I'm coming around the corner into the foyer when Julian's cold voice cuts through the quiet. "Raffaello." I jump about a mile. Dude's quiet like a cat. But there he is, standing in the open doorway of the grand salon.
I pretend I was jumping to attention, and give him a nod. "What can I do for you, Mr. C?"
"I need you to drive me into the city. I have a meeting."
I hesitate, glancing up toward the security room, where Max Pedretti is currently working. "I need to ask Pedretti. He's got me scheduled on?—"
"No. My orders take priority."
He's still in a wholemoodafter the Darian thing. I'm not going to get out of this, so I just nod. "Okay, Mr. C. Whatever you want."
I let Pedretti know I'll be offsite and then I have the car brought around. The drive into the city is tense and silent. Julian sits in the back seat, right behind the driver's side, which makes mejumpy again the whole way, like a wire's going to wrap round my neck any second.
"Where to?" I ask when we hit the freeway.
"The Bellamy Grand."
My eyes fly to the rearview, but Julian is looking out the window.
"The Bellamy, huh?" I try. "You looking to poach a different one of their staff?"
Julian just smiles to himself. "Raffaello, I like you. But your job is to follow orders, not question them."
I clench my fingers around the steering wheel, resisting the urge to push back. "Yes, sir."
Twenty minutes later, I pull up to the Bellamy Grand. I know Julian is planning some bullshit, and I really don't want to get involved.
I get out and open his door for him. "I'll wait with the car," I tell him, eyeing the approaching valet. No way am I letting some random take off with the vehicle. Who knows what the fuck could get planted on it?
But Julian fixes me with a pointed stare. "The valet will park the car. You're coming with me."
"But—"
"Now, Raffaello."
I hesitate, but know better than to argue, especially when Julian Castellani is using that soft, singsong tone. It'll mean checking the damn car all over for bugs and bombs and trackers when we get back, but that isn't really why I'm dragging my feet.
Still. I have no choice.
I hand the keys over to the waiting valet, who drives off with the car. Trailing behind Julian, I enter the lobby of the Bellamy Grand, scanning the area for potential threats.
Julian leads us straight to the hotel restaurant, where he's booked a table. As he's seated, he gestures for me to stand behind him. "I want you to make yourself very, very obvious, Raffaello," he tells me. "Make sure everyone knows you're here."
That, I can do. I don't mind being glanced at and whispered about when I go places with the higher-ups. It isn't like they can't take care of themselves—but sometimes, it's good to remind people that the Castellani Family has boots on the ground.
All the same, I feel out of place as I stare around. It's fancy as hell in here, with blue velvet drapes everywhere and mood lighting even though it's only lunchtime. The menu, which I sneak a peek at over Julian's shoulder, though he doesn't pick it up, has items like seared scallops with cauliflower purée, and pappardelle with braised short rib ragù.
But I just stand there behind Julian, doing as he asks and making my presence known. I try to maintain a calm, impassive expression, but on the inside, I'm burning with curiosity. What the hell is he up to?
A waiter arrives, and Julian orders a bottle of the restaurant's finest wine without even glancing at the list. I remain silent, head swiveling, hyperaware of my surroundings and the other patrons. The waiter comes back with a bottle, opens it, pours some out, and waits for Julian to taste it.
Julian takes a tiny sip, sets the glass down, and says, "This is unacceptable swill. I want to make a complaint."
"Sir, I—" the waiter begins. Poor fucker. He has no idea what he's up against.
I've only just figured it out myself.
"Go and get Darian Thornfield-Hayes at once," Julian orders, with that haughty tone that make serving staff jump to obey. This guy is no different.
