Chapter 14
Catalina
Pulling my neck straight, I felt my blood warm. Not only wasn’t Dario home, nor had I heard from him, but dinner was obviously served at least an hour ago with no concern for my attendance. I was upstairs. How hard would it have been for Contessa to come up and tell me dinner was ready?
Steeling my resolve, I took the plate, the one from the seat not at the head of the table, into the kitchen. Thankfully, this kitchen didn’t have faux cabinets over all the appliances. I put the plate into the microwave and hit thirty seconds.
“Shit,” I exclaimed as sparks within popped and an alarm overhead began to squeal. Opening the door, I reached for the plate, feeling the heat and for the first time, noticing the silver filigree on the edge of the china. “Well, shit,” I mumbled as I dropped the warm plate onto the surface of the range.
Thankfully, the plate remained intact, and the alarm ceased.
Armando came around the corner with his gun drawn. “What happened?” He scanned the room before lowering his gun.
“Apparently, silver doesn’t microwave well.”
Armando released a breath.
As I looked around the kitchen, I remembered that Armando had eaten his sandwich on a paper plate—a material that could be rewarmed without burning down the apartment. Before I had a chance to ask where he found it, Contessa entered.
No longer was she wearing the apron. Her eyes were opened wide. “What happened? Why was the alarm sounding?”
I repeated what I’d said to Armando. “Silver apparently doesn’t microwave.”
“Of course it doesn’t microwave,” she said disapprovingly as she opened the pantry door and stepped inside, returning with a paper plate. “Let me do it,” she said, pushing me out of the way. Her voice was filled with exasperation. “Mrs. Luciano, I’m not sure who taught you to cook, but in this house, we don’t put sterling silver in the microwave.”
“Didn’t you get the message from Mr. Luciano that he was delayed?” Armando asked.
Shaking my head, I leaned against the counter, fighting my tears combined with my desire to explode. “No,” I replied to Armando. Next, I spoke to Contessa. “Obviously, I didn’t notice the silver.” I shook my head. “I didn’t realize dinner was served at a precise time. Do you always leave Dario’s dinner on the table to get cold?”
“No, ma’am. When he isn’t home, I usually make him a plate and put it in the refrigerator. I knew you were home.”
“And you didn’t think to tell me that dinner was ready?”
Contessa moved the food from the china onto the paper plate, laid the plate in the microwave, and closing the door pushed a few buttons. This time, no sparks flew. She turned around, facing me. “In the future, please inform me what time you plan to eat dinner, and I will oblige.”
The taste of copper let me know I was biting my cheek. This wasn’t a situation that was going to resolve itself. I took a deep breath. “Contessa, I’m sorry if my presence offends you. If it’s any consolation, I had no say in this marriage. That said, I’m here, and I want to make it work. To do that, the two of us must work together. Surely, you care about Mr. Luciano’s happiness.”
Armando slipped away.
Contessa looked down and back up. “I do care about his happiness.”
“Then we should work as a team because I care about his happiness too.”
The microwave beeped.
She offered me the closest thing to a genuine smile since my arrival. “Mrs. Luciano, your dinner. I can return it to the dining room and make sure everything else is fresh.”
“I’ll eat in the kitchen, but first, I need to talk to Armando.” My heels clicked on the marble as I made my way through the archway where he’d been standing, gun at the ready.
As I approached the sitting room, I heard the din of his deep voice. Speeding my steps, I opened the French doors and crossed my arms over my breasts, my stare boring into my bodyguard. He turned and disconnected the call.
“Please don’t do that,” I said, relaxing my arms. I’d heard enough of his conversation to know he’d spoken with Dario.
“Ma’am, you’re my job. What just happened in there was unnecessary. I should have been paying closer attention. Mr. Luciano wants to stay informed.”
“He should try informing me directly.”
Armando looked down at the phone in his hand. “Mr. Luciano texted. He said he’d pick you up in twenty minutes. He’s taking you out to dinner.”
“I don’t need a pity dinner. Contessa warmed up my meal.”
“It’s been a rough day on the streets,” Armando said. “That’s probably why I let time slip away from me. I heard what you told Contessa—that you want this marriage to work. Mr. Luciano does too. Try to remember that he has other demands on his time.”
Swallowing, I nodded. I understood Dario’s demands better than most. I’d lived with a father who was always torn in three or four different directions. Dario was next in line to rule Kansas City. It made sense that he too was busy.
“I can inform Contessa of the change of plans,” Armando offered.
“No.” I shook my head. “I’ll talk to her and then go upstairs for my purse. I assume you’ll accompany me down to the garage since I don’t have one of those magic cards.”
“Yes, ma’am.”
I found Contessa in the kitchen, stirring the béarnaise sauce in a small pan on the range top. “Contessa.”
