4. Harper
Chapter 4
Harper
“Dish Waikiki. How can I help you?” I cradle the phone between my ear and shoulder, but I can still barely hear a word this customer’s saying over the restaurant noise. I want to say that Tuesday afternoons aren’t usually a very busy time for us, but in Waikiki, every afternoon is busy.
The Fukuokas’ farm-to-table restaurant is a standalone shack-like structure that faces the water. The building itself is half open-air with bright hardwood floors, Indigenous Hawaiian art on the walls, and this yummy, infectious smell wafting out onto the beach, luring ravenous surfers and summer-vacationers in from a day in the sun.
An outdoor patio extends from one side of the building, paved with flagstone and lined with torches and bright fuchsia hibiscus flowers. Sometimes we have live music from local artists, and other times I get to DJ from the iPad stashed in the host stand by the door.
It’s such a small thing, but I’ve never been in control of something like the music in a restaurant before. Picking out which station everyone will listen to is an unexpected thrill. Today, I’m choosing the music. Maybe if I stay with the Fukuokas long enough, I’ll also get a say in the next staff uniform design in the next month or two.
I don’t hate the current uniforms, but I don’t love them either. Flower-patterned button-downs over dark shorts for the men and same-length dark skirts for the women. The male members of our staff rock the look.
Like Benjamin Hinx—“Binx” to the initiated—the almost thirty-year-old, bespectacled, polite but pain in the ass man. The staff shirt manages to render his extreme lankiness as stylishly slender.
And the uniform is downright gorgeous on Jay Choi. He has 4K clear skin, perfect, luscious hair, and the cutest face I’ve ever seen on a man. Even wearing the Dish uniform, he could pass for a K-pop star in a music video.
The last member of our front-of-house team is Anna Carlos. She’s got these deep hazel eyes that beg to be accessorized with other earth tones, but the blue shirt and accompanying black skirt don’t pop the way they could.
Luckily, since I’m the hostess, I get to dress a little differently. They could’ve forced me to wear the same uniform as Ernie, Zeke, Lulu, and Wyatt, who work in the kitchen and all wear Crocs .
Those shoes are heinous. I don’t care how comfortable they are.
“That’s two poke bowls, one katsu curry, and a kid’s cheeseburger.” I read over the to-go order I’ve just logged into the system. “The cheeseburger comes with an apple juice, fountain soda, or POG. Which would you like?”
“What’s POG?”
Unluckily, since I’m the hostess, I have to answer repetitive tourist questions until the end of time. But this question is my favorite. I didn’t know what POG was either until I started working here.
“Passionfruit orange guava juice.”
“We’ll take the POG.”
“Great. Should be about forty-five minutes. We’ll have everything waiting for you up front when you arrive?—”
A huge crash disrupts the atmosphere. I jump, and every pair of eyeballs in the room swivels to the chaos unfolding just over my shoulder.
When I spin around, I find Binx holding a plastic yellow caution sign. On the floor, a fallen Anna, surrounded by rainbow-colored puddles and a cascade of broken glass, holds her ankle and winces.
“Someone spilled some water. I was just going to get the sign when Anna slipped, and…” Binx trails off as Mike and Paul Fukuoka appear from the back to assess the damage.
Together, they extract Anna from the hazard zone and carry her to the back, her ankle swelling more and more by the second. Lulu and Wyatt appear with brooms and a mop, and I’m asked to cover Anna’s tables.
Despite the chaotic mess and Anna’s injury, I’m reminded of how much I’ve grown to love working here.
Where I come from, true teamwork doesn’t exist. Not for women, anyway. The mafia is all about power and control.
Around the time I started high school, my body began to change, and so did the looks people gave me. Especially men. I’m the kind of person who’s usually lost in my own imagination, so I didn’t notice how my appearance was maturing faster than my brain.
My father did.
And around the same time Riley expressed interest in working as an informant for him, he showed interest in sending me out on assignments too. In the beginning, I was excited.
As the outgoing twin, I was eager to prove myself when he came to me with my first job. I was ready to do everything I saw Riley doing, but Thomas Brennan didn’t want me to research or run errands.
