“Only when I’m breathing.” He finished his drink and slid the glass my way, a silent demand for me to make him another drink.
I wondered if he was accustomed to ordering people around or if he just thought he could with me. Either way, the assumption that I would be at his beck and call pissed me off enough for me to not pour him another drink, though I should have for the sake of my cover.
He took in my defiance without concern, and when his mouth curved up into a scoff, I braced myself for the impact of his impending words. “Do you always force yourself on all your potential employers?”
He was trying to make me sound pathetic, and it worked. Christ, I hated his guts. Meanwhile, he remained indifferent, barely gathering the energy to spare me a glance in between sentences.
“No.” I swallowed my irritation and tried to salvage this impossible situation, reminding myself how much I wanted to prove myself and get better assignments. “But I’m an opportunist. I see an in, and I take it.”
“And I’m your in?” He let loose a mocking laugh. “For what? The job?” His warm whiskey breath caressed my ear as he leaned closer and whispered, “Or something else?”
I placed a firm hand on his chest and pushed him away. He didn’t budge an inch. I pushed again. Still no movement.
Lowering my hand, I racked my brain for a way to save face and came up empty. “The job. I got your attention, didn’t I?”
He leaned back of his own accord, his face instantly serious. “There aren’t any bartending openings here.”
He was lying.
We both knew this.
The fact that I had to make him the drink he’d been waiting for was proof of that, but this was just another test. For what? I didn’t know. I just had to hope for the best.
I tucked a strand of hair from my face and leveled him with a determined stare. “Make one.”
“Why should I?”
“I did you a favor.”
He scoffed. “Chasing off a mafia bunny? Hardly a favor. Unless you’ve taken a bullet for me, I don’t owe you a thing.”
Like I’d ever take a bullet for him.
“You’re a real piece of work.” The words slipped out.
What the hell. Stop talking, Ari, I begged.
“As if I give a fuck.” He turned to me, stood up, and inched closer until his chest brushed my arm. “The door’s that way. Drink’s on you.”
My jaw dropped. He wanted me to pay for a drink that he drank in a bar that he ran? He was unbelievable.
He placed his finger underneath my chin, pushed upward until my mouth shut with an audible snap, and started to walk away. Instinctively, I grabbed his arm, my fingers unable to wrap fully around the sheer width of his forearm.
The warmth of his skin burned my palm. He could have easily pulled away, but he didn’t. He stopped; turned to me; carefully removed my fingers from his forearm like I’d caught an infection I didn’t know about; and with a hand on each side of my bar stool, leaned forward, capturing both of my eyes with his.
I could feel his breath on my lips as he spoke. “I don’t hire people I don’t know, Ariana De Luca”—he emphasized my last name—“so why the fuck do you think I would make an exception for you?”
He said it like I was a curse.
Like I was nothing more than a nuisance.
Like the dirt on this floor held more worth than I did.
A lesser woman would have cowered. She would have cried ravaged tears. She would have weakened beneath the insults that cut deeper than words, carried by his supremacy and cemented by his self-righteous authority.
Instead, I steeled myself and inched closer until I could feel his lips feathering mine. His eyes widened in genuine surprise, the first reaction from him that hadn’t been birthed from his inexplicable disdain for me.
“I’m the best.” My voice barely reached a whisper as I reveled in his scent and the intoxicating notes of bergamot, blackcurrant, and Moroccan jasmine. Something this sinful shouldn’t have smelled this delicious. “And this isn’t your goddamn bar. So, you have fun explaining to your boss why you let the best slip through your fingers, while I have fun getting a job at your biggest rival. I hear The Dominic has a bullshit-free working environment.”
I grabbed my purse, threw a couple hundred-dollar bills on the bar counter, and turned to leave, allowing my entire body to brush against his as I left. It was a badass exit as far as I was concerned, and I was proud of myself even if I was leaving without a job. I’d probably get pushed to desk duty for this, but at least I had my pride. Well, what was left of it.