When she looked up, I tried unsuccessfully to read her expression.
“Mrs. Luciano, I owe you an apology.”
I shook my head. “Let’s call it even. You know Mr. Luciano better than I do. If he decided at the last minute to take me to dinner, should I refuse and stay here to eat your lovely dinner?”
Her cheeks rose and her lips curled into a smile. “No, ma’am. You should go. His time is his most valuable commodity. I’d assume he realized the error of his ways with his delay and lack of communication. He’s a kind man. I suppose that he too is trying to make this marriage work.”
“Kind?” I questioned. “Contessa, I’m aware of what Dario does.”
“Yes, at work. I don’t know that man. I know the one I’ve worked for, the one few people have the privilege of knowing.”
Wrapping my arms around my midsection, I thought about last night, how he didn’t cut the dress and how he took my first time slowly. I nodded. “It seems like a contradiction.”
“I like to think of it as balance.”
My smile returned. “I’ll be happy to eat leftovers for lunch tomorrow.”
“Breakfast is at seven thirty” —she paused— “unless you’d like yours at a different time.”
“If Dario eats at seven thirty, I will too.”
“Do you have any diet restrictions I should know about?”
I felt my cheeks rise. “Only that I eat anything. And I love béarnaise sauce.”
Contessa opened a drawer and removed a spoon. Next, she dipped it into the saucepan, skimming the drips on the side of the pan and lifting the spoon. “Be careful, it’s hot.”
Walking to her, I leaned forward and blew across the white sauce before opening my lips. Contessa held the spoon, and I closed my lips. The buttery flavor had a strong licorice taste. “Delicious. Do you use tarragon vinegar?”
Her shoulders went back as her smile grew. “I do.”
As I turned to leave, Contessa spoke. “I’m not offended by your presence, Mrs. Luciano…I mean…Catalina. I’m simply an old woman who once in a while needs to be reminded of her place.”
“If you care for Mr. Luciano the way I believe you do, I hope you’ll continue to decide your place is here with us.”
“Both of them,” she said.
Both?
“Where your Mr. Luciano is serious, his brother is fresh air.”
“Dante?” I didn’t get a fresh-air feel around him. According to Em, he’s as deadly as Dario.
“Yes. Quite frequently, he eats dinner here. I made a plate for him in the refrigerator.”
“I look forward to getting to know him better.”
Climbing the steps to the second floor, I marveled at the turn of events. A night that began terribly had the potential for a better-than-expected outcome. One new relationship was salvaged; now it was time to work on the other. By the time I gathered my purse, refreshed my lipstick, and combed my hair, Armando was waiting for me at the elevator.
When he flashed the card—the size of a credit card—before the sensor, I asked, “Do you think I could get one of those?”
“That would be up to Mr. Luciano.”
While it was the answer I was expecting, Armando and I shared a smile, my hope that we both had faith that sooner or later my own card would come. When the elevator doors opened to the garage, Dario was waiting beside a large black SUV, handsomely dressed in a dark suit. He took a step forward as Armando and I walked into the garage.
His dark eyes were on me. As he scanned me from my loose-hanging hair to my shoes, his cheeks rose as he reached out to me. His large hand, steady and strong, took mine. “I will do a better job of communicating.”
It wasn’t an apology, but I hadn’t expected one. “Thank you.”
He opened the door to the back seat, allowing me to enter. I immediately took note of the width of the door. This vehicle was bulletproof. The cartel had some of these reinforced vehicles too. Once Dario was inside, Armando closed the door and took the copilot’s seat.
“Our driver is Giovanni,” Dario introduced. “Giovanni, Mrs. Luciano.”
“Ma’am, nice to meet you.”
I met his gaze in the rearview mirror. “Nice to meet you, Giovanni.”
“If Armando is unavailable, Giovanni will be at your service,” Dario offered. As the SUV began to move, he retook my hand and lowered his voice. “I heard there were problems with Contessa.”
“Not problems,” I said, shaking my head. “Everything is in the process of working out.”
“I’ll speak to her.”
“No, please don’t.” I was aware that we were being overheard. “She and I have spoken. I think it’s important for me to handle matters as they occur. You have enough on your plate. You don’t need to worry about things that don’t involve you.”
“You’re my wife. As such, you deserve respect. I won’t have it any other way.”
I covered his hand, sandwiching it between two of mine. “As your wife, I must earn respect. Please let me do that.”
Dario sighed. “I hope you aren’t tired of Italian food from the wedding. My favorite restaurant is a small place nearby. The cooking makes me believe my nonna is alive and well and in the kitchen. They keep a table reserved for me near the back, where I can enjoy my food with as much privacy as possible.”
