by Soraya Naomi
“Okay, I’ll tell the other servers, Brielle.”
“Thanks.” I frown at my empty tray because I made an entire batch and don’t recall so many orders. “Did we have that many rum cake orders, Gianni?”
“No, management stole a few,” he answers, pouring olive oil over a bowl of ravioli.
I instantly know who’s rude enough to do that. “Was it Michael?”
“Yes,” I hear a reply from behind me in a cool, deep baritone.
Our gazes shoot to the doorway where Michael stands, sans jacket, the sleeves of his black dress shirt rolled up to his elbows. The brutal power of his body, all muscle and sinewed tension, is evident in spite of his expensively tailored clothing.
Where is he carrying his gun now, and why is he in the kitchen again?
CHAPTER 4
Michael
AFTER I WALK AWAY FROM Brielle because I find her interest in me suspicious, I descend the staircase to the main restaurant below. Careening around servers in their black and white attire, I go to the guard who I’ve had pull up Brielle Duchenne’s records.
When I reach him standing at the bar, I begin, “What have you got for me?”
“Hey. I checked her out. Everyone from the restaurant staff has been carefully screened, but it happened before you joined our team, so we didn’t know of the connection between you and her at the time; therefore, it wasn’t investigated. She is that Brielle from New York, but she left years ago and has lived in Chicago since she was eighteen. She has no ties to any other Syndicate member. We believe she needed this job solely for the money. She makes a better starting salary at Palermo than she could ever make anywhere else.”
“So there’s still a possibility that she’s either heard of me or knows exactly who I am and wanted this job for reasons other than just money,” I surmise. “Where does she live? And does she live alone or with someone?”
“In the poor part of town. And she lives alone. She’s not married and has no kids.”
“How old is she?”
“Twenty-one,” he answers, and I gather that her jumpiness could stem from the fact that she’s twelve years younger than I am. It also doesn’t help that I’ve been in full Syndicate mode since yesterday.
“Why exactly did Adriano hire her?”
“Because she’s young and has no family. Plus, she was the only pastry chef who could start within two weeks. However, she’s ended up surprising Adriano with her creations. Do you think that she might know about you...?” his words trail off.
“Maybe. I need to make sure Brielle doesn’t have an ulterior motive for working here,” I respond. “But I can’t throw around accusations because if that’s not the case, we’ll have an even bigger issue.” Concerned yet intrigued, I flick my wrist to dismiss him.
I’m in a catch-22 situation and decide that the best thing to do is verify that she’ll tell me the truth. If she has nothing to hide, then she won’t act secretive. So, once more, I find myself rounding the bar to go into the kitchen.
“Did we have that many rum cake orders, Gianni?” Brielle asks the chef.
“No, management stole several,” he replies.
Brielle stands there, arms akimbo. “Was it Michael?”
“Yes,” I interject, and her bright green gaze seizes mine right as I walk through the door.
“Did you eat some of my rum cakes?”
“I had a few, yes.” Rolling my neck, I summon my less moody composure and saunter toward her dessert station to see that the cakes are all gone.
“You can’t do that without telling me.” She nervously grabs a dishtowel but doesn’t do anything with it; she simply holds it in her grasp.
Obviously, I make her uncomfortable – she’s pretty easy to read.
“Okay,” I tell her and she gives me a skeptical glance, yet I press on, “I don’t want you to get in trouble.”
“I won’t get in trouble.” Her smile is coy and innocent, dragging my attention to her bow-shaped lips. “I just need to know so that I can make more.”
For a second, I wonder if she’s flirting with me, which makes me uncomfortable. And I’m never uncomfortable around women. Unfortunately, I need some answers, so I decide to take advantage of her mood change and try to be nicer. “Then I’ll let you know next time.”
She nods and begins to collect dirty dishes as I observe her wandering around the kitchen and glimpsing at me while I flip open a carton that’s filled with red cakes, each decorated with a pulled sugar ribbon. They’re girly, like her.
While she wipes her counter clean, I probe casually, “These look good too. What are they?”
She peers at me, but I keep eyeing the cakes because I need her to be more at ease with me.
“They’re raspberry cakes.” She takes one out, and as she moves gracefully, I notice her professional demeanor.
I’m noticing contradictions in the way she acts in different situations. She was being immature by running out on me last night, but she stood her ground against me this morning – something a woman rarely does. So although she appears young, my gut screams at me that this is a clever girl and that she’s a good actress.
When she cuts the small cake in half, red syrup drips out. She proudly looks at me, seemingly more relaxed since we’re talking about her area of expertise. “Blood-red syrup. Taste,” she offers, bringing up the box.
Because I’m hungry, I play along and take one of the halves out and pop it into my mouth. Once again, her cake isn’t sweet at all. “It’s good,” I compliment her, causing her lips to curl up. Now I have an in. “Is this on the menu?”
“Not yet. But I may make what I want and present it to Adriano and the chef. One of my chocolate cakes is on there.”
She sets the carton down just when Gianni orders, “Brielle, three tiramisu.”
