Burn for Me (Chaotic Love)

15. Fifteen

Fifteen

8-31-2024

Let men talk, but always listen.

-Jasmine

Isn’t it strange how a flame dances?

I finished my plate long ago but haven’t been able to focus on anything other than the daunting, horrifying, flickering ball of fire before me. My stomach feels exactly like the element: burning. It’s like I swallowed a match, and the acid didn’t extinguish the flame, so it’s resting against my internal walls—slowly eating through the organ until I feel I can cough out smoke.

The last time this happened, my family and I received a formal invitation to California for the grand opening of another Bravetti restaurant. The only difference is that complimentary sparkling waters were offered after our meal, and I felt better afterward. My mother was furious when I explained that the meal had made me sick, but I assured her that the 'magic water' helped me feel better. Her anger wasn’t out of concern for my safety, but because I had said it so loudly, the neighboring booths turned to glance our way. My father took it as an opportunity to explain how things worked and what tests people had to go through for our lifestyle. I had already endured much tougher tests, so I felt proud that I passed this one so quickly. My mom didn’t appreciate that comment either.

I should have paid more attention to where we pulled up tonight; I could have warned everyone long before anything happened.

Clearing my throat, I dab my napkin at my lips, trying to manage the saliva pooling in the corners of my mouth due to my nausea. I have no idea what the others are discussing. I lost track of that when I realized I was stuck between a rock and a hard place. I can't express what's wrong, or I'll raise alarms, but I’m also not enjoying this slowly dying feeling.

I look down at Sam's hand, still wrapped tightly around my thigh. The spot went numb long ago, so I don't mind it anymore, but I know if I don't move soon, I might throw up. My head starts to spin, so I slowly redirect my gaze to the candle.

Get up. Move around. Where’s the waiter?

I dab at the corners of my mouth again. Sam eases his grip on my thigh to wrap an arm around my shoulder and draws me closer.

“What's going on?”

“Cover Sam.”

It’s becoming difficult to recognize the voices and where they are coming from.

“She gets like this when she’s too full.” There's a forced laugh. “All content and ready for bed.”

My hand drops to Sam's, hoping it will make him lower his voice. As soothing as I usually find it, it’s only adding to the throbbing in my temples.

“Jasmine…” Sam's voice is in my ear, his nose brushing through my hair as he quickly flicks his wrist until his fingers dig into my pulse point.

Everything is hazy, creating tunnel vision around the glowing orb of the candle, dancing in the dark spots that line my vision. This is my karma. I failed one side of the people I care for, then switched priorities to fail the other. Amidst the more incoherent voices, it takes all my willpower to concentrate on the flame so I don't lose sight of everything else.

“Darlin’ take a drink…”

I cough as my head tilts back, and a liquid goes down my throat, but as I feel the fizz, I start to gulp. Turning my head up properly so I can wrap my hand around the one holding the glass.

“Keep covering before they get suspicious.” Tide crackles.

There’s a clearing of a throat, and then a strained voice says, “You didn’t take your medicine today, did you, darlin’?”

I collect my thoughts as best as possible to raise my hand off his in a dismissive wave.

“I must've forgotten…” I pause, darting my tongue out to wet my bottom lip.

“Hypoglycemia,” I rasp while pushing the glass away, and Sam reluctantly sets it down.

“We have a dessert bar in the back. Since you’ve been granted access, I’d happily lead you to that area.” I turn my blurred vision toward the waiter, who looks genuinely concerned. “My grandmother has it. A little peanut butter cake always brings her right back up.”

Jonathan clears his throat, but I don’t look in his direction. If I do, the world will start spinning, and at this rate, I wouldn’t be surprised if I passed out, so I nod.

“Please send the owner our thanks. He’s been so generous.” someone says in a voice so angelic that I’m convinced this is it–I’ve been granted access to heaven since I already served my sentence in hell.

Unlike usual, Sam is silent, but his fingers flex on my shoulder as he pulls me out of the booth to his side.

“You can thank him yourselves. He’s present tonight.” the waiter says.

“We’ll lose sight of you guys in there. In and out.” Tide commands.

I just want to be away from here, in a reality where I don’t have to choose between one persona or another, like in the hotel where thick covers engulf my form and Sam’s soft breaths lull me to sleep.

Sam's arm wraps around my waist as soon as we're up, supporting most of my weight without straining a single muscle. Everything feels like it's happening in slow motion. The waiter walks by, and the flickering lights illuminate the sideways glances we receive, but it's still hard to make out any individual faces.

I recognized someone earlier, but they didn’t see me. It's unlikely that I’ll encounter them again during this mission, but for a moment, I felt stuck. An overwhelming urge to run toward that person gripped me, but I mustered the willpower to remind myself that I chose this path. There’s no turning back now.

The room shifts from the smell of burning candles and Italian food to something sweet and musky. Strobe lights dance across the floor that my heels click against, and the music swells into a deep rumble that vibrates through my bones.

I lean further into Sam, fighting the impulse to squeeze my eyes shut and dig my fingers into my eardrums.

“Can… hear—” Tide begins, but then it cuts to static.

