Chapter 6
Light
It had been nearly two weeks since I started at Sin . Almost two weeks since the incident in the corridor when I nearly pleaded for Damon to do those things I read about in the Kama Sutra to me.
I now owned my own copy. I had to order it online as I couldn’t stomach the potential look of shock I feared Mia, the owner of my favorite bookstore close to home, would no doubt level me with. She might never look at me the same again.
The whole book was devoured in a matter of days, with my bucket list positions marked with green and red post-its.
I used green for those positions I classified as ‘safe’ and red for those that intrigued me but which I wasn’t sure I could actually do—mentally more so than physically.
There was also a problem with having a bucket list of sex positions. One needed a partner. And the one I wanted was always looking at me with a stern expression on his face. The other was a ghost who left me notes, seeds, and pots .
Glancing over at Damon sitting by a table with a gentleman I now know as Marcello, his gaze whips over to me, clashing with mine and immediately sending a blush to my cheeks and the critters in my stomach into overdrive.
I smile and look away, picking up an empty glass from Frankie, another regular in the VIP room.
I already knew all of the regulars, and apart from the tension between Damon and me, the work was enjoyable. More so than I anticipated. Usually, I didn’t like socializing, but that was the old me.
This new me read the Kama Sutra and fantasized about a man with dark brown eyes using my two ponytails as handlebars while deep-throating me for the first time in my life.
Before him, my thoughts were chaste. Now, they were dark and needy, constantly leaving me feeling unfulfilled—a feeling I feared only he could satiate based on my reaction to the numerous men I had met over the last two weeks.
It was primarily that gender in this section, which meant an overflow of testosterone. But unlike the club downstairs, this area was not full of laughter and dancing. Most of the time, the men looked stern, except when I brought them their drink.
Whatever was happening here was all business. The documents and envelopes that crossed tables and hands alluded to that.
Clientele were from worldwide, based on the different languages spoken.
Initially, I struggled with the accents and trying to understand what they wanted to order.
But after a couple of days, it became easier.
With my photographic memory, regulars were easy to serve, especially those who were creatures of habit, sticking to their drink of choice.
As with Damon. He liked a lowball of expensive whiskey in a cabinet under the bar, not for sale.
Eyeing his glass, I see it is almost empty. I would top him up when I topped up Marcello’s drink. Karuizawa, 30-year-old Bourbon, served slightly chilled neat.
Being able to remember orders made me a hit, which was great, as the other abundant thing in this room was money—not that I needed it.
Between the money I saved from James' life policy and the substantial weekly cheque I received from working here (Damon wasn’t lying when he said he paid well), the tips were indeed a bonus.
I splurged all my first week's tips on a new wardrobe—slippers, pajamas, new shoes, tops, pants—the whole shebang. I hadn’t bought new clothes in years. I even treated myself to cute matching lace underwear sets—three of them —in black, red, and baby blue. I was wearing the red one today.
“Hey Brian, can you give me the usual for Marcello and a top-up for the boss? Please.” I place the tray on the bar and give Brian a reserved smile while he prepares the drinks.
“You got plans for tonight after your shift?” Brian places the drinks on my tray, removing the empty one, while leaning on the bar, waiting for my answer.
His question is innocent, but the look in his eyes is not.
“Just home and then bed. At my age, I need my beauty sleep.” I hope that reminding Brian subtly of how much older I am compared to his twenty-two years might dissuade him from whatever he is thinking.
“Bed. My kind of vibe.” He winks and smiles, and I remind myself never to use the word ‘bed’ in a sentence with him again.
I return his smile and pick up the tray, almost tripping when I see Damon's eyes are locked on me. His jaw twitches as if he is trying to hold back his agitation.
Once again, something I have done seems to have made him angry. Nothing comes to mind, but with Damon, it could be as simple as wearing two ponytails.
Even the uniform has changed since the first day I started. When I arrived the next day, I was issued with the uniform I now wore. Black fitted pants, two-inch heels, and a conservative black top.
Stacey hasn’t stopped bitching about it since then. Talia, the other server sometimes on duty with me, was also unhappy with the change. She attributed the decrease in her tips to the change in uniform and my arrival.
