Chapter 17 Daisy
DAISY
Note from Daisy’s guardian angel to Daisy: I quit.
P.S. Here’s my therapy bill, you dumb bitch.
I’ve never been to a rooftop bar in New York City. At least, never as an actual customer. Waitress? Sure. Been there, done that. Barback? Yup, that, too.
But a decked-out fancy bitch in a pair of Manolo Blahniks straight out of an episode of Sex and the City?
Nope. Definitely never been here, and I’m more than a little surprised that G didn’t take me somewhere else—like, oh, I don’t know…
a crumbling warehouse where I’d be strapped under a light and tortured for causing the Luciani Family so much grief.
Instead, Giulio’s hand is currently sliding against the small of my back as he directs me through the crowded restaurant.
The solid weight and warmth of that hand has the same effect as an electrical wave pouring through me.
I’m practically trembling as we follow the smartly dressed ma?tre d’ to our table.
When I woke up this morning—three days after the whole “killed a man” situation—I wasn’t expecting the box in front of my bedroom door or the note that it contained along with tonight’s outfit.
Be ready at 7 p.m. Wear this. —G
That was it. Pretty simple note. Yet, those short words had left me feeling like I’d accidentally stuck my finger into a light socket all day. Buzzed. Crazy. Confused.
Horny? my inner self suggests. Okay, yeah, maybe I was a little hot for my husband.
He’s been acting odd since the dead guy fiasco.
For one, he’s been far more touchy. A brush of his fingers down my arm in the morning as he made coffee and I grabbed orange juice here.
A kiss to my forehead before he left for work there.
For two, he’s stopped wearing a shirt to bed.
Now, I have to stare at his chiseled chest and eight-pack abs when saying good night when what I want to do is climb him like a tree.
He even brought me flowers the other day. Flowers! I’ve never had a man give me flowers before. Ever. Most women would be overjoyed, but no, not me. I’m a fucking wreck. Each new gesture is worming its way beneath my defenses, and I don’t know what to do about it.
“Here we are,” the ma?tre d’ announces, distracting me from my thoughts and waving his arm out with a flourish. I look at the high-top table set against the vine-covered stone wall and frown when I notice that there are no tables around us. We’re practically in a corner all to ourselves.
“Thank you.” Giulio’s hands cup my waist, and I let out a rather embarrassing squeak as he uses his hold to guide me onto my seat.
You know what they say about big hands… my inner psycho comments.
I press my thighs together and tug at the hem of the dress that had been in the box beneath Giulio’s note.
It wouldn’t be so bad were it not for the fact that this black ensemble isn’t just slinky—it’s backless, and his hot palm skin to skin with my spine makes me want to throw myself into his arms and beg him to take me right there on the table.
Lessons in how to get kicked out of a fancy restaurant, step one: Embarrass yourself and your husband by propositioning him in front of a stuffy old ma?tre d’.
The ma?tre d’ in question offers each of us menus as soon as we’re seated, and Giulio orders two fancy-sounding drinks before the man is sent off on his errand. I glance over the menu. No prices, which means it’s definitely out of my pay grade.
A cool night breeze slides over my shoulder, soothing my too-hot skin.
Lifting the menu a bit higher, I scan the appetizers.
Maybe if I just get something small, the meal won’t last as long.
I don’t know how much longer I can be around this man when he.
Keeps. Fucking. Touching. Me! Doesn’t he know what he’s doing to me?
Can’t he see the starving woman in my eyes?
Thank goodness he sat across from me and not next to me.
Another glance around the space at all of the women dripping in diamonds and the men with their Rolexes and thousand-dollar ties makes me feel like one big ol’ fake, but at least it distracts me from the heat in my core and the way Giulio continues to look at me, watching me as if he’s trying to read my thoughts.
I wonder what he would do if he knew how X-rated they’ve been lately, or that he’s been the star of quite a few fantasies.
My gaze moves over the dark button-down shirt he’s currently wearing and the equally black suit coat that conforms to his wide shoulders.
I lower the menu as a waiter returns. Two cocktails are placed before us, and Giulio looks at me. “Are you ready to order, Daisy?”
Absolutely not, I think. Instead, I offer him a smile. “Why don’t you order for me,” I suggest. “I’ve never eaten here before.”
Giulio frowns my way but doesn’t argue as he places an order for two appetizers with a decision to decide if we want more later.
