything is bubbling up again. I saw him today, and he didn’t even ask how I was doing. Nothing. He was just back to barking orders as if he never left.”
“Did he tell you where he went?”
“He claims therapy; is that true?”
“Why do you ask?” she replies.
“Because I won’t make the same mistake twice. I don’t trust him.”
“Well, it’s true. He went to therapy.”
“For six weeks?”
“Yeah. He needed it.” She pauses. “Look, I’m in a tough place because I’m your friend, but I’m his too. However, it might be wise to forget Michael.”
“But everything feels so unresolved, even though I know it’s pointless because he has one love: Rachel.”
“It’s not that,” she retorts. “He’s more complicated than you realize, which has nothing to do with Rachel.”
I hear her advice, though when I wonder what she means, I become exasperated with myself and I concede, “I guess you’re right. And I did eventually forget him.”
“So continue doing that. How’s Ivo? Have you been on three dates?”
“Four. He’s nice.” But he’s not Michael. “But...I don’t know.”
“Do you really like him or are you just grateful that he helped with your apartment?”
“I’m not sure if the spark is there.” You can’t force the spark, that oomph, that inexplicable connection to another person.
“Well, figure it out.”
“I will. I’m just agitated right now.”
“We could go to the shooting range to help you blow off some steam?”
“And shoot at a pretend Michael?”
She chuckles. “If that works for you.”
“I just need a drink. And then I’m going to bed.”
“Okay, good night.”
“Night.” I click end and set my phone on the coffee table.
Unfortunately, I don’t know how to deal with these unanswered feelings for Michael. His coming back has derailed me to an extent I never imagined and the world as I know it has tilted on its axis.
CHAPTER 31
Michael
I DELIBERATE WHETHER or not I should disobey orders, which could be dangerous for Brielle but would definitely be the worst choice for me. However, despite knowing that, I shift the car into drive and race toward the Blackhall, arriving there within ten minutes. Instead of parking at the glass skyscraper, I go around the corner and find a space in front of After Eight, where I see Ivo sitting inside the almost-empty bar, chatting with the female bartender.
I get out of my BMW and walk across the sidewalk toward the entrance, yanking open the door and making it creak on its hinges.
Ivo’s gaze momentarily shoots to me, and when I stop beside him, he freezes before taking a sip of his drink. “I’m guessing it’s not a coincidence that you’re here.”
Claiming a seat on the bar stool next to him, I perch one foot on the footrest. “Of course not.”
He sets his glass down and sneers, “What the fuck do you want?”
“What’s your intention with Brielle?” I answer, grinning at his overconfident demeanor and not mentioning that I know about his burner phones.
A malicious expression crosses his thin features when he snarls, “Fuck off. And leave her alone. She’s dating me now, and you’re merely a nuisance. I spend the nights with her, and you just have to deal with it. She’s mine.”
“Really? You’re here, so that means you’re not spending the night with her.”
“Why do you care if I fuck her?!” he hisses, and I cock my head, a storm brewing inside.
Calmly, I get two white napkins and turn to him. Then I grab his hair to smash his nose against the counter and tug his head back up, roughly pressing the napkins to his nose to catch the blood as he howls.
“Be quiet!” I strengthen my grip as he struggles, pulling at my hand while the bartender’s shocked stare is locked on me, so I tell her, “You didn’t see a thing or you’re next. Go.” I jerk my head for her to scram, and she spins around and disappears to the back.
The two other customers that are seated in the corner aren’t paying attention, so I release Ivo and he slouches forward, clutching the blood-drenched napkins. “What the fuck—”
“First of all,” I cut him off, steadily reaching for another napkin to wipe my hand. “She’s not yours. Not as long as I’m in the picture.” Then I stand up, smirking when he flinches and rears back. “If you tell Brielle about this incident, I’ll find you and torture you in ways you can’t imagine. Stay away from her.” I throw the napkin onto the bar.
Ivo clenches his jaw as crimson trickles down his mouth. “Maybe I’ll tell Adriano?” he threatens, but when I lean toward him, he backs away again.
“Have you not learned your lesson yet? You think that scares me? I do what I want. You forget that I was the boss of the New York Syndicate. The new boss is my best friend, and my other best friend is the boss of the Chicago Syndicate. See, that means that I’m the man who holds the most power: I’m the only person who can make you disappear by the New York Syndicate without the Chicago Syndicate ever finding out,” I make myself clear before I turn around and walk away. “Do not taunt me again.” Striding through the entrance, I jump into my BMW to drive to the Blackhall.
As I sit in my car after I park in the garage, I rub my palm over my mouth and punch my steering wheel, once, twice. “Fuck!”
I never imagined the uncertain situation with Brielle would lead me to lose control within only a day of my return. And even though Ivo is on my shit list, I may have just made my first mistake.
Normally, I manipulate any situation to my advantage and I’m not a man who’s accustomed to losing, which is probably the main reason Rachel’s death hit me hard. But now, everything’s happening for another set of reasons, reasons I don’t understand. Could it be because I have guilt about the way I treated Brielle now?