Many regulars now asked for me instead of her, which didn’t make me a fan favorite with her or the other server, Kate.
If they found out I had access to the restricted area, it would’ve made everything worse. Apparently, I was the only employee at our level with permission to come and go from the back section. As instructed by Damon.
Stacey warned me to keep my mouth shut regarding that little perk if I didn’t want to alienate myself further. Considering he drove me to and from my house, something I kept to myself, using the back entrance was logical. Still, it made me wonder why he did all that.
It can’t be because he likes me. The look on his face as I walk toward him and Marcello with their drinks is anything but joyous.
“Marcello, Damon,” I greet, only meeting Marcello's gaze as I balance my tray on the table's edge before taking each man’s drink and placing it in front of them.
“Sienna. My favorite part of the day.” Marcello doesn’t smile, but his face is friendly, unlike the man beside him.
I can tell from the way Marcello carries himself that he is someone of importance. Even amongst the men in this room, Marcello gets a tilt of the head or a gesture of recognition from every person as he walks past .
While I thought it was because he was older, closer to sixty, that thought was shattered days ago when I heard the word Mafia and his name in the same sentence.
But even his aura pales next to Damon’s. I try not to look at him as I collect the glasses on the table and place them on my empty tray.
Like a lithe panther, Damon’s tall frame owns the chair he sits in, like a throne. His one leg rests on the other, as does his left hand, idle on his thigh. The other hand lifts his glass, those perfectly plump, delicious lips meeting the rim as he sips his drink slowly.
I notice everything—a snapshot for later.
The veins on the top of his hand that respond like a guitar string with every movement. The little scar on his middle knuckle. The deep line on his palm that is supposed to allude to a long life. I have memorized every patch of visible skin, every freckle, every blemish.
He is wearing a black suit, as usual, this time with a tie. Unlike his gym attire, this look holds a different allure. Both are equally intriguing to me.
The tension between us crackles, as it always does when we are close. I fear even Marcello can feel it as he tilts his head to the side, his eyes darting between Damon and me.
“Sienna. Join us.” Marcello pulls out a chair, his hand patting the seat. It is not a request.
This is unusual. I’m still on duty, so I don’t think this is appropriate, but I’m also unsure how to handle the situation. Marcello doesn’t seem like someone you say no to.
I look over at Damon. He tilts his head, his eyes briefly touching the seat before meeting mine again. I sit.
Marcello chuckles, the sound strange in the quiet of the room.
It is not a busy time of the day, so there are only a few patrons around.
My head darts to the side as Stacey enters the area from the staff. Her eyes widen in surprise when she sees me sitting there.
“Stacey. Bring us a bottle of Rosé Dom Pérignon,” Marcello says, not looking at Stacey as he speaks.
Geezus. That’s expensive champagne. I know. With one sitting behind the online inventory system, I knew all the prices of everything.
“And three glasses.” Shit. My eyes dart from Marcello’s to Damon, his lack of interference in this situation disturbing.
“I’m still on duty.” I try to sound cheerful, looking between the two men. But the smile I give to accompany the statement is strained.
My heart beats frantically, and Damon's eyes briefly dip to my neck. The vein there is probably giving me away. He is too astute.
“Not right now.” Damon takes the tray I am still grasping, even as I have sat down, and places it on the table next to us.
I meet her gaze, and something on my face must display my distress as she gives me a comforting smile, her brow dipping down in a look that says, ‘Good luck.’
She places three glasses on the table and then pops the cork on the bottle before pouring each of us a glass. Then she disappears, her retreating figure like a disappearing lifeline.
“Sienna.” My head snaps back, my gaze meeting Marcello’s as he raises his glass.
I look at Damon, who has lifted his glass, his eyes assessing my every move.
I gingerly pick up my glass and look again at Marcello, his glass poised to clink with mine.
“What are we celebrating?” I ask, my glass hovering in the air.
My question brings a smile to the older man's face.
“We are celebrating your employment here. And the start of something that I never thought would ever happen.” His eyes meet with Damon's as he says the last words.
A meaning I am not privy to. The only indication of any impact is the slight twitch of Damon's jaw before he clinks his glass with mine.
The champagne bubbles fizzle against my lip as I take a sip. The taste is so out of this world that I smile.