Chapter 3
Chapter Three
Jazz
“ B ossing, they have no openings.” My secretary, Carlo, said after I asked him to get another servation at the Grand Kintyre. Tonight, I wanted to enjoy a meal alone.
But it was not to be. My disappointment stung Carlo more than any tongue lashing I could give. Poor guy.
But he had a way of being lucky, which I valued. An hour later, he returned, beaming, because there’d been a cancellation and they could accommodate me after all.
Without the burden of company, I tried the three Michelin star chicken adobo again, groaning with pleasure at the first, and last bite. I relished every moment the way I couldn’t the day before when Feldon had insisted on talking through the experience.
Yap-yap-yap. He was as noisy as the chickens we used to have in Quezon City.
There was a bittersweet, and almost sour quality, to the memories that swirled in my mind: Tita Lucy, with her cheap, plastic apron that matched her orange tsinelas. Jestiny, who was a finicky eater, and would eat her meal one grain of rice at a time. Me, wishing Papa would never come home.
Food was the closest to time travel we had. And I badly wanted to go back.
I’d do so many things differently. I’d protect Jess. I wouldn’t have blood on my hands. I wouldn’t envision my face, slathered in blood, a blade clutched in my palm.
What would it cost me to rewrite the past?
The adobo was for my stepmother. I ordered the New York cheesecake for the decadence of my empty life.
I speared my fork into the cheesecake, tasting the dense, smooth and rich creaminess, before pursing my lips to judge its contents.
It was fine; a combination of German and New York cheesecake, which was heavy. I much preferred Basquan, which had a caramelized outside and a gooey center. Good luck finding something like that in New York, though…
“May I join you?” A tall figure darkened my table. I looked up to see a tall, copper haired man in a casual suit, minus the blazer, but with an old-fashioned vest smiling down at me.
“No.”
“I think I’ll join you anyway.” With a lifted finger, he summoned a waiter and pulled out a seat.
“Yes, sir?” The waiter bowed.
Who the fuck was this guy? Irish, judging by his accent. But what did I know? Irish, British, Scottish… I couldn’t tell the difference. None of them spoke Tagalog.
“Two Irish coffees, and a creme brulee for me,” he said to the waiter. Then he turned to me. “I’m Kieran.” He clasped his hands on top of the table. “And you’re Jasmine Barkada.”
I stiffened. “Jazz. Everyone calls me Jazz.”
The Barkada name was a blessing and curse. As Jareth and I clawed our family to the top, there was a certain… resistance from the long-established members of the high echelon. Old money despised the new.
The prominent Irish Green family, and Green Fields Enterprises, hadn’t resisted us yet . But I was sure they would.
“If everyone calls you Jazz, I will call you Jasmine.” There was a glint in his hazel-green eyes that reminded me of a forest. Rich, and lively. “I’m not one to be like everyone else.”
I inventoried my mental rolodex of Irish players in the city, searching for any Kieran of influence. There was only one, which was surprising.
“Kieran O’Malley,” I said, looking him up and down, taking my first in-person assessment of him.
“Ah, so you have heard of me.”
“Maybe. You’re Eoghan Green’s… secretary? Executive assistant?”
“You wound me,” he said with a chuckle. “I’m the Chief of Operations.”
He wore a bespoke suit, perfectly tailored, with a deep green lining that I could barely see through the cuffs of his shirt. He wasn’t what I’d expected. Younger. He was handsome, his jaw chiseled. His eyes had a deep set crease that gave the impression that he was brooding. His smile lines, on the other hand, told a different story.
How did a man like this work for the ruthless Eoghan Green? How was he one of the top lieutenants in a crime syndicate that had only recently gone legitimate? The act of going legitimate, in itself, required blood. A lot of it. And the Greens had been ruthless in their transformation.
The water dropped off his two Irish coffees, and his creme brulee.
Fancy, isn’t he?
“You were watching me last night.” It was a statement, not a question. I had seen him at the bar.
I’d also seen him at the Underground Circuit–the clandestine MMA fights secretly hosted by Barkada Industries. I had never paid attention to him, because my eyes had always drawn to the Greens - Alastair and Eoghan - who came to support Rose Legaspi, the first female champion in our octagon.
I shuddered, remembering the utter security failure that had happened when the bratva had made a heinous kerfuffle, leaving one man shot, and others wounded and dead. That clean up had been a great inconvenience.
“I ensured you had a reservation tonight,” he said, with a triumphant smile. “Yesterday, your company soured your appetite. I’d hate for you to have a bad impression of the Grand Kintyre.”
I took a deep breath, as I felt the blush color my cheeks. I wasn’t hurt by the end of my relationship with Feldon. I was incensed at the embarrassment of it.
“Though, by the sight of that cheesecake, I’m wondering if I'm souring your appetite, too.”
I bristled, examining his face.
Had he been Feldon, I would have assumed that he was saying that because he needed reassurance. FIshing for compliments. But on Kieran O’Malley, the exact same question wasn’t a cry for help, as much as it was a guarded tease.
“What can I do for you, Mr. O’Malley?” I cut to the chase.
No one inserted themselves into my space unless they wanted something from the Barkadas.
“I’d like to pay for your meal,” O’Malley said, as he took a sip of his Irish coffee, “Then take you upstairs, and ravish you in a way that Feldon Lauder probably hasn’t.”