Jesus Christ! I need to get my shit together!
What I do know is that Brielle makes me act without thinking, and this time, it has nothing to do with my grieving.
Still confused about the motive for my actions, I get out of the car and head to my apartment to find solace in sleep, relieved that at least I’ve finally fought off the nightmares.
THE FOLLOWING MORNING, I grab Brielle’s book as I head out, but before I go to work, I drop by the coffee shop down the road. I get out of my car, buttoning my suit jacket when the wind blows it open, and as I cross the threshold, the scent of freshly ground coffee wafts past my nose. However, I halt in the doorway when a certain blonde standing at the counter settles her inquisitive green gaze on me.
What’s she doing in my coffee shop? Is she stalking me?
Or, did Ivo rat me out and she’s here looking for me? If he told her, I’m fucked.
CHAPTER 32
Brielle
ALL FEMALE EYES CUT to the coffee shop’s entrance when a well-built man in a navy suit and a starched white dress shirt with the top buttons undone advances inside, his perpetual scowl directed at me. You’d think Michael is a Calvin Klein model walking around in his underwear with the way women gawk at him, and he's absolutely not unaware of it as he steps around one of them, paying her no heed, before reaching me in a few strides.
“Are you stalking me?” I blurt out.
And at the same time, he demands, “Are you stalking me?”
“I was in here before you,” I point out, making his gaze narrow, although I sense that he’s also perplexed. “Besides, I have no interest in stalking you.” Truthfully, we will run into each other from time to time since we’re neighbors.
“And I do?”
“I think you always have an ulterior motive,” I counter, causing a frown to wrinkle his forehead before he acts cool and composed.
“Can I help you?” the barista asks us.
> “I’ll pay for her,” Michael answers.
“No, it’s fine—”
“Order.” His lips curve up in a wolfish grin that’s irresistibly charming, yet I hate that I notice it.
Facing the barista, I say, “Two matcha green teas, please.”
“Two?” Michael repeats.
“Yes, one for you.” I can be just as bossy nowadays, Carrion. “I’m tasting something for Palermo. Since you’re here, you can help.”
His mouth twitches as he hands over his card, and while the barista finishes our order, we move to the left side of the room to wait.
To my surprise and dismay, Michael asks, “Where’s Ivo?”
“We’re not together all the time.”
“You have been when I’ve seen you,” he growls, which messes with my mind as I look for signs that I meant something to him.
“Maybe we’ve seen too much of each other,” I try to keep it lighthearted.
“He’d be a fool to turn you away,” he whispers, getting my drink from the barista and handing it to me.
What does that mean?
I accept the warm cup, though my fingertips tingle when we touch. It’s that spark, that oomph, but I ignore it.
“Then you’re a fool because you turned me away,” I dare to say.
He impales me with a stunned stare for a millisecond before taking his tea, and I step aside to get a stirrer.
When I move back, Michael sips his drink and his face falls as he grits out, “This is disgusting.”
I stifle a laugh before lifting mine to my mouth, and a peculiar flavor attacks my taste buds. “It’s very chalky.”
Michael takes the lid off his cup to peer inside and sees green foam. “What did you give me? Is this some healthy shit?” he probes around a wide grin.
Now I do chuckle. “Yes, it’s healthy shit. It’s matcha, a green tea that’s been ground and pulverized into a powder. It’s Japanese and becoming immensely popular in the west. It’s used for teas and sweets.”
“Please don’t use this in a dessert,” he pleads, just as I realize there’s a line of customers standing next to us.
Michael leads the way to the door, holding it open for me when I trail behind him.
After we step outside, the strong breeze blows my hair around my face as I explain, “I wanted to taste this because Palermo has to use popular ingredients.”
When we pass a garbage can, Michael throws his cup away and then stops at his dark blue BMW. “That’s probably the most fun aspect of this job for you – tasting everything on behalf of Palermo.”
It’s true, and he’s the first one to mention it. “It is.”
“However, you’ve never given me something I didn’t like before – I’m a bit disappointed.”
I mock glare at him. “But I didn’t make this. Maybe if I make a matcha cake, it’ll be good.”
Michael seems to contemplate his answer. “True. I’m sure it would be.”
“Is that a compliment, Carrion?”
“Yes, Duchenne,” he answers right away, smiling.
His moodiness appears to be gone. Though I remind myself that I can’t do this with him again. I can’t be sure of his intentions, which I’ve misread so often.
Abruptly, he orders, “Get in. I’m going to Palermo as well.”
“It’s okay. I’ll walk.”
“I won’t bite,” he responds around a lopsided grin, and I notice the bruise on his temple, which makes his dangerous edge even more appealing.
“Yes, you will,” I comment before rounding the vehicle and entering the lion’s den.
Michael gets behind the wheel, smirking, just when I see the book Regret is Useless on the back seat.
“Did you read the book I gave you?” I set my tea in the cupholder between our seats.
