I've never felt happierthan I have these last few days, living onsite again, knowing that I have Darian to look forward to every night, and every morning, too, after I sleep deep and dreamless, much better than I ever do in my apartment.
The guards've noticed the change. I even heard one of them demanding that another pay up over some bet they had about me and D, and it's a testament to my good damn mood that I don't bust them over it, but just walked on by with a grin.
All in all, I feel pretty good about the world generally—except for one thing.
And right now, the massive wardrobe in Chops Lollo's room looms before me again, its front panels carved into an intricate maze of lines and whorls. I trace the ridges of the wood, the intricate grain patterns twisting and turning like the discussions at the parley itself.
Because as each day passes I find myself more and more certain that something is coming. Something big. And not just Julian's housewarming party, which is turning into a goddamn circus.
I still come up here from the Retreat every day during my lunch break, and I see Darian, and then I come in here and stare at the wardrobe. Or I stare at the wardrobe, and then I have lunch with Darian.
Stupid, really. Staring at it isn't going to tell me anything new after all this time. But it does help me think, at least. I just wish I could remember—something I saw here in this room—something that tripped off a flag in my mind, but which I too quickly forgot…
I was so exhausted and stressed all through the parley. These days I'm bright as a fucking button, but my brain still won't give up the answers I'm seeking.
Julian gave me the recordings easy enough when I asked for them a few days ago, though he asked why on earth I wanted them.
"To find the truth," I'd told him.
"But we have the truth."
"I'm not so sure."
Julian had paused then, giving me this look I couldn't really interpret. "You've done your job, Raffaello. You did everything we expected from you, and you work down at the Retreat now. There's no need to go above and beyond, especially when the matter is closed.Hasbeen closed for weeks and weeks."
But he'd still sent me those recordings from Clemenza's room the night of his murder, and I've still listened to them over and over, listened to him snoring for hours and then dying fast. Julian was right. There isn't much on there to point to the killer.
I stand and stretch, then wander back downstairs, my mind turning over and over. The parley is long done, but we're not out of the woods yet. Not out of the redwood grove, so to speak.
The war on the streets is only just heating up. Both Bernardi factions are looking for allies, and I'm worried the Castellanis'll get caught in the crossfire.
At least Darian and I and doing good. As much asIdidn't want to do it, Julian's party has been good for Darian. He's dived head first into it: everything from catering to the guest list is under his control. He's excited, and I like to see him excited. It's worth pretending to give a crap about napkins just to see Darian so in his element.
The days are starting to blur together as the party gets closer. Lists to finalize, security measures to discuss, caterers to coordinate with—there's never a dull moment.
And I even like the way we clash sometimes, too. It reminds me of the early days when we used to disagree over security measures all the time, Darian trying to push the envelope just so he could have a particular vendor provide some special kind of caviar or something. I try to stay professional during work hours, but I can't help stealing glances at Darian when he's not looking, trying to decipher the thoughts that flicker across his face, watching the way his hair falls across his forehead, the softness of his lips when he bites down in concentration. And when our bodies accidentally brush, the intensity of my desire spikes.
Hard.
Ilovethat tension in the air between us, an electric charge that builds during the day until it explodes between us at night.
In bed.
Gah.
But tonight, after dinner, we hole up in the security room instead of heading straight for bed, grappling again with the complex guest list. It's a delicate dance of Hollywood rivalries and Mafia alliances, a world in which Darian is surprisingly well-versed, and I don't much carewhogets invited, so long as no one kills anyone. The problem is, an awful lot of them do seem to want to kill each other—even if it's just metaphorical.
Every decision we make could have far-reaching consequences, so Darian and I have spent long hours poring over the attendees, researching their potential conflicts and past interactions in order to craft the perfect arrangements and ensure that the night runs smoothly.
Well…Darian's done that. I've mostly just sat there and nixed things if I saw the chance for one Family guy to get a little too close to another.
"Vince Martelli is a no-go," I declare, my brow furrowed as I cross off yet another name from our list. "He's got beef with Gino Bernardi these days."
"Are you serious?" Darian sighs, rubbing his temples. "There are more feuds than guests."
My security needs keep clashing with Darian's preferences on who gets invited. And he keeps arguing for the importance of social connections and decorum. And I…well, like I keep saying. I just don't want anyone killed.
Not this time round.