“That sounds amazing. How could I say no?” I looked up to the front seat and back to Dario. “Do we always require two bodyguards?”
The smile he’d held when speaking of the food disappeared. “Tonight we do.”
“Is everything all right?”
“No, Catalina. Rarely are things all right. This morning before we arrived back in the city, Tony DeLuca, a business owner who works for us—he owns a trucking company—was found murdered in his vehicle.”
I held my breath. “Murdered. Are you sure?”
“One bullet. Efficient and deadly. My father believes it was the bratva.”
“Does he have proof?”
“Vincent Luciano doesn’t need proof. He has his beliefs. He’s called for retaliatory attacks.”
“Do you agree with your father?” I asked.
Dario’s gaze went to the front seat and back to me. “My father and I rarely see eye-to-eye. That’s a problem.”
“Dario, if you need to be working, you don’t need to take me to dinner. I understand the importance of your job. I would appreciate a call or text, but I don’t want to take you away from your responsibilities.”
“My father’s men took out two bratva soldiers this afternoon. My concern is escalation. The two bodyguards are here for you tonight. We have extra patrols at our more visible businesses: clubs and casinos.”
The SUV pulled off the main street, heading down a narrow alleyway, with concrete-block buildings on each side. We stopped by a door with a sign above that read: Mercato Mission. As Armando opened the door, a strong and delicious aroma of garlic permeated the air.
Dario placed his hand in the small of my back. “Our private entrance. I called ahead. Cesare is expecting us.”
Armando opened a metal door to a busy kitchen with multiple chefs shouting at one another in Italian. Dario seemed to know where we were going, and no one complained as he led me past the counters of fresh ingredients and near a large range. Heat radiated from the metal ovens. As we pushed through a swinging door, the noise level softened. It took a moment for my eyes to adjust to the dim lighting as a quintessential quaint Italian restaurant appeared.
An older man in a suit came our way. “Mr. Luciano.” He stopped and stared at me. “Is this your bride?”
Dario replied, “Cesare, this is Catalina Luciano. Catalina, the owner and proprietor of this establishment, Cesare Bonetti.”
I offered him my hand. “It’s nice to meet you.”
Cesare lifted my hand and brought my knuckles to his lips. “The pleasure is mine.” Releasing my hand, he gestured to a semi-circular booth at the back of the restaurant with red vinyl seats and a small candle burning on the table. “Your table is waiting.”
I scooted in, and to my surprise, Dario followed, sitting at my side. His leg emitted warmth against mine. When Cesare walked away, Dario turned and gently reached for my necklace. “This is even more beautiful when you wear it.”
“You sent it to me for my birthday.”
“I did. The emeralds reminded me of your eyes.”
I tilted my head. “Did you really pick it out yourself?”
“Why would I ask someone else to choose something for you?”
“Because you’re a busy man,” I said with a grin.
“That won’t change. However, I can do a better job of informing you. Old dog. New tricks.”
New tricks.
Did he call and inform Josie of his schedule?
I wanted to ask, but at the same time, I didn’t want to burst the bubble of our first date night. Looking up, I noticed that Giovanni and Armando were seated at a table between us and the front of the restaurant, each facing a different direction.
Cesare reappeared with a bottle of wine. He offered the label to Dario. “Castiglion del Bosco Brunello di Montalcino Millecento Riserva 2016.” He pursed his lips and blew a kiss. “In honor of your nuptials, the best bottle from my cellar.”
Dario nodded. After Cesare poured a small amount into a glass, he handed it to Dario. Instead of taking a sip, Dario handed the glass to me. “You may taste it.”
A grin spread across my lips as I twisted the glass stem in my fingertips, swirling the deep red liquid, noticing the Gibbs-Marangoni Effect, and inhaling the bouquet. Black currant, dark berry fruit, and leather were the qualities I detected. Next, I took a sip, allowing the wine to stay on my tongue as more flavors came to life. Tobacco, truffle, and cedar came to mind. “Delicious,” I said after swallowing.
“Mrs. Luciano, you’re a connoisseur?”
“My father owns a winery in Southern California,” I said, offering Cesare the glass to refill. “I’ve been wine tasting since I was old enough to verbalize the flavors.”
Cesare bowed before filling both glasses with a respectable pour. After he left, Dario reached for one glass and I the other. His smile was sincere. “Catalina, I hope to spend each day learning more and more about you.”
“You didn’t know about my father’s winery?”
He shook his head. “I’ve seen his portfolio. I must have missed that.”
I lowered my voice. “I think, officially, it’s in my mother’s name.”
“Progressive,” Dario replied, lifting an eyebrow.
“Or perhaps, diversification.”
Dario scoffed. “You have a unique knowledge set.”
“My father is a top lieutenant. I was sheltered but not oblivious.”