The Man in Black_A Standalone Mafia Romance Page 6

  “Where would you like to live?” He grabs a walnut from the glass jar in front of me and tosses it into his mouth, bringing my attention to his sculpted lips for a second.

  “Um...” What did he ask...? Oh, yeah. “Right here in the Loop, but it’s crazy expensive. Where do you live?” I want to know more about him.

  His eyes narrow and he chews slowly. “The Blackhall.”

  My brows rise since that’s one of the most prestigious skyscrapers. “Did you buy or rent your apartment?”

  “I bought it years ago, so I was able to move back easily.”

  “Why did you leave New York?”

  He becomes lost in thought, looking at me yet through me as if he’s peering into the past again, and the lines on his striking face harden but in the saddest way. “Because I had no one there anymore, and I didn’t enjoy my job,” he reveals.

  “Were you a security director there too?”

  “Something like that but more like a bodyguard.” He then shakes his head to climb out of his melancholy.

  “When did you return?”

  “What’s with the interrogation, Duchenne?” he throws my own words back at me, making me smirk since I enjoy how he says my last name.

  I’m not usually attracted to guys this fast, but there’s something about Michael that fascinates me. “I’m just wondering,” I repeat his statement from a few minutes ago.

  A wicked smile works its way across his face. “Well played. I moved back to the Blackhall a few weeks back.”

  So I’m guessing he’s grieving someone he lost recently – I was right to assess that there’s more to this man.

  “Do you like being back?” I ask.

  “Do you like it in Chicago?”

  “Why do you often answer a question with a question?” I counter, causing him to freeze, as if he’s surprised that I’ve caught that fact.

  “I like being back more and more,” he answers my original question, and I understand perfectly well what he means since he’s been in a nicer mood than the first week I knew him.

  Then, for some reason, I voluntarily divulge something about me. “I enjoy it here too, but I’ve been so busy looking for a job that I don’t really have a social life yet.”

  “That’ll change now that you work here. Or you can hang out with Fallon every weekend,” he puts in good-humoredly just as the door opens and Luca points at him.

  “We have to go,” he says, and Michael charismatically dips his chin at me before he exits.

  Once again, I’m captivated and I know I must be blushing, but I’m jolted out of my musings when the oven beeps from the island, and Gianni dips down to come up with my steaming hot brioches.

  Putting each on a plate, he sets them on the countertop. “Brielle, you made an extra brioche. Here it is. Tony, the steak?!”

  “One minute, chef,” Tony yells as I grab one of the plates and position it on the corner of my counter.

  I get back to work, and not an hour later, when I’m refilling my jars with sugar and flour, a familiar tall shadow falls over me, so I glance to the side to see Michael.

  “The brioche. For you.” I point to it, and his sexy gaze captures mine before he reaches for the bread and takes a bite.

  “It’s very good, not sweet at all.”

  “Yeah, it goes well with the meat. You should order that dish from the menu the next time you eat here.”

  “I will,” he replies, and I continue cleaning up as he finishes the brioche in three bites.

  “Have the servers worked quickly enough for you to leave on time the last few days?”

  “Not always.” I screw a lid on a jar. “But tonight, I won’t be last. I’m already done and everything is prepped, so the sous-chef can assemble any desserts. I’m beat after having only one day off.”

  “I can imagine.”

  “How many days do you work at a time?” I ask.

  He gives me a skeptical glance but answers, “Officially, six, but I’m constantly on call – I have to be as security director – but I don’t have to be here all the time.”

  That explains his absence on Monday. “What exactly do you do?” I whisper, jokingly.

  That elicits a wry smile from him. “I make the schedules and I oversee the operation.” He casually picks another walnut from the jar I just stocked.

  “Don’t you have any work you should be doing right now?” I close the jar, cocking my head. “You’re in the kitchen a lot...”

  “I’m management – we’re useless.” He pops the walnut into his mouth.

  “Is that a joke, Carrion?” I tease him.

