by C. L. Donley
“Not true. The two of us accomplish much more than we do alone. The Koreans are polite, is all. You must have patience.”
“Allodola, what do you think?” the senior Mr. Di Rossi turned to Lark, taking his son’s cue and using the Italian version of her name. Dario staved off annoyance.
“If I were doing business with you, I would be very impressed,” Lark said with a glance to her other boss.
Lark suspected his question was only an excuse for him to take her hand again and kiss it, which he did. She giggled.
“Va bene, Roberto wake me when it is tomorrow,” he said, entering an open elevator. Lark and Dario stood waiting for the penthouse.
“Last one upstairs has to pay for room service,” she said.
“Actually I have an… engagement.”
“Oh. I see,” Lark replied, oblivious.
“Order anything you want and charge it to the room.”
“Technically, I have an engagement of my own.”
“Ah. To see your family?”
“Si. You remembered.”
“Of course,” he said as the elevator doors opened. Lark entered alone.
“Va bene. My father will be available, of course, if you need anything.”
Lark had about as much desire to let the senior Di Rossi talk her ear off as Dario did.
“Thank you, Mr. Di Rossi,” she said, as the doors closed. Dario didn’t correct her formal address. He turned to make his way out of the lobby.
Upstairs, Lark freshened up, changed only out of her pumps and into flats and headed to Yumi’s sister’s.
She’d purposely waited the last night of the trip, in case she needed to excuse herself politely and quickly. She hadn’t expected more than a formal greeting.
But Yumi’s sister opened up her home to her.
Turns out she’d heard much about Lark from Yumi, ever since she was a young girl coming into the store and learning words. Lark greeted her fondly. She met uncles, cousins, siblings, wives and infants. They exchanged phones full of pictures and Lark did her best to describe New York, where Yumi still lived over bowls of bulgogi and homemade kimchi.
The sense of family was overwhelming, and she couldn’t wait to get out of there. She politely excused herself as she expected, taking a taxi back to downtown Seoul.
When she got back to the hotel it was dark. She peeked into the restaurant, which was slow, even for a Sunday evening. She took a seat at the bar in the corner, perusing the menu, but she was craving something in particular that wasn’t on it.
She thought perhaps she could earn herself some brownie points with the chef.
“Ready to order, ma’am?” the bartender asked her politely in English.
“I don’t suppose the chef could go through the trouble of making me a burger,” Lark asked in her politest Korean. The bartender smiled.
“Say no more,” he replied, bowing. Jackpot.
Just as she was finishing the life-changing burger at the hotel bar, she spotted Dario with a beautiful dark haired Korean woman, sitting at a table, gazing at each other as though they were in love.
She froze, suddenly trying to shrink herself and make herself unrecognizable as she sat at the bar. Her heartbeat skyrocketed as though she were witnessing a murder.
In a way, she was. It was the image of himself that he was killing. One of the long-suffering widower that his father had painted. Though widowers were men too, and had to get it somehow.
Only Dario seemed like a true romantic. Even with the little she knew of him. Not a wealthy playboy.
Perhaps she was the one who had ended his drought?
Not likely.
In fact, it was much more likely she was another link in a long chain of rendezvous. Secret ones, if his father’s side of the story was any indication. Maybe he was once a devoted husband and father, but it’d only been a week since their own weekend fling and he was on to the next. That man was long gone, it would seem.
Oh well. At least she knew her instincts were right. He may have turned out to be her boss, but he was indeed trouble, as she suspected.
She had a sliver of burger left that suddenly she couldn’t seem to finish.
Her body in her bar stool was like cement, until she saw from the mirrored partition behind the bar that Dario excused himself to get up from the table, and out into the lobby. Then she made her move.
He was nowhere to be seen, so he must be in the men’s room, she thought. She swiftly made her way across the lobby to the elevators, afraid to look back in case he was behind her, watching.
She stood behind the lobby wall, peeked around the corner, and didn’t have to wait long to see Dario emerge from the men’s room and back into the hotel restaurant.
Lark’s breath caught in her throat. She didn’t release it until she heard the elevator doors open, retreating safely inside.
What on Earth was wrong with men, she thought as she sighed and rolled her eyes.
He couldn’t at least wait until they were in New York in a day? Fashion week was months away there. There were plenty of hotels, plenty of women. Plenty of other places to fuck rather than the penthouse suite that he just haaad to share with his interpreter.
Was he really going to force her to stay up all night, trying not to pretend to not be hearing things emanating from his room?
Tomorrow, they were going to have to have a talk.
That night she let the pity she felt for herself keep her awake far too long. She stroked the luxurious pillows and propped one up sideways next to her, roughly the size of a men’s head, shoulders and torso but nothing of the proportion, let alone the weight. She sighed as she skimmed her hand across the fabric of the pillowcase, the 1500 thread count betwixt her fingers.
She fell for his… everything. The way that other young woman seemed to. And why not? He talked a good game. She had been grateful. She still had no regrets, even now. Whether he considered the whole experience a “mistake” or not. She scoffed, thinking about his Korean companion again. Was she in for one hell of an evening, Lark thought.