He wanted me to distract someone. Some random enforcer in some random club.
I still remember his instructions.
Talk slow. Draw it out. Smile at him and touch his clothes. Show a little cleavage and leg.
I was seventeen and giddy about spending time in a real club even though I was underage. Catching looks from the men flattered me. I must be pretty , I used to think, if I stood out to them in a room full of gorgeous, mature women. I took their perversion as a compliment.
I was so proud of myself, feeling all grown up, talking to that enforcer like my father asked. Completely oblivious to the fact that, just a few steps away, behind a closed door the enforcer was supposed to be guarding, Irish King operatives were brutalizing his boss to death.
My father utilized his teenage daughters to help him kill a man. He used Riley to keep tabs on the target and find the best assassination window, and he used me to get through the target’s security detail.
That was the first time.
After that, Riley’s jobs seemed to change, but mine never did.
Mine always involved using my face and body to get people extorted, hurt, or even killed. To be given a normal responsibility, like seating guests or taking over as a server for a colleague who just slipped and fell, seems surreal.
Now when I welcome people, I wear an authentic smile. Not a phony one used as a distraction so a King can put a bullet between someone’s eyes.
“So sorry for the wait. What can I get for you?” I almost sing to the women at table five, whipping out the notepad I keep in my pocket.
The women appear to be in their early forties and are likely sisters, based on the resemblance.
“It’s our birthday.” The blond one beams. “We’re turning forty-one on Saturday, and we decided to spend our birthday week together in Hawaii.”
Birthday.
Mine and Riley’s birthday just passed a short while ago.
A rock forms in my gut. This is a sign. I need to call my sister.
After I put their order in with the bar, I step out to the patio. There’s a quiet, secluded little nook on one side where some of the kitchen staff take their smoke breaks.
As I head in that direction, the phone in my pocket gets heavier with every stride. A bead of sweat forms on the back of my neck.
Even though I knew it would kill her, knew it was the cruelest way for her to find out I was marrying the man of her dreams, I invited Riley to my engagement dinner six months ago. At the time, we hadn’t spoken in over three years. And I broke our silence by inviting her to a big dinner party without mentioning the occasion.
Though she tried to hide her reaction, I could tell the announcement of my upcoming marriage to Finn hit her hard. I felt awful about engineering that moment, but I needed to watch her to know if her crush on him remained alive and well.
Her expression, while fleeting, left no doubt. My twin was still hung up on the man, while I had no interest in him whatsoever.
Ultimately, that knowledge played a role in my decision to flee.
Three months ago, I called Riley again for guidance while on the cusp of making the commitment to run away. The plan consisted of spilling my guts, telling her that our father forced me into the marriage, and apologizing for hurting her over and over again since we were teens, even though causing her pain was the last thing I ever wanted to do.
But when she picked up, I could hear the betrayal in her voice. In the end, I couldn’t speak a word of the truth. Instead, I babbled about my wedding dress and a diamond-studded hairband, acting exactly like the selfish person she thinks I am.
My feet stop walking.
What if I’m thinking about this all wrong? When Thomas Brennan has it out for someone, he spares no expense when it comes to getting even.
What if he’s monitoring Riley’s calls, hoping I might be foolish enough to call my sister? What if I call her and we both wind up facing Thomas Brennan’s wrath?
An afternoon breeze blows my hair around my face. I brush it over my ear, my focus draining away from my own problems and flowing instead toward a large party of patrons directly ahead of me. They’re arguing about something, and a burly man on one end of the semicircular booth seems drunk as hell when he lurches out into the aisle, swaying in broad daylight.
“Say that again,” he slurs at someone still seated.
My anxiety ratchets up a few notches. Where I come from, bar fights end with drunk enforcers drawing their weapons and shooting each other.
Another dude stands from the table. “Steve, calm down?—”
“Just because you’re getting married, you think you’re better than me.” The one called Steve shoves the other guy back.
I’m frozen to the spot. I need to run inside and grab Mike and Paul, since we’ve clearly got emergency number two unfolding back here, but my legs don’t move.
