“I know.”
Siena and I share a grim look as Emilia bats her eyes at me.
I close my eyes. “Dang it.” I exhale the word. “Fine.”
Siena’s shoulders drop visibly. “Thank you. I’ll tell Matti to set up a plane for you.”
“Don’t thank me.” I untie my apron. “This isn’t going to go well.”
She balances Emilia on her hip as she pulls out her phone. I gather my things, pulling on my coat.
On our way out, I pause in the kitchen and get my staff’s attention, scanning the prep stations strewn with food. “Good. Looks like you guys are on top of everything. You’re going to handle things without me tonight.”
The energy in the room shifts as they all turn back to their stations with a chorus of “Yes, Chef.”
I turn to Rocco in the dish room and he nods. “Don’t worry, Chef. I’ve got this.”
I watch him for a long moment. “Don’t make me regret this, Rocco.”
He nods and Siena tugs on my sleeve, pulling me toward the door.
As we head out the door and I follow her into the back seat of her car, waving hello to the driver, the gravity of what I’m about to do hits me.
And I feel completely unprepared yet somehow, very very calm too. In fact, I feel fine.
As Siena settles Emilia into her car seat, she glances over at me. “For what it’s worth, I genuinely think he loves you. You know I don’t say it lightly.”
I don’t answer. How he feels is immaterial. What he does is the only thing that matters right now.
19
VIN
She isn’t real. It’s the only explanation. My brain has finally done what I knew it would eventually do: broken down under the weight of all this bullshit and now I’m hallucinating Sophia.
The thing is, she looks real. She smells real. And when she puts her hand on my arm and says something I can’t hear, she feels very fucking real.
I blink. She’s still there.
She’s wearing a tight fitting cream-colored shirt tucked into chef’s pants, her hair pulled back, a stray lock curving along her jaw. Her eyes sweep the room as she methodically takes inventory. Then she gets to work.
She bends, picks up an empty bottle of Whistle Pig from the floorand tosses it in the trash. Then another. Then a crushed cigarette pack.
“What the fuck are you doing here?” I snap.
My voice sounds fucking strange. Whiskey, cigarettes, and no sleep make me sound like I’ve been gargling broken glass. I clear my throat.
“Let’s get you cleaned up,” she says.
She’s all business, clearing a path from where I am on the chair to the door, moving debris and broken bits of whatever out of the way.
“I don’t need you for this,” I grumble.
I don’t move when she crosses the room to stand in front of me. I don’t move when she reaches down and takes my hand and pulls. When she says nothing, just holds onto my hand, looking down at me, no expression, just waiting, I sigh. I pull my hand away and somehow I’m standing, swaying slightly. She steadies me with both hands and doesn’t say a word.
Her hands are warm, and I’m fully focused on that point of contact only as she walks me to the bathroom.
The bathroom off the study is all dark marble and brass fixtures, a house built and decorated along with all the others on the estate decades ago before Aurelio first became boss.