  He grins without thinking, but it fades just as quickly. Then, out of the blue, my stomach growls loudly, and I let out a chuckle.

  “Are you hungry?” Michael asks as I set the last jar on the shelf above me.

  “I am. I skipped lunch. But I’m going to eat now that I’m done.”

  “You can eat here,” he states, and before I can object, he tells the chef, “Gianni, Brielle didn’t eat.”

  “Didn’t you, Brielle?! You stay; you eat pasta. Sì?” he offers, and Michael hitches a shoulder in a playful shrug at Gianni’s amiably reproachful manner.

  To my utmost surprise, Michael holds out his arm toward the door, inviting me into the restaurant. “We’ll eat upstairs.”

  We’ll? Is this a date?

  CHAPTER 12

  Brielle

  IS THIS A DATE?

  I lead the way through the swinging door into the noisy, busy dining room and Michael falls into step beside me while we move alongside the glass bar counter. As we pass a man in a silver three-piece suit, he stares at me, and Michael places his hand at the small of my back. I glimpse at Michael just in time to catch them exchanging a glance before he guides me up the stairs, where I notice many women competing for his attention as he steers me toward the VIP area that’s empty now.

  When we reach the square table that’s covered with a snow white tablecloth, Michael pulls my padded chair back and waits for me to be seated before he sits across from me.

  A waiter comes over with two seafood spaghettis, explaining, “Gianni told me to bring this to you immediately, Brielle. Enjoy.” He sets the plates in front of us.

  “Thank you.” I relish how this team looks out for me – I get the sense I’m becoming part of the family at Palermo.

  Since I’m starving, I take my fork and dig into my pasta, and when I let out an involuntarily moan, I peek up through my lashes to catch Michael’s focus on my lips.

  Using my fingers, I pick out a clam and bring it to my mouth, realizing that I’m forgetting my manners when he stifles a laugh. But as I devour the scrumptious seafood, I decide that I don’t care and simply say, “This is delicious.”

  “I order this pasta a lot.” He grins and it eases all the way up to his eyes.

  After we both finish our meals within minutes, I point my fork to his empty plate. “So you were already hungry and wanted Gianni to make something for you...just like you trick me into making you cakes.”

  “I don’t trick you.” Setting his knife down, he wipes his long fingers on his napkin. “You choose to make me extra.” He studies me in a way that heats my limbs, though I’m not sure he’s aware he’s doing it.

  “I’m just too nice to everyone,” I throw back, entertained.

  “Is that it, Duchenne?” he challenges me.

  “I think it is, Carrion.” I slide forward until his knee touches mine.

  “No, that’s not it. You even blocked one waiter when he tried to steal your cakes, remember?” He takes a slow inventory of my features that spurs my heart into a faster beat.

  I must be blushing again. I’m beginning to enjoy his company – when he’s not broody – far too much. “Well, I can’t block you. You’d mow me over.”

  His eyes move down my cleavage and leisurely back up. “I don’t know; something tells me you could handle me...” he concludes.

  All the insignificant murmurs ar
ound us dwindle away as this mysterious man mesmerizes me with his unique and subtle flirtation. I realize I should’ve removed my baggy jacket when he scoots back slightly and crosses his ankle over his knee, bringing my attention to the hard muscles of his chest that his tailored black dress shirt doesn’t hide. And we’re apparently not done yet since he orders two cappuccinos.

  Then he rests one hand on the table. “If you’re hungry and the place is full, you can always eat up here. I’ll tell the servers.”

  There he goes being kind again. “Oh, thank you. I heard the restaurant is booked up for months.”

  “It is. Adriano did a lot of marketing around Valentine’s Day,” he replies.

  “So how do you know Adriano?”

  “I met Adriano and Luca in college, and when I moved back right after they decided to open Palermo, they offered me this job.”

  “So you were all friends?” I shift forward, toying with the edge of my napkin.

