Worship (Sinful Series Book 2)

by Trilina Pucci

  Her hands are covered in the applesauce she’s enjoying so much, and my eyes crinkle from my smile.

  “I’ll just get her cleaned up and we can plan to leave in a half hour.”

  “Sounds like a plan, Rose. Thank you.”

  I lean in to kiss Ella’s head, and she smears her messy hand over my face. I pull back laughing, running my finger across my cheek to scoop up the mess and pop it in my mouth. “Delicious!” I growl at her, attacking her chubby cheeks with raspberries. Her squeals and belly laughs fill the room. Ella’s joy is contagious, and I laugh with her.

  In this moment I’m happy. Truly happy. Moments like this make me angrier though, because they highlight the shitty, grimy parts more.

  My day with Ella passed faster than I would’ve liked. We parked it, lunched, and played on the floor at home with too many toys that make an obnoxious amount of sound. It’s unnerving. I remind myself to remove some of those batteries later.

  Currently, Rose is putting her down for the night, and the rumble in my stomach reminds me that I haven’t eaten dinner. But I have to meet a client later for drinks, so I waited knowing I could set out a bit earlier and grab a bite before meeting him.

  I say my goodbye to Rose, letting her know I’ll be home late, and head out. I showered and changed after Ella’s dinner, cleaning up enough to be presentable.

  Walking down the steps to my waiting car, I pull out my phone to dial Dom.

  “What?” he answers with a yell, and I laugh loudly as George opens my door and I duck to enter the car

  “Whatever, dick. Vuoi cenare?” Do you want to have dinner?

  We only flow in and out of Italian when it’s just me and him; I’m thankful we were able to hold on to pieces of our heritage, even in the absence of our parents.

  “Non stanotte, ho dei piani con Drew.” Not tonight, I have plans with Drew.

  “Have a good time. Sunday dinner still on?”

  We do it every Sunday night; Drew cooks for us, which means she orders from the restaurant and one of us picks it up. I pull the phone away from my mouth and tell George to head to my favorite spot downtown.

  “Yeah, tell Dante?”

  We started including him the moment we found out about our long-lost brother from another mother.

  “Will do.” I start to hang up, but Dom’s voice catches my attention.

  “And don’t show up without my niece. Drew will have your head.” He’s not lying.

  I laugh out, “Understood.” She’s been baby crazy the minute she signed on the dotted line with my brother. “Have your own and you won’t need to live vicariously.”

  “I’m working on it.” He chuckles. “Hey, close the deal tonight for the new bar. I want that place bad.”

  “Done.”

  We’ve had our eye on this swanky little bar downtown. It’s a great spot, with amazing food and the kind of ambiance that creates a brand. Problem is, the owners can’t carry the kind of debt they’ve buried themselves under. I’m here to make them an offer they won’t turn down.

  They’ll be richer than they wished to be, and Dom and I will take their rough draft and turn it into the hottest fucking bar in Chicago and spread it worldwide. And if they say no, I’ll make sure they tank, and then I’ll buy it for pennies on the dollar after they beg me for it. But I try to be decent first.

  We pull up outside a small Italian joint called Mama’s, owned by friends who feel more like family. I stumbled upon it when Dom and I were researching restaurants before opening our first venture. The food is insanely good, the kind you only get from those who bleed generations of knowledge into every meal. I pull on the heavy wooden door, letting light into the small space, the smell of garlic infiltrating my nose as I inhale.

  It’s a hole-in-the-wall, with red-and-white checkered tablecloths and plastic menus, but it’s the best Italian food in the city. My eyes adjust as the heavy door clunks behind me, creating a cacophony of noise inside the quiet space. The light that bled in has disappeared, leaving the room dark, lit only by tables with half-burned candles and small lamps. The faint sounds of music caress the air and bring a half smile to my face. It creates an ambiance for sure.

  “Luca! È passato troppo tempo da quando ti abbiamo visto.” Luca! It’s been too long since we saw you.

  My already placed smile grows as Mario makes his way to me, in his crisp white shirt and black apron, to shake my hand.