Michael meets my gaze. “Yeah, I did. It helped.”
“I’m glad.” I lean back and he mirrors the action but doesn’t start the car.
“It had some useful advice. Especially your highlighted passages.” He turns his head just enough to smile sheepishly at me. “I was going to give it back you.”
“Oh, I forgot I did that,” I murmur, happy for him. I know how horrible being stuck in anguish can be. “You can keep it. I don’t need it anymore.”
“Okay. One paragraph mentioned how I had to go through the motions, and that’s true.”
“Yes, you had to. Even though it’s painful sometimes.”
He rests his head back as we watch passing pedestrians. “Thank you for giving it to me.” His tone is vulnerable and it tugs at my heartstrings.
Even though he lied about a lot, maybe we did have a connection in our shared grief like I believed? “You’re welcome.”
To my utmost surprise, Michael places his large, warm hand over mine as it’s resting on my thigh. I look at the point of contact while, from the corner of my eye, I see that his focus is on me. In reaction, I turn over my palm and we entwine fingers. Then our eyes meet and hold. The air thickens. I breathe in his familiar musk scent and resist the urge to sigh in contentment.
My brain screams at me to run, but my body doesn’t move, and we’re suspended in a mesmerizing moment where not a spark, but an entire lightshow erupts inside me.
Give me something. Say you’re sorry about what happened. That you thought of me. That I’m not just a one-night stand.
Michael cups my cheek, his thumb tracing over my dimple before his fingers tighten in my hair in that way he always does and that I’ve missed immensely.
He speaks in a low tone, “I’m—”
Ring, ring!
His phone chimes in, obliterating the moment, and we break apart immediately, our hands releasing as he lets go of my hair and reaches for it in his pocket. After he briefly looks at his cell, he grunts, flinging it into the compartment above the gearshift before starting the car.
“I have to go now,” he tells me, gripping his steering wheel with one hand, and I know I must be flushed, so I take this opportunity to collect myself while he apparently does as well.
Once again, Michael’s actions leave me mixed up yet captivated. Nonetheless, we drive to Palermo in comfortable silence, and I forego finishing the disgusting tea.
AFTER I GET TO WORK, I find myself constantly wondering about what Michael was about to say. I secretly want him to enter the kitchen. I know I shouldn’t, but I do.
Unfortunately, he never shows and by my day off on Sunday, I’m fighting with all my power not to watch his apartment, so I go to the movies with Cam. Apparently, out of sight, out of mind is true, because ever since the moment Michael came back, my infatuation with him has returned full force.
ON TUESDAY MORNING, though, when I’m the first to arrive at Palermo and I’ve just switched on the kitchen lights, the door opens behind me and Michael strolls inside with two cups in hand, looking irresistible in his pressed black slacks and an indigo dress shirt that accentuates his muscular torso, topped with a black tie. He didn’t shave, so there’s a light stubble on his angular jawline that makes him much too handsome.
His stare travels down my yellow summer dress that flares at my hips and ends above my knees and then up to the bow at my cleavage. “Good morning.”
“Morning,” I greet, hanging my purse on the coat rack and getting the elastic from my wrist to pull my blonde hair up into a ponytail.
Michael watches my movements as I walk toward where he’s standing at the island, and he holds out one cup. “A normal tea for you.”
Smiling, I accept it. “Thanks. What is it?” Immediately, I smell cardamom and cinnamon.
“Chai Latte. I thought you’d enjoy the spices,” he responds, and I’m touched by the gesture.
I bring the cup to my nose to inhale the blend of spices, black tea, and milk and then take a sip, closing my eyes and relishing the taste. When I open them again, I find Michael stifling a smile as he studies me, so I hold up my finger while taking a huge gulp. “Hmmm.”
“You’re
enjoying that tea in a way I’ve never seen.” His mouth curls up as he perches on the bar stool.
“Well, life stops for wonderful things, and this”—I lift the cup—“is my kind of wonderful.”
Michael shows his teeth, his brow wrinkling as if he’s solving a puzzle. “I like that: life stops for wonderful things. Is that from one of your self-help books?”
I playfully smack his shoulder, yet he doesn’t budge at all. “No, that’s an original Duchenne.”
He barks out a laugh but scratches his temple that’s still a bit red.
I try to remind myself that I shouldn’t trust this guy, but I don’t turn him away. Instead, I ask, “So what happened?”
“I got hurt during my workout,” he explains. “It’s healing, but I still have a headache from it.”
Without thinking, I reach for his temple to brush off his hair, but when my fingertips connect with his skin, we both tense.
“Sorry.” I pull back my hand and take hold of my cup.
“It’s okay,” he replies, not lashing out at me for touching him.
I hesitate but add, “This will help.”
When I get close to him, he widens his legs so that I can stand between them. Placing a forefinger on each side of his head, I rub it gently with a rotating motion. It relaxes a person quickly – Gianni taught it to the kitchen staff for when we stress too much. Although as I massage him, I berate myself when I realize that it’s way too intimate.