Pedestrians walking by our patio stop to peer in and see what the fuss is about.
I’m so focused on the onlookers, it takes me too long to notice Steve lumbering my way with crazy, chaotic eyes
“Right here, beautiful.” His hand arcs toward me like he’s going to reach around and grab a handful of my ass.
I brace for an impact that never arrives and blink at the scene in front of me.
There’s drunk Steve, just about to grab me, his outstretched hand frozen in the air between us.
Thick, strong fingers clamp around Steve’s wrist.
Those fingers belong to a man seated at a two-top to my left. He sits with his back to me, but even from that view, I can tell the guy’s powerfully built, with well-defined muscles.
When he stands, he towers over me by a whole head and a half. Broad shoulders. A well-sculpted torso in perfect brawny proportion. Thick quads and a tight ass.
His long legs protrude from a pair of patterned board shorts, showing off sinewy calves. I don’t know what it is about muscular calves on a guy that do it for me, but damn, do they ever.
My skin tingles with awareness. Something about this stranger ignites the kind of instant attraction I’ve only experienced in romance novels.
“Who are you?” Steve attempts to yank his arm back, but the other man refuses to give an inch.
I can’t see the guy’s face, only loose, dark curls cropped short under a baseball cap and the smooth column of his neck, accentuated by tendons and veins. He tightens his grip, then wrenches Steve’s arm sideways and slams it down onto a still-sizzling hot rock we serve our premium steaks on.
Steve releases a feral scream of pain as the hot plate scalds his pale arm, permeating the air with the acrid scent of burning skin and hair. After a few more panicked cries, Mystery Man releases him.
Staggering away, Steve cradles his arm. A pair of men jump up from his table, a thick guy with a goatee and a slender one right behind him.
“What the fuck is your problem?” Almost frothing at the mouth, Goatee Guy spits the words at the stranger. “I could have you arrested for this.”
Mystery Man doesn’t flinch.
The weight of Goatee Guy’s stare hits me like water to the face. He stalks my way and grabs me roughly by the shoulder.
“You work here, so quit standing around and get your ass in gear! This is bullshit! You’d better do something quick or else?—”
With a low growl, Mystery Man decks Goatee Guy in the face with his massive fist.
Gasps echo around the patio. Patrons leap out of their seats. Pedestrians pull out smartphones to record.
I stifle the urge to run and hide.
This is bad. And it could easily get worse.
Mystery Man needs to stop before someone calls the cops. I cannot be involved in anything connected to the police. If word of me reaches my family, I can kiss my new life goodbye.
His actions should have killed my attraction. Instead, heat pulses through my veins.
I blame my upbringing. In mafia families, violence is a way of life. We value men who can take care of themselves and defend others.
This shouldn’t turn me on. I’m supposed to be letting go of the old me.
The stranger elbows the slender guy in the face, sending him scrabbling back. By the waterfall of blood gushing down the front of his t-shirt, I’d guess he broke his nose.
Just who the hell is this guy?
Even with a torrential nosebleed, the slender dude charges Mystery Man a second time. As if he choreographed the move ahead of time, my defender grabs both men by their skulls and slaps them together like coconuts, hard enough to concuss them both.
He cocks his head in a predatory manner, and the movement pings something in the back of my mind. Silently, I urge him to shift so I can see his face. If not for his swift and violent intervention, my ass would’ve become Drunk Steve’s squeeze toy.
Though…I wouldn’t complain if Mystery Man copped a feel or two. Despite how certain types of violence churn my stomach, I can’t ignore a man who’d bloody his knuckles for me.
My memory pings again, dredging up images of that one, previous time in my life a man punched someone to defend me.
Alarm bells clang in my mind as the stranger tugs the cap off his head and starts to turn my way.
When his face finally registers, my brain flatlines. Sharp, metallic surprise slashes through me like a machete.
Those green eyes…
“Impossible.” The word slips from my mouth without my permission.
That smug grin. Those addictive lips…
The stranger is Cian Mahoney, come to ruin my life.
Fuck.