The waiter nods so low that it almost becomes a bow, and then he’s gone, flying away as if he’s on skates.
Geez. I know Giulio is a scary motherfucker, but that’s a bit much.
It’s not like anyone can tell what Giulio is just by looking at him.
In fact, he’s back to looking like a male model tonight, the business suit notwithstanding.
His square jaw is dusted in a light sprinkling of a five-o’clock shadow, but even that looks sexy.
His natural features are almost perfectly symmetrical.
I tilt my head to the side and examine him for anything that might make him less attractive.
Other than the small scars on his hands and a few on his neck, he looks… okay, yeah, he does look scary even with all that. Still, it’s rude to run from him like he’s the devil incarnate. I doubt the devil would be half as handsome.
He notices and frowns my way. “What?”
“I was just thinking,” I muse aloud. “You’re not what I expected a crime boss to look like.”
Giulio’s lips twitch. “I’m not the boss,” he says. “Don Luciani is.”
I wave a hand in his direction and snort. “Semantics,” I reply. “But I mean… I thought you were a male model when I first saw you.”
He blinks. “A male model?” he repeats dully.
I nod emphatically. “Yes, you’ve got the bone structure for it. You’re a very beautiful man.”
A beat passes, and then Giulio places both of his elbows on the edge of the table and leans forward. “Is that right?”
I look at the surface of the table between us.
Unlike the usual places I’ve frequented with Michelle, there’s no chipped or discolored wood.
The surface is smooth and clean as I drag a finger over it.
“It’s just weird to think that you have a face like that, and you’re a…
” I let the words trail off when the low, thready sound of his chuckle reaches my ears.
I look up and realize it is him. He’s actually laughing, and damn, but the wide breadth of his smile and the snow-white caps of teeth against his olive complexion really drive home just how incredibly handsome he is. Swoon.
“It’s good to know that my wife finds me attractive,” he finally says. “I was beginning to wonder since you’ve never responded to my attention.”
“Your attention?” I blurt. “What attention?”
Giulio stares at me. “You didn’t notice?” He shakes his head and mutters something to himself in Italian. “I’ve been attempting to get closer to you these past few days,” he admits wryly as he lifts his drink to his mouth.
It takes a moment for his words to penetrate my thick head. “You have?” I gape at him. “M-me? Why?”
He arches a brow. “You are my wife, are you not?”
“Oh.” I look at my lap. “Right. I guess I am.” I bite down on my lower lip before releasing it just as abruptly. “I thought you were annoyed after what happened…” I flap my hand about, unsure how to explain, but he seems to catch my meaning easily enough.
“No,” he says. “In fact, I think what you did has helped us, in a way.”
“You do?”
He nods. “You might be more suited to being my wife than either of us originally thought.” I stare at him, trying to ascertain if he means those words, when it occurs to me that of all the people in this world who might understand why I did what I did, he’s the most likely.
“I don’t regret it,” I tell him as I reach for my own drink.
He leans back as he zeroes in on my flaming-hot face.
I gulp down several mouthfuls of the sweet alcoholic liquid.
He doesn’t ask what I mean and that, more than anything else, tells me that I made the right choice in confessing the truth to him.
“You protected yourself and your friend,” he says quietly.
“You shouldn’t regret that. I wouldn’t. I never will. ”
“I knew I was going to kill him when Michelle started bleeding.”
Giulio tilts his head to the side but doesn’t say anything, allowing me the space I need to speak my mind.
“I was so… angry,” I tell him, “that he hurt her, that he planned to hurt me, but mostly, I think, I had a lot of anger that’s been building up for a while, and I needed someone to unleash it on. ”
Were it a different situation, would I have done the same thing? I wonder absently. Were it anything but a life-or-death circumstance, would I have still chosen the same path?
Things happen for a reason, Mean Daisy pipes up. The universe aligned everything the way that it did for a reason. As much as I want to believe her, I recognize that she and I are the same, and I could just be trying to excuse my actions.
“Tell me something,” Giulio says, leaning forward again and folding his arms over the edge of the table. “You didn’t panic when you stumbled across Isa’s body at the wedding venue. Why?”
I lift my eyes to his and shrug. “I don’t know,” I admit. “I guess because she wasn’t the first body I’d ever seen.”
In a voice so quiet, I almost miss it, he asks the question I’ve been dreading but knew was coming. “Who was the first?”