  “Yeah, I guarded Fallon for a while too,” he reveals but then freezes.

  Confused, I pipe in, “Why did you guard Fallon?” She’s just Luca’s wife.

  He cocks his head and steels his jaw, as if he’s putting up a barrier that was down while we, I thought, connected.

  “Because Luca is much too overprotective,” he responds, smiling, and I realize I might have misunderstood his reaction. “Which is why I stopped because, obviously, she doesn’t need a guard, and then I became security director.”

  “Luca does seem like the overprotective type,” I retort. Like you.

  “It’s his Italian blood.”

  “Do you have Italian blood?”

  “Yes, my parents were Italian. How about you? Are you French?” His fingers wrap around his glass and he rotates his drink in a slow swirl.

  “Yes. I have family from there.”

  “Have you ever been there?” There’s a quiet smolder in his ashy-grey gaze as he takes a sip.

  I feel my throat tighten a little. “No, my parents were actually going to France for the first time when their plane crashed. Some kind of malfunction that rarely happens. They had shit luck.”

  To my amazement, he grips my hand, the warmth of his palm seeping into my skin, but after we both glance down, he slides it off and rears back, assessing me with a sympathetic look. “Don’t say that.”

  “That’s what it was, though,” I mutter. I haven’t recalled that day for a long while. It painfully reminds me that I’m alone.

  “Didn’t you have any other family?” he asks, seemingly genuinely curious.

  “No, we were close to our neighbors, but they moved to Manhattan and we lost touch,” I tell the truth, partly, as he regards me in an unsettling way, as though he’s searching for something beneath my surface. No man has ever looked at me the way that Michael does.

  Unfortunately, at that moment, a customer I’ve avoided for days heads in our direction, so I scoot my chair next to Michael, whose gaze whips to me in question.

  “I need to get rid of this guy,” I murmur, and Michael evaluates him as he approaches.

  “Why?” Michael probes.

  “He’s going to ask me out again and I don’t want to go.” I shift closer to him and smile sweetly, making his lips curl up in amusement.

  But he says in a stern voice, “I’m not helping you get out of a date.”

  “Too late.” I chuckle, throwing my head back as if he just said something funny, and when he mock-glares at me right before the man reaches us, I add, “You’re in it now, love.”

  He lets out a flare of annoying laughter. “Why are you British?”

  “I thought it would be fun,” I whisper hurriedly and practically lean against Michael, who scowls at me but masks it as the guy stops in front of us and rakes a hand through his chestnut hair to comb it back.

  “Can you not lean on me?” Michael jerks his shoulder to push me off, but I don’t budge.

  “Sorry.” I keep grinning. “I have to.”

  “Hey, Brielle.” The guy nods at Michael, who now has an entertained expression on his face, one I haven’t seen before. “Am I interrupting?”

  As luck would have it, Michael speaks in a directive tone that holds no room for argument, “Yes, you’re interrupting. Leave us.”

  His eyes widen as he glowers at Michael before he spins around and walks off.

  Michael casts me a smug look for taking care of it with a few words, his nose so close to mine that his breath hits my cheek. “Now you owe me, Duchenne.”

  When he doesn’t pull away, I say, “Somehow, I think you’re going to collect when I least expect it.”

  He musters up a wolfish smirk and lounges back, moving away from our intimate pose. Then he fishes his keys from his pocket, getting ready to call it a night.

  I can’t help but wonder if he’ll offer to take me home.

  CHAPTER 13

  Brielle

  I CAN’T HELP BUT WONDER if he’ll offer to take me home. However, the moment he’s about to speak, a shadow falls over us, and we gaze up at a tall man I don’t recognize.

  Michael rises when the man addresses him, tension coiling his body as he points to the man’s chest and almost noiselessly barks something to him.

  Then I catch Michael glimpsing at me as he whispers something else to the guy before telling me, “I have to work. Tyler will take you home.”