  He and his wife have owned this restaurant for over forty years. I respect that—people don’t have that kind of commitment to anything anymore. It’s admirable. They have a legacy to give to their children and a lifetime to look back on together.

  “Luca! Vergognatevi. Dove sei stato?” Luca! Shame on you. Where have you been? Mario’s wife, Sophia—a petite, rotund beauty—calls out from behind the bar as she lifts the counter flap and lets herself out to greet me. I smile at her dismayed face because I know it’s been too long, but I’ve been busy.

  “I know, gorgeous, but I have to keep my figure.”

  I pat at my hard stomach, answering in English. Her finger wags at me, and she pushes to her tiptoes to grab my face with her small chubby fingers. I have to bend forward to accommodate her abuse of my face, but I don’t mind.

  “I thought you stopped loving me.”

  She gives my head a little shake and releases my cheeks from her grip. I chuckle at her words, accented heavily by the unfamiliarity of English.

  “Come potrei smettere di amare la mia migliore ragazza?” How could I stop loving my best girl? I lean down and kiss her cheek, and she swats me away, embarrassed by my flirtation. “Quando hai intenzione di lasciare tuo marito per me?” When are you going to leave your husband for me? Sophia laughs, smiling over at Mario as I give her a wink.

  “Dominic joining you today?” Mario asks, kissing his wife’s temple.

  “No, he’s busy with Drew.”

  They laugh because we all know Dominic is long gone over that woman.

  Slapping my arm, Sophia points to a table.

  “Siediti, ti porterò la cena.” Sit, I’ll bring you dinner. I pretend injury, reaching for my shoulder and grimacing before I walk to the table I’ve been ordered to sit at.

  That’s the best part of this place. I don’t look at a menu. Shit, I don’t even get to choose what I want to eat. Sophia will bring me food, and I’ll love it. It was the closest thing I had to a homecooked meal and a familial feeling, until we started Sunday dinners at Dom’s.

  I shrug off my suit jacket to make myself comfortable in the booth, tossing my phone onto the table. My palms hold my weight on the table as I scooch into the banked seat. The waiter appears with a glass filled with amber liquid. Mario is a mind reader.

  He places the bourbon down in front of me, and I wrap my hand around the tumbler, giving him a small nod. The liquor swirls with the movement of my hand before I take a swig, feeling the bite in my throat that gives way to the burn.

  I turn my phone over and text Dante before I forget.

  Me: Sunday at Dom’s.

  Dante: Yeah. I’m thinking about bringing someone. You bringing Shelby?

  Me: No. You bringing tits or a cock?

  Dante: What?

  Me: Girl or a friend.

  Dante: Do you have to refer to her as tits? I’ll choke you if you say shit like that again. Have some respect.

  Me: Touchy…What’s her name?

  Dante: Never mind, I change my mind. I don’t want her to meet you. You’re too much of a dick.

  Me: True. See you guys tomorrow.

  The waiter delivers a small plate of nuts and olives, and I smile my appreciation. Taking another swig of my drink, I can’t help but think about how fucked tomorrow is going to be. My brothers are happy, pairing up, living their lives, and mine has broken, irrevocably.

  I’ll never bring Shelby to another family event. Not that it ever mattered—she always complained that Drew was cold to her or that she felt out of place. She was right, on both accoun
ts.

  I grab an olive and pop it into my mouth, checking the time on my phone to make sure I won’t be late for my meeting. My thoughts keep swirling about Shelby and how she doesn’t deserve the family she’s been given.

  Especially when I can think of someone I’d rather be around. What does Gretchen do on a Sunday? Who does she do Sunday dinners with?

  Fuck these thoughts. They’re always there, waiting, seemingly innocent but made of sin. Exactly like her.

  My drink is emptied in one gulp, just as my risotto arrives. I tuck in to my meal, switching gears in my mind and focusing on my meeting. But I can’t fucking focus. All I can think about is how Gretchen is alone on Sunday. I hate it. I barely know this girl, but I want to take that day away from her, take away one day of the loneliness she must feel.

  I know what that feels like. We’re kindred, her and I. Grabbing my phone again, I let my fingers fly over the keys before I reason with myself.