The next morning, she emerged from her room and stood by the door, packed and ready for the airport. Minutes later, Dario also emerged from his room as though he’d been in it all night. He was clean shaven, which made him look younger by at least a decade, and freshly pressed with the focused look of a gorgeous, angelic machine.
“Pronto?” he said.
“Just waiting for you,” she replied. They abandoned the now empty room and entered the elevators. She watched him stifle a yawn as they descended.
“Tired?” Lark raised an eyebrow.
“Si.”
Don’t bring it up, don’t bring it up.
“You and your date must’ve… overexerted yourselves last night.”
“'Date?’” Dario seemed oblivious.
“I saw the two of you. At the restaurant. I was at the bar,” she outed him.
Dario looked ahead, his eyes shifting as though he were embarrassed, apologetic.
“That was not… a date.”
Lark’s eyebrows went up in surprise.
Dario Di Rossi liked to pay for it, apparently.
“I see…”
“Is what I do in my personal time a problem for you, Miss Chambers?” he politely asked.
“Certainly not, signore.”
“Our professional relationship flows two ways, vero?”
“I couldn’t agree more, signore. In fact, I think from now on, that’s how it should remain.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning, no more sharing rooms, no more late night chatter, no more room service. I pay my own way, I only work during business hours, and anything beyond that is overtime. We’ll address each other formally, same as any other assignment. I won’t take advantage of your kindness, and I’ll expect you to not take advantage of mine.”
“Very well.”
“Good.”
The elevator let off a chime for each floor they passed on their
descent.
“I would appreciate if you kept what you saw between us, signora.”
“If you wish, Mr. Di Rossi.”
“I don’t like family or colleagues knowing about my… private life.”
“Of course, signore.”
There was another beat of silence, as the elevator seemed to be taking the long way down. Dario’s eyes went skyward.
“You were not supposed to see that,” he sighed.
The elevator ding indicating their arrival to the lobby interrupted them. The doors smoothly opened and Lark simply extended the long arm of her small suitcase as she exited the elevator car, pretending not to hear his final sentiment.
Eight
Chapter 8
A day later they were in New York, their bodies a full fourteen hours behind. They took a cab ride in silence to the Waldorf Astoria in the city, exhausted from travel. Luckily, this time the reservations were correct. But they were each on separate floors.
“Miss Chambers, I’ll need you to accompany me for a meeting. Wait for my call.”
“Of course, Mr. Di Rossi,” she answered cordially as the elevator doors closed.
An hour later, she was in front of concierge waiting for him to emerge from the elevators. When he finally he did, he had changed into a gorgeous light brown suit, looking every inch the wealthy Italian businessman, or possible celebrity.
Lark found herself gawking shamelessly as he entered the lobby. He garnered looks this way and that from random passers-by, walking past them oblivious as their eyes continued to follow his path.
She knew what they were thinking: who is that, and where the fuck was he going? And they were jealous of whatever that place was.
It was a feeling she knew well because she’d felt it every day for ten days now. And every day she would answer the question.
Wherever he is going, he is taking you with him.
And just as it did every day, her heart skipped a beat at the thought, only it was more intense since they had agreed to keep their relationship as professional as possible.
His eyes met hers while she was lost in thought and it caught her off guard, giving her stomach a jolt. He gave her a teasing glare as they got close, one as playful as it was familiar.
“Andiamo, Stewardess Chambers,” he said, teasing her about her wardrobe.
She felt the jealous stares gather intensity like a spotlight. She grinned. When he kept walking, she followed behind.
“Will Signore Di Rossi be joining us?”
“Not this time,” he said as they exited through the oversized revolving door.
Lark stopped in her tracks on the large sidewalk as he hailed a cab. She was looking forward to never having to be alone with him again on this trip.
But it just so happened that the two of them needed to go to top-secret meetings? In America?
The traffic suffered a hiccup as if the cab drivers were falling all over themselves to pick him up. He noticed Lark was a ways behind him.
“What?” he said.
“Where are we going?” she asked.
“To a meeting.”
“Really.”
“Of course,” he furrowed his brow as he opened the taxi door, gesturing for her to get in. She did, somewhat exasperated.
“27th and 8th,” he told the driver as he shut the door. And they were off. She looked out her window at the city, not facing him.
“What is it, now?” he guessed at her mood, looking at the drive ahead.
“What a waste of money, Dario,” she replied, shaking her head.
“Tell me how you really feel, Miss Chambers.”
“What use am I in New York anyway?”
“I happen to be meeting with some Russian clients, and I’m going to need your help.”
“I see. Does Signore Di Rossi even know about this meeting?”
“…Not yet.”
Lark turned her head slightly, giving him a glare through the side of her almond shaped eyes.
“What’ve you got up your sleeve, Dario?”
“You are on company time, Miss Chambers,” he said with a short tone, giving her a stern look that made her hot all over.