  I stand up. “He doesn’t have to do—”

  Michael holds up his hand and cuts me off, “He’s going in that direction anyway; he can drop you off.”

  “Oh, okay.” Disappointment grows inside as Michael ushers me forward.

  But when he adds, “I’ll see you tomorrow,” as he heads toward the corner office, I can tell by the tone of his voice that he’s not happy about the interruption either.

  Regrettably, it seems he really does have some type of emergency, so I follow my driver down the stairs and exit Palermo with a smile plastered on my face, having enjoyed my date with Michael way too much.

  THE RESTAURANT IS HALF-empty on Thursday night when I shoulder through the kitchen door after my shift has ended. Exhausted, I plop down onto the banquette that runs around the perimeter of the room, but as I’m relaxing against the suede cushion, I startle when someone sinks down next to me.

  “Hey.” The guy who Michael ran off last night joins me.

  I start to leave but realize how rude that would be, so I sit up straight, letting out an impatient sigh.

  Can’t he read body language?

  “I’m not sure what happened yesterday, but I wanted to ask...” his words trail off while I survey the balconied second floor, my eyes connecting with familiar ashy-grey ones as Michael stands at the railing, holding a drink.

  His black jacket, made of luxury brocade, hangs open at the sides to reveal a black dress shirt, and one hand is tucked in his pocket. Tall and commanding like a dark angel searching for his prey, he unexpectedly lifts his wineglass in quiet salute, causing my blood to simmer, and he saunters along the railing to the staircase, descending it without breaking our gaze. The world seems to slow to a stop as he closes the distance between us, casually setting his glass on an empty table he passes.

  “Brielle? Brielle?!” Fingers snap in front of my eyes, so I blink and look at the exasperating guy beside me when Michael claims the seat on my other side, a small smile playing over his lips as his thigh warms mine.

  I lean into Michael, his musk cologne cloaking me. I assume he’s enjoying this, which makes the other man uneasy as he glances back and forth between us and says, “I was just getting ready to ask her if you two are dating?”

  Michael and I peer at each other and he smirks, but since I’m not interested in the other guy, I can’t seem to work up any annoyance over Michael’s mysterious interference.

  “Tell him.” Michael lazes back, resting his arm on the back of the sofa and pinning a calm glower he’s polished to perfection on the guy.

  “Yeah, we are,” I reply, and his face falls.r />
  “Then you should’ve simply said so.” The guy rises so fast that I rear back while Michael leaps up, shifting sideways as if to shield me.

  “She’s telling you now, isn’t she?” Michael grinds out.

  “But she shouldn’t have flirted with me if that was the case,” he protests, although I didn’t flirt with him, and to my surprise, Michael defends me.

  “I see everything that goes on in here, and she never invited your attention. Leave and don’t dare to come back.” Michael gestures at the host at the front entrance, and he comes over to us just as Michael warns the guy, “Don’t bother Brielle again or you’ll regret it.”

  The guy crowds Michael, who stands his ground, towering over him.

  “Who the hell do you think you are?” the guy hisses.

  “I’m a man you shouldn’t piss off,” Michael cautions in a low voice and signals at the host. “Escort him out and blacklist him – he’s banned from Palermo.”

  “Sir, you can come quietly or I can get the bouncer?” The host extends his arm, and the guy throws us a scowl before striding away toward the entrance.

  Michael turns to me as I stand up. “Thanks.”

  “Why didn’t you just tell him to scram?” He rubs his palm down his mouth in agitation.

  “Because he’s a regular, and I didn’t want to anger a customer my first week,” I disclose honestly as Michael looks at me with amazement.

  “If anyone bothers you, then you should tell them to fuck off, Brielle. I’ll always back you,” he explains, but when I flash him a grin, he adds hurriedly, “Because that’s my job. If any employee is harassed, I take care of it. Regardless if the harasser is a regular, okay?”

  “Okay,” I answer, savoring that he cares and wondering if he only sees me as part of his duties.