by Soraya Naomi
Although my chaotic frame of mind remains, I tumble into another fitful night of sleep where Rachel’s death haunts my dreams.
THE NEXT NIGHT, AS I lean my elbows against the railing on the balconied second floor and look at the occupied square tables in the center of the room, the restaurant below echoes with sounds.
Adriano joins me as he’s ending a call. “I just got an update from John.”
I straighten. “He’s only been in Mexico for twenty-four hours.”
“He immediately went to the bar where Reymario’s crew hangs out. They use their own drugs and drink, so he pretended to be a drunk tourist and they became loose-lipped quickly. He overheard one of the members talking about a spy observing the Syndicate.”
“Reymario sent someone from his crew to check on us?”
“Probably. I can’t blame him for that. It’s just business.” Adriano surveys the dining room. “However, I believe he paid someone in America to actually spy on us, because if he sent a Mexican from his organization, they’d stand out.”
All of a sudden, everyone’s a suspect. “Do we know when Reymario sent his spy?”
“No. But I must know who it is and what he’s reporting to Reymario. This could become an issue if he discloses things we don’t need anyone outside the Syndicate to know. Or if he makes false reports and ruins our deal while Reymario and I might be able to work together. I don’t like being in the dark, and we’ve recently hired a shitload of new people.”
“Fuck. It could be anyone. One of the staff members, a new soldier, a random customer,” I surmise, and Adriano’s mouth tightens.
“I don’t think it’s anyone on staff. It’s most likely a regular customer or someone who’s been hanging around here a lot lately.”
“I’ll have a guard scope out Palermo every night for suspicious activity.”
“Okay. You keep an eye out as well. I’ll inform Luca and the others,” he finishes, saying his goodbyes and retreating when Fallon comes up beside me.
“Well, where have you been the last couple of days?” She tucks her long mahogany hair behind her ear.
Because she’s the underboss’s wife and a trusted friend, I reveal, “I’ve been feeling off since Valentine’s Day.”
“I thought so.” Propping her hip against the railing, she buttons her beige blazer. “You look tired. Still not getting much sleep?”
“Not really.”
“Oh, Michael.” She places her hand over mine in a sisterly manner. “You shouldn’t close yourself off; you need to visit us more often. Luca and I can help you take your mind off things.”
“I can’t stop thinking about what happened to Rachel. She haunts me day and night.”
Fallon opens her mouth but closes it and hesitates. “I know that you miss her terribly, but can I ask if what you’re feeling is about being sad or actually more about guilt regarding her death?”
“Why do you ask?” I answer, not sure how to respond.
“Because you never talk about her. You talk about how you feel gutted that you didn’t protect her, but you were together for two years and you did shelter her during that time.”
“She was a civilian. She gave up her family and friends to join my ruthless world. She trusted me.”
“You never betrayed her trust, and she chose to join our organization. But regardless, Michael, you have to be careful not to remain stuck in your grief. If you move on, you won’t forget her. You have to stop feeling guilty. I can see it’s eating you up inside.”
“It’s eating me up inside because I can’t quit thinking about it, and that makes my emotions uncontrollable.”
“No, I believe your guilt is uncontrollable and, therefore, you either lash out at people or you simply shut yourself off from us.” She turns to me. “We can all tell you it’s not your fault, but you have to acknowledge it yourself. The fact remains that someone shot her; however, just because it had to do with New York business gone wrong doesn’t mean it’s your fault. Also, letting go of your guilt will help you move on.”
“What do you mean?”
“The longer you hold on to your guilt, the longer you’ll be in this conflicted mood. I see how you don’t engage with women who try to get your attention.”
I send her a bland look.
“You can date. Allow yourself to have a fun evening and try to leave the past behind.”
“I’m not ready yet.”
“You’ll feel it when you are. But in the meantime, will you promise that you’ll try to be more open to other people?” she requests in a sweet tone.
