And Raffi had looked so happy to see me when I brought him coffee…
As I re-enter the kitchen again now, I nod out the window toward the patio, where the breakfast buffet has been set up. "My compliments to you, Chef. The buffet is superb, as always."
Chef Laurent smiles slightly, my flattery overcoming any lingering annoyance. "Merci, Monsieur Darian. I aim to please."
Satisfied that the Chops Lollo crisis has been resolved, I make my way outside to check on the breakfast buffet I haven'tactuallyhad a chance to look at yet. The morning air promises a warm, cloudless day as I step onto the patio, scattered with only a few guests. They all seem to be enjoying their meals. Mr. Scignatti, Gino Bernardi's Consigliere, is there, chatting with Mr. Lombardo, who arrived early today. I scan the groups, noting the dynamics, if only to ensure that the peace of the parley is being upheld.
Everything is going very smoothly.
And then Julian Castellani sweeps out onto the patio drawing all eyes to him and more than one shocked grunt.
"Good morning, Darian," he sings out. He's dressed in a sheer, feather-edged dressing gown that shows off rather than conceals his toned body.
I catch sight of the goldenthingadorning him below the waist and hurry over to him. "Mr. Castellani, this is entirely inappropriate!" I hiss under my breath. "Please go and change immediately."
He pouts, looking far too pleased with himself. "Oh, Darian, don't be like that. I'm just giving the Bernardi boys a little show." Julian's cold eyes slide over to where Donnie Russo is sitting, lingering in that unblinking way that makes my stomach tighten. I'm all too aware of the kind of things that Julian plans to do AJ Bernardi and his faction, and they are evenlessappropriate at a parley dedicated to peace than his outfit.
"I thought I'd make astatementthis morning," he goes on.
"I think you've made it."
"I'd like to be sure." He grins lazily around the patio, but everyone avoids his eyes.
"What would your brother say?" No, that won't quite do it. So I add, "Does Mr. Leo know you're here dressed like this?"
At the mention of Leo's name, Julian's expression sobers slightly. He sighs dramatically. "You're such a wet blanket, little butler boy. Very well, I shall go and change, if only to spare your delicate sensibilities." His hand comes up to pat my cheek. "So serious, Darian. You should learn to live a little." His voice drops to a whisper. "With that delicious head of security, perhaps?"
He winks and sashays off, leaving me flushed and discomfited—and worried. Julian's implications were clear, and I don't like them. I've tried to hide my feelings, but if Julian has noticed…
Then I'm not behaving as professionally as I should be.
I hurry to check on guests' needs for tea or coffee, hoping to distract them from Julian's inappropriate display. But my thoughts keep drifting to Raffi.
To the way he ordered me to bed last night, in that low, commanding,caringvoice…
I return to the kitchen for fresh coffee pots, automatically straightening my tie and adjusting my cuffs before returning to the patio with the carafes, and then I make a round to top up tea and coffee. The conversations are animated but hushed and even at this early hour, and there's that undercurrent of tension building again.
"Hey, you—Damien," a deep voice interrupts my thoughts. Tony Clemenza, assessing me again with an intensity that feels…personal.
"Darian, sir. How may I help?"
"I want a real coffee. Doppio espresso macchiato. And what the fuck is this French bullshit?" he goes on, waving a croissant in my face. "It's an Italian house, ain't it? Where's the sfogliatelle?"
"I'll bring your coffee at once, sir. And I'll speak to Chef about the pastries for tomorrow morning?—"
"Hold on," Clemenza says, throwing the croissant aside. His eyes go over me in a way that makes me profoundly uncomfortable, though it's not at all sexual. It's just…cold. "Tell me," hecontinues, leaning in closer, "areyouItalian? Your mother, perhaps?"
The question catches me off guard, but I respond civilly. "My mother is not Italian, sir."
"Your father?"
"No, sir. Is there anything else I can get you from the kitchen?" I ask, pointedly changing the subject.
"Interesting," Clemenza goes on, his eyes narrowing. "You say you have no Italian blood. But you work for the Castellanis. Why is that?"
His questions are verging into inappropriate territory, but I must handle this delicately. Offending Tony Clemenza could have serious consequences.
"I was offered the opportunity to work here, and I accepted," I say, doing my best to keep my voice steady. "I believe in serving my employers to the best of my abilities, no matter their heritage. My mother, since you mentioned her, instilled in me an appreciation for many different cultural traditions."