  Me: Come to Sunday dinner at Drew & Dom’s.

  This isn’t what you do when you’re trying to fuck someone, Luca.

  Gretchen: Twice in one day. Amazing. I can’t, I have plans, but thanks.

  Me: What plans?

  Gretchen: My plans.

  Me: It’s family dinner. You’re family for Drew. Why haven’t you been there before?

  Gretchen: Honestly, because I feel like it will be as if I’m being set up with Dante. I’m not down. Not my type.

  I can’t help but laugh out loud. I’d have to hold him underwater if he was her type.

  Me: I’ll be alone too.

  Gretchen: Why?

  It’s an easy question to answer. I can say Shelby is out of town. Easy. But my fingers don’t get the memo. I haven’t lied to her once. I’m not starting now.

  Me: Because I don’t want Shelby with me. At dinner or at all.

  The bubbles pop up and go away. I’m already regretting what I said when her response dings.

  Gretchen: Are you bringing Ella?

  I smile. I’m not remotely against using Ella as bait.

  Me: See you tomorrow.

  I didn’t think this little plan through. How the fuck am I going to tell Dominic that I invited Gretchen to dinner without all the questions that will follow? I might be willing to answer her questions, but I don’t have the patience for my brothers.

  Impulse control, Luca. Fucking impulse control. I throw a few large bills down on the table, more than enough to cover whatever the bill is plus a generous tip and head out of Mama’s, giving Sophia a kiss before I go.

  LUCA TEXTED ME ABOUT DINNER just as I was sitting in the back of the Uber I ordered for tonight. If I’d wondered if he was doing something sneaky, then I just got my answer. Nobody invites you to have dinner with everyone you both know, and who also knows your wife. I guess this means Luca and I are friends. It makes sense—I do get him in a way that only someone else broken can.

  I look out the window of the car, resting my head to the side, and look at the city through the window as I pass by. I love downtown. It feels as if nobody ever sleeps, like the world is always there waiting for me. It’s nice, especially when I’m alone.

  We pull up to Charlie’s on First in front of the growing crowd. Lyla was right about this place: it has serious character. How have I never seen it before? I open the door and exit the car, smoothing down the dress I bought earlier today.

  The silk halter clings to my body and is completely backless, making a bra impossible. The hem stops right above my knees, keeping it classy but sexy as hell. Almost as sexy as my red Jimmy Choos. I hope this idiot I’m being set up with is worth it.

  I walk inside the packed bar and look around for Lyla, palming my phone in case I need to text her. She waves from a high-top table near the dance floor, where she’s sitting on a barstool next to two very attractive men. Not bad, Lyla.

  I weave through the high-tops and take in the speakeasy feel of the place. It’s a spacious joint with a stage for live music, currently occupied by a beautiful woman in a deep red velvet dress singing a bluesy song. The dark cherry wood bar runs along one wall and looks like something from the forties, with sconces at the ends and engravings along the bottom. I half expect for someone to light up a cigar and order a scotch. Luca’s face immediately floods my thoughts. This place is so him.

  I push the thought away immediately as I walk up to Lyla. She reaches for me and pulls me into a hug, whispering in my ear, “Oh my god, your guy is so much hotter than mine.”

  I pull back and smile, rolling my eyes at her silliness.

  I turn my attention to the tall drink of water standing and staring at me.

  “Hi. I’m Gretchen, the awful hag you’ve been stuck with for the night.”

  My smile is flirtatious, and I reach around and pull my hair over my shoulder, extending my hand to shake my date’s. Lyla isn’t wrong: my guy is hot.

  “Josh. I’m happy to be stuck with you, gorgeous. What can I get you to drink?”

  Tonight is going to be a good night.

  “Gin and tonic. Two limes. Tall glass.”

  He leans in conspiratorially to the shoulder free of my hair, and I match his posture.

  “I read an article that said girls that drink gin are more likely to be psychopaths. You gonna kill me?”

  He draws back and bites his bottom lip. Josh has game. Gretchen might get laid.

  I just shrug. He shakes his head and winks before heading to the bar, and I turn to introduce myself to Lyla’s date. They’re both staring at me like I’m an alien.

