Chapter 3
Emily
Itake a deep breath and paste on another fake smile as I glance over at the ruggedly handsome ogre now seated at a table in my workplace.
He’s freakishly tall with thighs that rival tree trunks and has an arse so tight it’s begging for a slap.
He’s also rude and downright prickly, but I’ve become accustomed to men like him.
When I moved back to Griffith after years away, it felt like I’d fallen into an alternate universe.
It wasn’t the same quaint country town I remembered growing up in.
Granted, I was a teenager then, and like everyone else, I’d heard the rumours about the local mafia, but I didn’t pay much attention.
Now here I am, not only waitressing in one of the mob’s restaurants, but also living with the vice president of a motorcycle club.
Who knew this little town would become a hideout for criminals who wear danger like a second skin.
This isn’t how I pictured my life turning out when I packed up my things and climbed onto the back of a Harley-Davidson to return to my hometown, somewhere that once held fond memories for me.
Well, until things went to shit with my parents that is.
In hindsight, they were toxic together, so it really doesn’t surprise me that they ended things the way they did.
Michael Bucannon, my bikie boyfriend, was also once my high school sweetheart.
The bad boy.
The hellraiser.
The wild one no one could tame, no matter how hard they tried.
He hung out with the undesirables even back then, but that was part of his appeal.
I was a good girl, someone who always toed the line and followed the rules, but there was something thrilling about walking on the dark side.
In retrospect, I suppose it was only a matter of time before Mick ended up with a bikie gang like the Steel Reapers. Even when we were teenagers, he was restless and never fit in with social norms, forever drifting towards trouble.
There were rumours circulating that he had spent time in juvenile detention before coming to our school, but even that didn’t seem to deter me.
I was sixteen and convinced I’d be the one to save him. Every girl wanted him, and all the guys wanted to be just like him, but he only had eyes for me. We were the cliché of first love, big dreams and plans that never stood a chance.
When my parents blindsided me with their divorce that same year, everything changed. Dad took a job in Hong Kong, and Mum packed us up and moved to the Gold Coast to live closer to her sister.
I had to leave everything behind, my friends, my school, my whole damn life. Saying goodbye to Michael was the hardest part. He swore we would make it work, that distance didn’t mean goodbye, but promises like that don’t survive twelve hundred kilometres, especially when you’re a teenager.
And as I feared, we only lasted a few months before we started drifting apart.
Fast forward six years, and here I am, back home and living with him. When he showed up out of the blue at the club where I was working, surrounded by his bikie mates, it felt like kismet. Like fate had brought us back together again.
In the week that followed, he love-bombed me hard, doing everything he could to convince me to leave Queensland and return to Griffith with him. He told me he’d lost me once and wasn’t about to let it happen for a second time.
It was good to see him again, and there were definitely feelings still there, but to be honest, I was hesitant. Part of me wanted to see where this would go, and I was also keen to get away from my mother’s handsy new husband, but I also knew what kind of life Michael was now involved in.
The mischievous boy who once stole my heart had become a full-blown career criminal, and I had to ask myself if I really wanted to get pulled into that world.
I used to be drawn to his wild side, but that was when we were kids. There’s a big difference between getting into fist fights in the playground, smoking, ditching school, and mouthing off at teachers, compared to whatever he’s mixed up in now.
That shady side of his life isn’t even the worst part. It only took a few weeks of living with him for the cracks to show. Sober Mick is funny, charismatic, and can light up a room, but drunk or high Mick is selfish, mean, and downright scary.
I push all those thoughts from my mind and grab a clean glass from under the counter, add some ice and a slice of lemon, then fill it with cold water.
I straighten my spine and pull back my shoulders as I hesitantly take the drink over to the growly man giant. Deep down, I’d like nothing more than to pour this cold liquid right into his rude lap, but I already know I’d never do that.
I might look soft and bubbly on the outside, but inside, not so much. Sometimes my thoughts skate more to the dark side, but I was unfortunately born without a backbone, so until I grow one of those, I’ll continue to fake it until I make it. It’s what I do best.