“I will,” I concede, merely to appease her.
At that moment, the kitchen door opens below and Brielle walks into the dining area. My gaze is drawn to her like a magnet as she clips her hair on top of her head, which makes her wide black chef’s jacket tighten, exposing the silhouette of an hourglass figure.
“Oh, I have to talk to Brielle,” Fallon says when she glances at her.
“How well do you know her?”
“I’m having dinner with her again this week. She’s cool.”
“So you like her?”
“Yes, she’s my friend.” A crease wrinkles her forehead. “Why do you want to know? Did something happen between you two?”
“Not really...”
“Then why the interest in the lovely Brielle?” She raises both brows, amused.
I answer with a mock glare. “Don’t look at me like that. She’s twelve years younger than me – she’s just a girl. And we had a bit of a...situation.”
“What kind of situation?”
“She saw my gun,” I disclose, causing her smile to become a frown.
“When?”
“Two days ago, on opening night.”
Her face hardens. “Did she question why you had it?”
“Yes. So I told her that only I carry one and we don’t want other people to know.”
“Has she told anyone?” Fallon worries her lip.
“No. Has she mentioned anything to you about any problems?”
“No, she said she had a great first few days here,” Fallon informs me, which sets me at ease.
The fact that Brielle didn’t tell Fallon about my gun bodes well. “If she does begin to ask questions, let me know. And don’t tell Luca; it could get her in trouble too.”
“I know. I won’t as long as you keep this under control, because she’s not a naïve woman,” Fallon says, and my curiosity deepens, much to my chagrin. “She’s smart and has been through a lot, so she picks up on things.”
I knew there was much more to Brielle Duchenne.
“I have to go now. Keep me posted.” She kisses my cheek before hurrying away.
At that second, Marliya comes strutting up to me, her hair tied into a high ponytail, which makes her look girly.
Fallon smirks at me, mouthing, “Don’t be an ass to her.”
In reaction, I shoot her a quick glare before schooling my expression when Marliya reaches me. “Hey, Michael.”
I dip my chin at her and happen to look downstairs to catch a waiter talking closely to Brielle, who seems a lot more relaxed around him than she ever is with me.
“I just tried a few desserts from the menu and they were delicious,” Marliya mutters as I continue to watch Brielle out of the corner of my eye.
“What?”
“I saw you eating the rum cake, so I tried it too,” Marliya explains while Fallon points at her back and warns me to concentrate.
Deciding to take Fallon’s advice because this guilt is tearing me up inside, I make an effort to participate in the conversation as well.
“Brielle’s a very good pastry chef,” I say, feeling a prickle at my nape, so I glance down once more and lock eyes with Brielle, her inquisitive gaze not releasing me from its hold.
CHAPTER 7
Brielle
THE KITCHEN DOOR SWINGS open, crashing against the wall, and I jump in my spot when a waitress enters, holding a tray of empty dishe
s. I’ve been spooked since yesterday when I really thought that blue car was following me. Thank goodness, he drove on and I didn’t see him again.
It could be that Michael’s paranoia about my being alone outside at night has seeped into my brain. I’m not used to anyone questioning my choices ever since my parents died, and I believe I’m a careful person. I don’t seek out trouble, but I’ve been on my own for a long time.
Unexpectedly, I realize that while I’ve seen him daily since I started working here, I haven’t stumbled upon enigmatic Michael today, and secretly, I was hoping that his solid frame would be darkening the doorway. Maybe now that he knows I’ll keep my mouth shut to the staff, he doesn’t need to talk to me anymore. Clearly, we’ve established he’s not much of a conversationalist based on his dismissive attitude.
Wanting to dispel my thoughts, I leave the kitchen and go to the right toward the bar, finger-combing my hair and redoing my hairclip to keep the strands from falling into my face before I stop opposite the bartender. “Hey, Jim. You called for me?”