He stopped me when I stood no more than a foot away, his hand placed on my hip. I didn’t dare turn around. I could feel his breath on my neck as he closed the distance between our bodies.
With his front pressed entirely against my back, he brushed my long hair behind my ear and whispered into it, his voice full of condescension. “Silly, misinformed girl, L’Oscurità is mine in all the ways that matter. If you think you know a thing about me, you’re more foolish than I already think you are.”
For a split second, I wondered what had happened to him that taught him to treat people like this. I swept the thought away as soon as it came, chastising myself for thinking sympathetic thoughts in the first place.
Pressed completely against him, I felt unnerved. But I was too stubborn to allow his insult to go unanswered. "Back left corner. Blue button down. Black jeans. You're serving a Brillat Savarin with a Mourvèdre when a Counoise would work better. White dress, blonde hair at my six o'clock is eating her braised and confit lamb with a glass of Viognier when a Meritage is more appropriate.”
I leaned back, pressing myself harder against him until I could feel his erection firmly against my back, and I was sure he could feel every curve of my body. It was erotic, sexy, and so fucked up, I refused to process it. “I could continue, but I’ll spare you the depths of your inadequacy. But have fun with your restaurant. Great place you have here. It certainly doesn’t need me.”
I jerked away from his touch, forcing myself to ignore the brutal beating of my heart and the breaths that struggled to flee my lips. I had hardly walked two steps from him before he called after me.
"Wait," he demanded, and like a glutton for punishment, I did. "Saturday. Three o'clock. I have no tolerance for tardiness."
And just like that, I had a meeting with the most petrifying man I had ever met. I had a feeling that Bastiano Romano could ruin me if I let him.
Chapter Five
BASTIANO ROMANO
I showed up late. Two hours, to be exact. It was a dick move, especially since I had nothing better to do. I had spent the extra time working out, shopping for shit I didn’t need from a copycat Sky Mall Magazine I’d stolen off a plane years ago, and jacking off in the shower. Pointless endeavors.
My body was already in prime condition, I had no fucking clue what I would do with a serenity cat sleeping pod, and I was still craving pussy more than I was my fist.
But Ariana De Luca didn’t seem to know her place, and it certainly wasn’t anywhere near me. If I hired her—and that was a big if—I needed to train that spine out of her until she wilted like a limp noodle like the rest of my employees.
My phone rang as I flicked on the left signal of my car.
“Yes?” I answered Gio’s call.
“Your mom’s coming into town.”
Irritation fused with excitement. Ma coming meant having to see her, but it also meant getting to see my little sister Tessie. A fair trade.
I rolled my neck, enjoying the way it cracked, and drove my Jag into the parking garage beneath L’Oscurità—probably the only parking garage in the city with great signal thanks to the tech division of Asher’s company. “When?”
“Soon. We need to talk about rodents.”
I caught his meaning. “Fine.”
I hung up and checked my texts. One from Uncle Vince. Another from Elsa. I deleted Elsa’s text, then cursed myself for acting
so rashly. It could have been about Everett. She texted me again with a one-hundred-thousand-dollar wire request. Definitely not about Everett. Reminding myself I’d find a way to screw her over later, I sent her the one hundred thousand dollars and emailed her the confirmation link, along with links to a dozen porno sites known to cause viruses.
Sending the money to her put me in a bad mood. Seeing her name put me in a bad mood. Everything related to Elsa pissed me off. I slid my phone into my pocket and took my time walking to the entrance of the bar.
Nothing irritated me more than people who thought they could bulldoze their way into my life, take what they wanted, and expect no repercussions. Ariana De Luca ticked each of those boxes. On top of that, the other night, she’d worn a bandage dress which reminded me of something Elsa would have worn after New York had tainted everything I loved about her.
When I got to the bar entrance, Ariana was waiting outside in the late spring heat, a bustle of New Yorkers sparing her no attention as they walked past. My eyes, on the other hand, honed in on her immediately.