My smile is stretched tight enough to crack as I approach, unlike him. He now seems to be scowling deeper than he did when he arrived, if that’s even possible.
He’s already watching me by the time I reach the table, his dark eyes sharp and assessing. It’s the kind of look that makes you feel like he’s taking inventory of everything you are and everything you’re trying to hide. It’s unnerving, but I’ve become a practised faker.
I fake it when my stepfather hugs me tightly, and way longer than what most would call appropriate. Or when his hands always seem to find a way to reach out and touch me.
I fake it when my father apologises for forgetting my birthday year after year, because apparently, work and his new family are the only things he knows how to love these days.
I fake it when my co-workers talk about their loved ones, and I nod like I understand what it means to feel safe at home. Or when Mick asks if I’m happy, and I say ‘of course’ because the truth would unravel too much and make him fly off the handle if I said otherwise.
I even fake it when I look in the mirror each morning, telling myself I’m fine, that this is normal—that this is what life is supposed to feel like. Complicated, messy, and hollow around the edges.
I’ve become so practised at lying to myself that some days I even start to believe my own bullshit.
“Here’s your water, Mr Rizzo,” I say, in the most sugary sweet voice I can muster.
When I reach forward to set the glass down in front of him, the cuff of the long-sleeved white blouse I’m wearing rides up enough for the bruise on my wrist to show.
To my horror, his gaze flickers straight to it, and I feel the heat rise in my neck. The instinct to yank my hand back and make some lame excuse about how I got it is strong, but I don’t. I straighten, smooth down the fabric, and pretend he didn’t notice.
He doesn’t say a word, but when his narrowed eyes move back to my face, I catch something flickering behind them. It’s sharp and knowing, and for a second, I forget to breathe.
Has he ever left a mark like that on a woman before?
The scars on his knuckles and the long, thin one running down the side of his face tell me he’s no stranger to violence. For some reason, that thought makes me want to flee.
The bruise that’s currently circling my wrist is the first Mick has left on me. He’d grabbed my hand and yanked me to him when I said something he didn’t like. He squeezed my wrist so tight I was actually concerned he might break it.
He was apologetic after the fact, swore it would never happen again, and spent the next few days trying to make up for what he’d done, but I’m wary now.
There’s no excuse for how he acted, but I could tell he was under the influence of something. His dilated pupils, rapid speech, and sudden aggressiveness told me that. His behaviour wasn’t uncharacteristic, but if it happens again, I won’t forgive him so easily.
Mr Rizzo’s scrutinising gaze doesn’t waver, and it has me biting down on the corner of my lip to hide the quiver as he leans back in his chair so slow and deliberate it unnerves me.
He takes a sip of his water without breaking eye contact.
It feels like he’s deciding whether to call me out or let it go.
When he finally gives me a small, dismissive nod, I don’t wait. I turn and walk away as calmly as I can, even though every part of me wants to break into a run.
Thankfully, Mr Rizzo’s company have arrived, and from the moment I was hired, I was warned, like the rest of the staff, to greet the mobsters, seat them, and take drink orders.
From there, we’re required to give them complete privacy so they can conduct their business until Massimo, our chef, is ready to serve their feast.
They rarely place individual orders; instead, platters of fresh seafood, pasta, and meat dishes are sent out from the kitchen in a steady stream. The amount of food they’re served is complete overkill, but Dante Mancini is a king in his world and is treated accordingly.
When I delivered the Don and his underboss their scotch on the rocks, I purposely avoided making eye contact with their guest, but I could feel his narrowed gaze burning into the side of my face the entire time.
I’ve been to Mick’s bikie cookouts and mingled with some truly menacing men, the kind who wear their violence like a badge of honour, but none of them have rattled me the way this man does.
There’s something different about him, something quiet, calculated, and far more dangerous. The bikies I’ve come to know puff out their chests and bare their teeth, but this man doesn’t need to. He carries his power in silence, and that’s what makes him all the more terrifying.