  “Hi. I’m Gretchen,” I say, extending my hand to Lyla’s date as she covers her mouth and giggles.

  He shakes my hand.

  “Phillip. It’s nice to meet you. I’m glad to see you and my cousin hit it off.” He smiles.

  “Ladies’?” Lyla asks, tipping her head in the direction of the bathrooms.

  “Sure.” I smile. I’m sure she wants to give me the rundown about Phillip and Josh.

  She says something to Phil, and we make our way to the bathroom. I follow her into the ladies’ room, which is decorated just as exquisitely as the main room. It feels very Marilyn in here. I walk to the mirror to check my face while she goes into a stall.

  “This place is amazing! How’d you find it?” I say loud enough for her to hear.

  “Drew, actually,” she answers from behind the stall door.

  “Huh, she never said anything to me,” I answer.

  I smooth my skirt while I wait wondering why Drew never brought it up. Lyla emerges from the stall and comes to wash her hands as I begin to reapply my lip gloss.

  “Yeah, I guess Dom told her about it because he’s thinking of buying it.” She shakes her hands out and grabs a paper towel, and I prop a hip against the counter.

  “He and Luca are buying this place?” I’m not surprised, just curious.

  “Yeah, guess so. Why?” I just wave her off as if it’s nothing.

  I don’t want to tell her that what she said validates my original thought. This place does feel like Luca.

  “Ready?” she asks and I nod, taking one last look at myself, before I follow her out.

  “GEORGE, JUST DROP ME HERE. I’ll text you when I’m ready.”

  He pulls to the side of a parked car in front of the building.

  “No need for a text; I’ll be here in the front waiting,” he answers, looking out the side mirror at the stalled traffic.

  I jump out of the car and walk to the doors of the bar, buttoning my suit jacket. I opted for a gray suit with a white shirt, no tie, because that’s what a place like Charlie’s on First calls for. It’s a throwback to a different time. I fucking love it. It speaks to me on a base level.

  Charlie meets me outside, looking nervous but trying like hell to fake his way through a confidence he doesn’t have. I can’t blame him. I know how intimidating I am. That’s why I asked to meet him on his grounds…it’s scarier when your opposition comes strong on your home turf.

&nbs
p; “Charlie,” I greet, extending a hand as I fasten the last button on my jacket.

  “Luca.” I raise my eyebrows as he says my name, gripping just a bit stronger as I shake his hand. “I’m sorry, I mean Mr. King. It’s nice to meet face-to-face.”

  I nod and look to the crowd behind him and back to his face. He jumps into action.

  “Oh, yeah…let’s not just stand here.” He laughs nervously and runs a hand through his hair. “Sorry. Let me show you around.”

  “That’d be great, Charlie.”

  I follow him in and half listen to him as I take in the space. I’ve already done my research. I already know what I’m buying. I’m just here to make sure he accepts the terms. He’s in the middle of a sentence as I interrupt him, stopping at the bar.

  “Tell me something, Charlie. Why this place? Why not something that has less overhead? Why not build slowly, take baby steps?”

  I need to gauge just how attached he is to this bar.

  Charlie seems to search for the right answer.

  “Go big or go home, right?” His accompanying laughter dies with the expression on my face.

  “Maybe—depends on whether you prefer to live in a box in the alley. You’re bleeding money, Charlie,” I remark, gazing around the room to catalog the changes we’ll make.

  Charlie speaks up defensively.

  “It’s not just another bullshit bar. This place is an experience. It’s special.” He’s right, which is why we’ll own it by the end of the month.

  I regard him coolly, deciding how to explain our buyout.

  Until now Charlie has hoped for us to simply invest, but our interest has shifted. I lift my finger to the bartender, but Charlie waves him off. He ducks under the cutout in the bar top and stands like he knows what he’s doing.

  “I got it. Mr. King, what can I make you?”

  “You bartend? I’ll take a scotch. Neat.”

  “I learned every job, from bartending to cleaning. If this place is mine, then I should know it, don’t you think?”

  He’s young, all of twenty-five, but I like him. He’s smart, just over his head and underfunded. Maybe I’ll be more than decent to him.