It wasn’t because she was attractive. She was, but I didn’t give a fuck. She was little more than a nuisance with a body and face that happened to make me look twice. It was her mouth that proved lethal, but I wouldn’t exactly call her a worthy adversary.
Just a pain in the ass who happened to be right.
L’Oscurità needed a new bartender and finding one who demonstrated competence was taking longer than I had initially thought it would. Ariana De Luca happened to be the first candidate who knew her shit and was attractive enough to work at L’Oscurità.
Plain and simple, that was all that mattered.
Never mind the fact that her last name was a stain on this planet and belonged nowhere near my family, even if she wasn’t one of those De Lucas.
She would get her interview, and if all went well, she’d undergo a brief training period. But as soon as I found a bartender who didn’t piss me the fuck off, I was firing her faster than she could say, “I want a severance package.”
She straightened from the wall as soon as she saw me, opening her mouth, no doubt an argument on the tip of the harpoon she called her tongue. “I thought you had ‘no tolerance for tardiness.’”
“I have no tolerance for people who make me wait. How long you had to wait is of little importance to me.”
“Oh, don’t worry your grouchy little head off. I only had to wait a few minutes.” Her voice was a satisfied croon, and she failed to hide her smirk. Hell, I wasn’t convinced she had even tried.
I told myself that I didn’t care, but I was already making a mental note to check the exterior cameras when I had the time. If she was telling the truth, she would have had me waiting for two hours, and Christ, that tore through my indifference and pissed me the hell off.
I unlocked the bar, turning on the lights as we entered. The bar didn’t open until six thirty at night, so we had about half an hour before my employees were due to arrive. Ariana scanned the room, taking it in while it was empty.
Everything was black—from the floor to the booths, tables, and stools. All set amidst the backdrop of the gray on gray patterned walls. White crystal chandeliers hung from the high ceilings, casting a dim light over the bar.
Even without the buzz of a crowd and the seductive lull of the soundtrack we had exclusively produced for the bar, the atmosphere was edgy. Sexy. Erotic. A total waste of splendor given the quality—or lack thereof—of my present company.
Ariana trailed a finger over the bar top. “Word has it you run the other side of L’Oscurità. The restaurant.” She turned to face me, her eyes flaunting an unflinching dare. “Yet, here you are. It must suck wanting all this control over your life but having none.” She had no idea. “Piss off your boss?”
There was a potential rat that needed terminating, but I couldn’t exactly tell her that. Instead, my eyes narrowed. Most girls went for sultry. Seductive. Desperate sex appeal. Hell, sometimes I even got the ass-end of the spectrum. Those so afraid of me they’d tuck tail and run at the sound of my last name.
But Ariana De Luca? She stood in front of me, her own brand of unwavering valor and unnecessary provocation. She was challenging. Combative. Argumentative. Fearless. I understood these qualities, but not on her and certainly not at my expense. She was poking the goddamned lion and loving it.
But she’d learn not to.
I didn’t bother with a response, instead walking past her and toward my office. She hesitated for the briefest of moments before she trailed behind me. I sent a text to Giuseppe, my head chef, to set up the interview course, a selection of dishes that Ariana had to pair with a limited selection of wines.
It was a test no one had yet passed, and once she failed, the message would be clear—I had given her a chance and found her lacking. I would still hire her, sure, but I would break her spirit first.
ARIANA DE LUCA
One second.
That’s how long it took for me to open my big, fat mouth and pick a fight with Bastiano Romano. I had done it the second I saw him, pissed off at having had to wait for two hours—one hundred and twenty damn minutes—for him to show up. I had antagonized him again when we entered the bar.
And now, standing awkwardly by the door of his office while he completely ignored my existence, I was tempted to pick another fight. After all, I liked nothing about this situation, about having to go undercover with my real name, and having to put up with his callous, miserable ass made it worse.