As we pass a long table covered in treats and pretzels, Sam picks up a small velvet cake and holds it up in front of me. I look up at him silently, pleading for him not to make me eat it.

The waiter doesn’t stop, so Sam gives me a glance that calms most of the turmoil in my stomach. With an internal groan, I shove the small cake into my mouth, ignoring the heaviness of my eyelids and the numbness in my limbs as we follow the waiter up a large flight of stairs.

While chewing on the rough texture of sandpaper, I take a moment to look around. People are bumping and jumping in front of a large stage. A wall lined with glass mirrors stands behind a bar that stretches across from the long buffet we had passed.

"Are they calling for them?" The voice of a big bald man wearing dark glasses, standing with his arms crossed, pulls me back to reality as we stop moving.

My hazy mind wants to laugh because the man's voice is much lighter than expected. It isn’t as deep and raspy as I would imagined; instead, it’s a soothing and quiet rumble—almost like he’s singing.

Whatever the response is, it’s enough to lead us through an open velvet rope to a much classier setup.

A large glass window separates the upstairs area from the downstairs view, but it's tinted, creating a more intimate, dusky glow in the room. A plush white carpet, pristine and without a stain in sight, stretches across the floor, lightening the darker interior. Men dressed in various styles—from suits to plain jeans and white T-shirts—line the space. I find myself nearly burying my face in Sam's side due to the uncomfortable feeling I get from noticing that there isn’t a single woman in sight.

A man with olive skin approaches, tilting his head slightly, while another man with a lighter complexion remains seated, studying us over the brim of his glass.

I know them. I recognized them the instant they stepped into our elevator at the hotel.

“Ah, the Moranas and Astors. I apologize for interrupting your evening. I just wanted to look at the faces that will soon be hidden,” the man with olive skin says casually. It’s a good thing Sam’s fingers flex into my side because, with my current mindset, I'm half-tempted to go downstairs, grab the candle that has been taunting me, and throw it at the man’s feet.

I can’t blow my cover, though. They have no clue who I am, so if I remain calm and oblivious, everything will be fine.

Jonathan steps beside us, naturally brushing his hand against Delilah’s before extending it for the man to shake.

“Shut it, Rurik. Stop acting so damn formal. We’re all the same here,” the other man says, raising his glass. “Although, I must say I enjoy meeting people better when there’s a mask involved. There’s something thrilling about not knowing who’s behind it.”

Jonathan steps back beside Delilah as soon as his hand is released.

“Casey Gallardo. My uptight friend here is…” the man continues, waving his glass.

“Rurik Bravetti.” the other man interjects.

I focus on Sam, who nods but doesn't attempt to introduce himself.

“Thank you for your hospitality. This is a beautiful arrangement,” I say, speaking for us. When the words come out slurred, I clear my throat and decide against trusting my hand-eye coordination for a handshake, so I simply nod.

Rurik’s eyes narrow in my direction as his gaze lazily scans my form. My nerves get the best of me, and I worry if he’s doing what Sam does—looking for all my secrets. Fortunately, it’s been years since I’ve been home, and there’s no way for him to find me or my past. Even if he decided to call one of his groupies to do some digging, Sam and Moe took care of everything.

“Damn, I don’t even get a compliment on the hotel.” Casey laughs, and my stomach turns.

“Your father’s hotel,” Rurik interjects.

Casey scoffs but doesn't acknowledge the comment, “I must say, I'm disappointed we haven't gotten a show yet.”

In an instant, I'm jerked behind Sam's body all too fast for my already spinning head to process. Jonathan is stepping beside Sam, and Delilah is pulled behind him.

Tonight is not going well. They should act casually and gather any information they can, but no, they decide to behave just like these men would… Wait, it works, then.

I tilt my head into Sam's back, begging myself to stay steady and do as I’m supposed to.

Stay quiet. Let men talk, but always listen. Are you paying attention? My mom's voice creeps into my thoughts, and I gag, quickly throwing my hand over my mouth.

“Relax boys. It's only a joke.” Casey laughs.

“My wife is tired. As much as I've enjoyed this meeting, I'd prefer to get her to bed.” Sam's voice rumbles through his back against my head, and I laugh at how serious he sounds when he says, ‘wife.’

“Understandable. Please forgive my colleagues' behavior. He’s had one too many drinks tonight. Maybe you two can join me at the gambling table during the Ball and discuss business. My father is always looking to expand. If I did my research correctly, the Moranas specialize in cafes, and Astors love their private clubs, correct?”

“Money.” Sam's words are cryptic.

“Women.” Jonathan’s voice is equally unclear, but you can sense the tension in his clenched teeth.

There’s a clap, but I can’t tell if it comes from one person or a sound made by two people agreeing. Sam turns, and my nose brushes against his chest as I look up, but he doesn’t glance down. Instead, he nudges my elbow and turns me until his hand rests on the small of my back.

He looks angry.

“Make sure she gets some rest. She looks a bit pale,” Casey calls out, causing me to duck my head toward my chest. Sam pauses but remains composed, guiding us out of the small club and into the restaurant until we reach the exit doors.