“Yeah, sorry,” he comments while pressing a button on the chrome coffee machine. “We got it sorted. I needed to know which beverage to serve with the rum cake, but Marliya told me and took the dessert upstairs.”
“Okay,” I say, examining the spacious restaurant while the whispers of only a dozen customers remain.
When I look up at the second floor, I see a familiar man in black leaning against the railing. Michael’s tall, imposing form stands out as he speaks with Fallon intimately, making me believe they know each other well.
Then Fallon smacks a kiss on his cheek and moves away right before Marliya sashays up to him. They make a dashing pair – he looks as if he stepped out of a GQ ad and she’s just as attractive with her slim, model-like figure.
While I’m fixated on Michael’s wide, muscular back, I catch Fallon mouthing or signaling something to him before he focuses on Marliya. Suddenly, however, he reaches up to his neck and turns his head, his stare hitting me like lightning. His expression holds no emotion as grey clashes with green and all the inane laughter and chattering in the dining room drifts into nothingness. Neither of us moves, yet when his dark brows dip, I believe he’s challenging me to look away first. But I square my shoulders until, after infinite seconds, I redirect my gaze to the floor and swivel around toward the kitchen. Although I glimpse sideways to see Marliya edging closer to Michael right before I go through the door.
At that moment, two servers exit and the chef instructs, “Brielle, clean up or you’ll have to leave last again. I’m going home in five minutes.”
“Yes, chef,” I murmur, upset though not sure why.
Gathering up all the dirty dishes, I cross the kitchen and put them in the dishwasher before hurriedly swiping a cloth over my counter so that I finish just in time to get out of there when the chef does.
Taking the seven-minute walk to the subway, I ride through six stops before exiting the car, hiking up the steps, and leaving the station. A girl with big headphones almost mows over me, so I step out of her way and dodge an SUV as I cross the street, the icy wind freezing my nose while it rustles loudly through a line of trees. This shoddier part of town is absent of high-rises, and I make my way around poorly constructed buildings to block the breeze.
Since I’m always cautious, I take the route with the fewest broken streetlights, but when I hear the engine of a car behind me, I notice a dark blue BMW going by as I round another building. Reaching the end of a narrow alleyway, I hear an ambulance in the distance and happen to glance back to find that same BMW turning onto the street I’m on. I pick up my pace along the moonlit sidewalk, my palms beginning to sweat, and I go left again to get back on the open road where traffic is buzzing.
When I peek to the side, I see the car speeding toward the intersection. But as it blazes by, I think I recognize a familiar grey gaze.
Creeped out but also indignant, I sprint after the BMW as it stops at the red light, and I pray it doesn’t switch to green before I can verify the driver’s identity.
CHAPTER 8
Michael
“I’M OFF WORK.” MARLIYA, who’s been chattering on for several minutes, keeps moving closer, but my attention wanders as the second floor empties out. “Want to get a drink together?”
“No,” I reply out of habit, making her face fall.
I expel a sigh, not in the mood to be tactful, and that’s when I see a familiar blonde and our head chef crossing the almost vacant dining room below before going out the main entrance.
To quickly get rid of Marliya, I tell her, “I have plans. Another time?”
Her lips curve up as she nods, but when she leans into me as if she’s going to kiss me goodbye, I make a beeline around her and stride down the staircase. Hurrying out of the restaurant, I watch Brielle dart around the corner at the end of the street, most likely heading toward the subway.
Without thinking, I go to my BMW that’s parked at the curb and jump inside, grabbing my phone from my pocket and opening the email with Brielle’s file that contains her personal information. I read that she lives in Riverdale and know exactly which subway station she’ll come out of.
After starting the car, I race through the cold, darkened streets and park at the correct station, eventually spying the woman with a pink coat hastening across the intersection. I follow her deep into Riverdale where she lives in the worst part of Chicago, and to my surprise, she goes through a narrow alley of a high-crime area. Then she looks backward and passes a dumpster that’s packed with garbage bags all around it, but she continues and turns left, which means she’s going in a circle.