“Yes, five minutes, chef.” Leaning down toward the rack beneath her counter, she brings up three white plates before gathering another carton and some utensils. Then she takes a jar full of brown powder from the top shelf and unscrews the lid.
While she’s busy, I assess her methodic movements and take my chance to dig for info. “How did you get this job?”
“I saw it online, and I had no problem with starting immediately because I’d been looking for work.” She covers the entire plate with cocoa power and then a bit of powdered sugar.
“So this is your first full-time job?”
“Yes.” When she pushes her sleeve back, it exposes that silver bracelet, which accosts me with a painful memory and a stab in my chest.
Shaking my head, I attempt to focus. “Are you enjoying it here?”
“Yeah. I was lucky to get this position because I don’t really know many people in Chicago,” she reveals – I’ve got her guard down.
“Why don’t you know many people?”
“I grew up in New York and moved here three years ago to attend culinary school,” she says, and I can tell she’s being honest since there’s no hesitation in her response as she assembles her dish with accuracy while decorating it with dollops of some kind of cream.
“Did you come here alone?”
“Yes.” A ghost of a sad smile crosses her features.
Instead of questioning her about New York, I find myself asking, “Why alone?”
“My parents died in a plane crash and then I couldn’t stay in New York,” she discloses without looking at me while I watch her face – there isn’t a freckle on her ivory skin – and I understand her sentiment perfectly well because I fled that city for almost the same reason.
“I lived in New York too.”
“I know.” She regards me inquisitively. “Marliya told me.”
“So you did ask about me...” I tease, making the corner of her mouth twitch, although I realize that she could be misconstruing my intent. Besides, I need to concentrate and get my answers so that I can let her be.
“Why did you leave New York?” she suddenly asks, turning around to the kitchen island with t
he three plates. “Service!”
A waiter storms through the swinging door and takes the plates from Brielle before rushing out just as quickly.
Disregarding her question, I switch the topic back to her. “Where in New York did you live?”
“Brooklyn.” She immediately flips closed the cartons and swipes the marble counter clean while the bustle of the kitchen happens around us.
“And you didn’t stay in touch with anyone?”
“No, I had a close friend, but we lost touch,” she replies despondently, and I’m still unsure whether this could simply be one huge coincidence.
Abruptly, a wrinkle forms between her perfectly plucked brows. “What’s with the interrogation?”
I went too far.
Luckily, the chef interrupts, “Brielle, two chocolate desserts.”
“Yes, chef.”
“I was just curious. Since you’re busy, I’ll leave you to your work,” I tell her and turn toward the door.
As I step through it and go to the bar, I’m no better informed than I was before. But I don’t believe in coincidences. I’m going to keep an eye on Brielle during the upcoming days.
My thoughts are interrupted when, out of nowhere, the host blocks my path, followed by Ivo in an expensively tailored silver-grey suit similar to the ones we wear. He’s an Italian associate who’s a realtor for the underworld. However, as an associate, he’s not an official Syndicate member, and there’s something about him I don’t trust.
“Michael, this gentleman is looking for Adriano,” the host informs me.
“I’ll take him up.” I dip my chin at Ivo and hide my dislike for this guy with his neatly trimmed beard.
I knew he had a meet with Adriano because Adriano told us this morning, but I find it suspicious that he’d force an appointment during open hours of Palermo. Although according to Adriano, he’s no threat.
“Michael,” Ivo greets as I hold out my arm, indicating for him to precede me, and he starts toward the opposite end of the room.
When we reach the staircase, I instantly recognize Brielle’s golden-blonde hair and shapeless form in her black chef’s jacket as she sets a plate on a table and swivels around. Our eyes meet and hold as she passes us. Then Ivo, who’s walking in front of me, cranes his neck to gawk at Brielle’s ass while she smiles kindly at me. Unexpectedly, I feel the stirrings of annoyance, and I fix Ivo with a glare, silently ordering him to avert his gaze.
He complies while heat brands my back, and I wonder if Brielle has caught my reaction.
CHAPTER 5
Brielle
AS MICHAEL WALKS TO the stairway, he doesn’t look pleased. I actually enjoyed our latest talk in the kitchen, but he pays me no heed now and continues on without even acknowledging me, except I do see him peeking at my bracelet again. This guy is very weird, and I despise the fact that I can’t keep my eyes off him as he climbs the stairs with the grace of a panther until he’s out of sight. Michael has been the first of management to compliment my baked goods, and the one thing I love most is when people enjoy my food.
I return to the kitchen to put away the raspberry cakes while the staff is loading the dishwashers, and several employees leave as I carry on cleaning.
After half an hour, I screw the lids on the jars on the shelf above my counter. Sadly, I’m the last one here, which is why I need the desserts to go out on time – so that I can leave work when the others do.
Out of the blue, the door swings open, and my head whips to the left just as Michael steps through it. Tonight, I kept all the lights on to avoid any surprises.
“You again,” I tease as he throws on his tailored black suit jacket and steals a glance around the empty room. His limited repertoire of facial expressions doesn’t seem to include a smile, only that perpetual scowl.
“You’re the last one here? Why do you stay alone?” He straightens his collar, bringing my attention to the seductive V of his unbuttoned black dress shirt that exposes a sliver of his olive-skinned chest.