She felt her armpits spark with heat, she started to sweat. She’d overstepped their professional boundary that she staunchly insisted on, and he’d noticed.
“I was hired by Signore Di Rossi, was I not?” she dared reply, implying that perhaps he was not entirely the boss of her.
“You were not.”
Lark faced forward, looking straight ahead for a moment, her eyes darted absentmindedly while she sat quietly.
If the senior Mr. Di Rossi hadn’t hired her, it meant that Dario had. He’d seen her qualifications and chosen her himself, requested her himself.
“What does Signore Di Rossi do, exactly?” she shrugged.
“These days? Not much.”
“He must be bored to tears on this trip.”
“No. All he has ever wanted was to brush shoulders and tell his stories. And occasionally flirt. He is living the dream.”
“You sound a bit bitter.”
“Perhaps,” he sighed. “I inherited quite the mess. But he has maintained our reputation. People recognize his face, not mine.”
“Do these clients know he will not be at the meeting?”
“They will,” he replied.
“These potential ‘Russian’ clients,” Lark piped up again. “Are they… from the mafia or something?”
“Of course not.”
“Signore Di Rossi doesn’t care what goes on in his own company?”
“It is not his company, it is his great grandfather’s, and soon it will be mine. You have turned very inquisitive, Miss Chambers,” he stoically replied.
She stiffened as she quickly answered back, “Not at all, I’m just wondering why we had to come all the way here. We were much closer to Russia.”
“Because they are here,” he replied just as quickly. “Had we actually flown to Russia, then you should be worried.”
She was quiet for a moment, likely thinking of another rebuttal, he presumed. He was right.
“Surely, they speak English,” she said.
He stifled a smile as he looked out of the window, the bumpy cab ride tossing them about like a horse-drawn carriage.
“Si. But… it is our first meeting, and I don’t want to give too much away. Besides, we have a reputation to maintain. It is a convenience we can afford.”
“You want me to interpret Russian into Italian?”
“Yes, Miss Chambers, will that be a problem?”
“No, Mr. Di Rossi. I just wish I had a head’s up,” Lark replied in a huff.
“Are you angry with me?” he asked.
“Not at all.”
“You seem… agitated.”
It was true. She was agitated and she didn’t entirely know why.
She hated the implication hanging over their conversation, that she was anything less than a consummate professional. He was the one fucking high paid prostitutes. And unsuspecting employees. On his own time, but still. How could he presume to correct her?
“I speak Russian, but I haven’t mastered it,” she replied instead, which wasn’t a total lie. “I can do the job, I just… I don’t like surprises is all.”
“Make them speak English. I’ll pretend I don’t understand very well,” he suggested.
Lark shook her head. “No. It’s too big of a risk. Pretending you don’t understand is much harder than you think.”
“I’m sure you know aaaaaall about that, cara mia,” he replied, as he stared out of the window, the backseat humming as they stopped at a red light. Lark let a smile escape as she nodded.
“I walked right into that one.”
“Si,” he grinned.
The cab made a stop at a vague location a block away from the Fashion Institute of Technology, which seemed to satisfy Dario. They got out and Lark quickly followed next to him as they entered a building, unmarked save for
the address above the door in gold, the stone edifice covered in windows.
They got into an elevator and went straight to the top floor. When the doors opened they went down a hallway and through a set of glass double doors, where a handful of men were waiting around a large oval table.
Sergei was young, blond and blue-eyed with his hair and gotee closely shaven. He had a scar across the side of his head where no hair could grow. He wore a vintage ‘80s U.S. Olympics tee underneath a blazer with jeans and stylish leather shoes. The men sitting with him were dangerous looking and non-descript, wearing black in various forms and shades.
Dario and Lark took seats across from them.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Di Rossi,” one of the men began, presumably their interpreter, also quite young looking. It seemed Sergei and his lot were playing a similar game.
“Good afternoon. I can speak Russian as well— if you prefer to allow me the honor,” Lark directed to him, “to save us all a bit of time.”
The interpreter looked over to his boss, explaining in a surprised tone. Equally surprised, Sergei gave a raised eyebrow, then a nod of approval.
“Thank you for meeting with us Signore, when will your father be joining us?” Lark began in Sergei’s words.
“I’m afraid he is detained,” Dario answered.
“That is a shame. We were looking forward to meeting such a legend in the industry. I hope he didn’t consider our meeting a nuisance.”
“Not at all. He flew here especially, but something came up and could not be moved. Please, tell me more about your operation.”
“Mine is an up and coming brand,” Sergei explained. “Regulations make designing in Russia hard, but we want to remain there. We were considering moving our flagship office to Italy, just for the incentives. I would like to avoid that. Much of our brand revolves around mother Russia. I believe it would devastate the reputation we have built.”
“How can we help?” Dario asked.
“It is hard to get Western brands in Russia. There are no duties on Italian fabrics, however. Especially textiles. We worked with Burberry in London and we nearly went belly up.”
“I noticed that much of your… aesthetic seems to harken back to some very popular Italian trends.”