A pregnant lapse of silence passed. Bastian sat in his seat, the chair pulled arm’s length away from the desk, thighs far apart, staring at his phone. I waited several more minutes for him to invite me in, to offer me a seat. He didn’t.
Another lapse of silence—loaded to me, but likely meaningless to him. I sighed, bit the bullet, and took a seat across from him at his desk.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” His voice cut through the silence like a bullet slicing through skin.
“Sitting,” I offered, dragging out the two syllables in a way that exposed what little I thought of his intellect.
“That’s top of the line nubuck leather.” He eyed where my body pressed against the seat. “If I wanted something cheap on my chairs, I would have gone with polyester.”
I waited for the ball to drop. For his full lips to curl up in a smile and his mouth to form the words, “Just kidding!” But he didn’t. Christ, he was serious.
My ass didn’t budge from the chair. We stared at one another, our resolves locked in an inescapable impasse. A knock sounded at the door. I didn’t dare look, and neither did he.
“What?” he barked, his cold eyes still on mine.
“Your meal, sir,” came a voice, wrapped in hesitancy and delivered with caution.
Sir.
Not Bastiano.
Not Bastian.
Not Mr. Romano.
Sir.
My God, he was like this with everyone, commanding supremacy like it was reasonable to demand. Like he ran the world instead of a restaurant and bar in New York City. I couldn’t imagine the balls it took to act and think like Bastiano Romano.
My eyes involuntarily dropped to his crotch. I couldn’t see it past the bulk of his desk, but it was like my body had a mind of its own. His eyes instantly narrowed, whether at my defeat or the direction of my sight, I didn’t know.
In the background, I heard the same voice whisper, “Uh, sir? I have to get back to the dining service.”
With his eyes on mine, Bastiano snapped, “Then leave already.”
“But the food—”
“Leave it in the break room.”
The sound of a cart creaking filled the air, loud but not nearly as loud as the tension between us. As soon as whoever had come was gone, Bastiano stood and left, not bothering to talk to me.
Gritting my teeth, I reminded myself of the greater good to dealing with Bastian’s bullshit. Plus, I wanted better assignments, and nothing scream
ed unqualified like flunking a simple interview.
I stood, following after him like a mindless puppy. I suspected that was the point of his game—to drill into me that I was less than him, merely a minion meant to follow his every command and do his bidding, even when he didn’t speak or ask anything of me.
And because I loathed that feeling, I took a seat as soon as we entered the break room, not bothering to wait for him to offer one. The chair was plush leather that curved around my body when I sat. It was larger than the other chairs and boasted a taller back. Clearly, it was the one meant for him.
But as soon as I sat, the waiter, who had been standing off to the side, pushed the cart, which was more like a traveling table with silverware and a tablecloth, in front of me. He left quickly after, passing a stone-faced Bastiano on the way.
When the waiter was gone, Bastian closed the door and locked it. The daunting click sent a shudder down my spine. I watched warily as he took his time approaching me, a look of indifference pasted on his face.
He removed his suit jacket, revealing wide shoulders and a broad chest; took his time sitting; placed a cloth over his lap; loosened his diamond-plated Stefano Ricci tie; unlinked his Jacob & Co. cufflinks; tossed them onto the table like they hadn’t cost him more than a hundred thousand dollars; and carefully rolled up the sleeves of his tailored white button down until they sat midway up his generous forearms.
Meanwhile, I sat there, bathing in silence and feigning patience—all while pretending I wasn’t affected by his impromptu strip show. He was taking his damn time because he could. Another power play, but from him, I would expect nothing less. I might have taken his seat, but he had won the battle.
Finally, he spoke. “The wine is in the wine cart by the door.”
He expected me to get it. Of course, he did. I sat still for a moment, my back relaxed against the better chair as I childishly relished in my smaller victory and pretended for a short-lived second that I had another choice.
Devious Lies: A Standalone Enemies-to-Lovers Romance (Cruel Crown Book 1) Page 51