I clear my throat. “This is why I didn’t want anyone to distract the servers, because then the desserts get behind, and at the end of the shift, I’m left cleaning alone.”
“Hmm,” he says.
I’m not sure how to interpret that noise since he merely evaluates me, his stare inscrutable as I tread to the front of the dessert counter and get my salmon faux fur coat from the rack. After sliding my arms into the sleeves, I sling my purse diagonally across my chest.
“How do you get home?” Michael keeps surveying me intently.
“I take the subway.” Checking the time on my watch, I see that it’s almost eleven. “But I have to go now to catch it. I’ll go out the fire exit.” Wheeling around, I hurry toward the back of the kitchen.
But then I hear Michael say, “No.”
I freeze and slowly turn toward him, taken aback. “Excuse me?”
“You can’t leave via the alley.” He surges forward, and I back away from him, astounded by his bossiness. “Alone. At night.” Each word is delivered with a cool, crisp intonation.
“I’ll be fine,” I retort and spin around again, yet he unexpectedly snares my upper arm in a secure grip, pulling me to him.
I jerk away to try to fling off his hand, but he doesn’t budge. The hardness of his body enchants me in a way it shouldn’t, but when his scowl settles on me, annoyance trumps any other emotion.
“Let go of me!” I tell him, and he cuts me a seething glare.
“Hold on for a second! Why would you go home alone so late?” he speaks as if it’s an accusation.
“I don’t think it’s any of your business how or when I go!” I grit out and become defensive. I’ve been alone since I was eighteen and don’t need someone to parent me – especially him.
I rise on my tiptoes to crowd his face, expecting him to release me since I’ve learned that he hates it when people invade his personal space. Meanwhile, he’s manhandled me twice already. “I respected your wishes not to be touched. Now respect mine, Michael, and let go of me.”
His brows rise in surprise before his glare darkens, yet he knows I’ve got him there, so he releases me, making me stumble.
Then he flicks his wrist. “You’re right; it’s none of my business, so go,” he manages to dismiss me once more.
Not able to rein in my own temper, I reply, “I will.”
“Fine.” He spins around, and we stride off in opposite directions.
“Fine!” I yell, looking back as I push through the fire exit to see Michael glowering at me as he crosses the threshold to the dining room, his eyes narrowing while I roll mine.
Irritated, I barge outside, the cold wind slapping against my cheeks while I hurry across the intersection toward the subway, grunting in frustration as I zigzag through the pedestrians.
But as much as Michael’s inconsistent and broody behavior annoys me, it fascinates me as well. While he’s had a gloomy disposition since I met him, he keeps seeking me out in the kitchen, but every encounter makes him an even bigger mystery.
Suddenly, I notice a blue vehicle passing me for the second time and braking at the light. After I dash around the corner, I glance back to find that the car is still trailing me. Nervously, I peek around before squinting to try to see who the driver is as dread rears up inside me.
Am I being followed?
CHAPTER 6
Michael
“FINE,” I GROWL, MADDENED by Brielle. I can’t seem to keep my hands to myself when I’m trying to prove my point to her.
I march to the kitchen door while Brielle stomps to the fire exit. Somehow, I’m allowing her to push my buttons just because I can’t figure her out.
“Fine!” she retorts and I send her a scowl as she rolls her eyes at me.
Perhaps she is merely a careless, naïve woman, though my instinct warns me yet again that there’s much more to her than she shows. Or maybe I’m seeing things and becoming suspicious because I haven’t handled her in the best way since I
’m stuck in my own world of guilt. Besides, it’s none of my concern how she gets home.
Striding out the front entrance of the restaurant, I jump into my dark blue BMW that’s parked at the curb.
It’s not my problem.
I brush my hand over my mouth in agitation.
It’s not my problem.
So what do I do? I fish my phone out of my pocket, make a call, and bring it up to my ear.
“Hey, Michael,” a Syndicate guard answers.
“Where are you?”
“I’m leaving Palermo.”
“I need you to follow Brielle. She left through the fire exit and is going to the subway. I’m texting you her phone number and giving you access to track her phone to see where she gets off. Then make sure she gets home safe.”
“Okay—oh, she’s the blonde with the pink coat, right? She just walked out of the alley.”
“Yes, the pink coat. Text me when she’s home.”
“I will. But she’s already seen me drive past her and seems to be watching my car.”
I was correct to assume that she’s perceptive. Could the girly thing be an act? “Make sure she doesn’t catch you.”
“I will. I’ll drive on now and shadow her as she walks to her apartment,” he replies right before I cut the call.
Instead of going home immediately, I open the email with Brielle’s file and scour it. She indeed lived in Brooklyn, like she said, and has a student loan, no relatives, absolutely no run-ins with the police or underworld, and with the last name Duchenne, I’m guessing she’s French. And she interests me on a variety of levels.
Stashing my phone, I fire up the engine and pull out onto the icy street, feeling different than other nights, yet I can’t put my finger on why.
Once inside my apartment, the guard texts me that Brielle has made it home without catching him.