Perhaps she’s onto me?
While I need to observe Brielle inside her home, I can’t risk her catching me, so I step on the gas to speed by her but have to brake at the intersection. Looking in my rearview mirror, I only see a couple strolling down the sidewalk behind me.
Since I’m in the clear, I check my phone for Brielle’s exact address and do an online search to find out that I’m two blocks away from her apartment.
However, I’m unexpectedly interrupted when there’s a bang on my window, and my gaze whips to the shadow standing by my car as my phone drops from my hand and tumbles into my lap.
“Why are you following me?!” Brielle scalds me with an incredulous look as she yanks the handle, but the door is locked.
I’m frozen in shock for a split-second before anger fills my veins, yet I need to pick my words carefully. I can’t have her figuring out that I’m suspicious; it could cause unwarranted problems if her working at Palermo does turn out to be a coincidence.
But regardless of that, how the hell did this girl best me, and more importantly, how do I handle her?
CHAPTER 9
Brielle
AS DARK CLOUDS RUMBLE in the sky, I skulk behind a frisky couple while the dark blue BMW that was tailing me waits at the red light. Sneaking past the trunk, I stop at the driver’s window and see Michael peering down at his smartphone.
Emotions riot inside me, and I slam a fist against the glass, making his head shoot to the side as his phone falls from his grasp, an irritated glare chasing his sharp features.
“Why are you following me?!” I demand and try to open the door to no avail, so I plant my hands on my hips.
I watch him keenly and see how mad he is when he smacks the button so that the window slides down.
“What are you doing here?” Bending low, I feel empowered since he’s not towering over me for once.
He sighs heavily, as if he is exasperated with me, before inhaling a deep breath. “I saw you leaving alone again and wanted to make sure you got home okay.”
I blink at his response, not expecting that whatsoever. I open my mouth but close it, and a sardonic twitch appears at the corner of Michael’s lips, most likely because I’m shocked silent.
Confused, I question, “But why follow me? You creeped me out, again.”
“I didn’t mean to.�
�� His voice drops to a whisper, but then the light skips to green and the vehicle behind Michael honks. Sticking his arm out the window, he motions for him to drive past him, so the car pulls out and swerves around me.
“Did you follow me last night too?” The words tumble out.
“No.” His brows knit together, but I believe he’s being honest since he’s not clenching his jaw.
Silence ensues as I stand there, dumbfounded, until Michael brushes a hand through his thick, dark hair and adds with self-assurance that must be ingrained from birth, “I apologize if I scared you. If I had known you saw me, I would’ve just driven up to you so that you wouldn’t freak out. Look, I’m a trained guard and responsible for the employees.”
I begin to understand how seriously he takes his work, which is admirable.
“Why do you even live here?” he suddenly inquires.
“What?”
“This isn’t the best place to live.” He gets his phone from his lap and points at the light that’s turned green again, informing me that he’s getting ready to leave, I think, but I can’t interpret his expression.
Then it hits me that I’m a bit annoyed at his comment; he knows nothing of my past. I don’t live here by choice – up to now, I simply haven’t made enough money to live anywhere else.
“Go home,” he dismisses me once more before I get a chance to get my head together.
“That’s what I was doing,” I retort, causing his eyes to narrow into silver slits.
“Be careful. I’ll see you tomorrow,” he finishes and steps on the gas and takes off.
Swiveling around, I tread to the curb and continue down the street to go home while a slight chill bites into my bones, although my cheeks heat as I reflect on Michael’s unexpected explanation. A part of me finds his protectiveness endearing. I presumed he was just controlling, but it’s more than that. And I wonder if he’s this protective of all the employees. I might be wrong in finding it sweet, but the sentiment has planted its seed inside me. I haven’t had anyone look out for me since I was eighteen – it actually makes me feel...warm. Maybe we just got off on the wrong foot?
