26 - Jocelyn
~ 26 ~
JOCELYN
“Tonight’s dinner service begins promptly at eight,” Andre went on. “Cocktails at six. The VIP’s won’t arrive until later this evening, if at all. But the guests will be here at—”
“What do you mean if at all?” I asked, struggling to keep up with him. “I thought—”
The manor was full of people now, judging by the voices I heard floating in — security, mostly. Luckily the place was enormous. Big enough that Andre could pull me into a side room, to answer my question.
“I mean the big meeting is tomorrow, not tonight,” he murmured. “That’s the real dinner party. It’s the only one that matters.”
He had me backed up against a smoothly-paneled wall, one arm extended, his palm flat. His expression was deadly serious.
“By VIP’s,” I whispered, “you mean the Founders?”
“Yes. But that’s the last time you use that word,” he warned. “And don’t ask too many questions, either, unless you’re asking one of us.”
I swallowed. “Okay.”
“Remember, you’re Emily. You’ve been briefed on this weeks ago, and you know exactly what you’re doing. Even if you don’t.”
He winked, and planted a kiss on my forehead.
“You sure you still want to do this?”
I choked out a laugh. “Isn’t it a little late to be asking me that?”
“Very.”
“So why bother?”
Andre’s arm flexed menacingly. “Because all you have to do is say the word, and I’ll get you the hell off this island,” he replied coolly. “No matter what time of the day or night.”
“Yeah, right,” I dared. “You’ll sneak me around all this additional security?”
“No,” Andre avowed. “I’ll go straight through it.”
He pushed off, and we were back in the arteries and veins of the mansion again. Room by room, he pointed out what to expect, and when to expect it. Bishop walked by, flanked by two people I hadn’t seen before: a man and a woman. The way he completely ignored me, or even refused to look my way, was more than a little unnerving.
“This is the reception room,” Andre said as he led me into the largest chamber of the manor. We’d passed through it during our midnight antics a few times, but always in the dark. Daylight now illuminated it as a beautiful ballroom, with sprawling ceilings and a polished tile floor that must’ve cost a king’s ransom. “Drinks will be here. You’ll be serving platters of appetizers, and—”
“Bowman.”
We both looked up. A man stood behind a long bar on the other side of the room, meticulously polishing an arrangement of crystal glasses with a bright yellow cloth. And he was undeniably, undoubtedly Italian. As Italian as if all the Italian molecules in the universe managed to solidify into a five-and-a-half-foot person.
“C’mere. Drink this.”
The man pushed a V-shaped martini glass forward, as I followed Andre to the bar.
“Emily, this is Bruschetta Joe,” said Andre. “Joe, Emily.”
The man scanned me for a moment with his Italian brown eyes and gave me a distinctly Italian nod. Then he pointed to the drink again.
“Alright, alright.”
Andre brought the glass to his lips and took a long pull of the strange, multi-hued liquid. The layers of different weights and densities rolled together, moving like a beautiful storm as he tipped it back.
I watched as he doubled over, coughing and wincing before looking up again. “Jesus, that’s good.”
“Right?” Joe looked pleased.
“Whaddya call it?”
“It doesn’t have a name yet,” Joe conceded. “But it will.”
“You should call it Airstrike then,” offered Andre, clearing his throat. “Because it hits like one.”
The man behind the bar seemed to consider this. Joe scratched at his deepening five o’clock shadow, which on a guy like him, probably showed up around twelve-thirty.
“That’s not half bad, actually,” he said, turning to face me. “What do you think?”
I shrugged. “I think first I need to know why they call you Bruschetta Joe.”
The man’s face erupted into a gigantic, mirthful smile. It looked bright white against his perfect, olive skin.
“Joe…” Andre warned. “Don’t do it.”
But it was too late, Joe was already in motion. Reaching beneath the bar, like some bizarre magic trick, he produced a plate of delicious-looking, perfectly-aligned… bruschetta.
“Don’t eat that,” Andre said flatly.
The rich, vinegary scent of garlic and basil and tomato floated to my nostrils. Instantly, my mouth began to water.
“Why not?” my stomach protested for me. “It looks delicious.”
“It is delicious,” Andre affirmed. “It’s beyond delicious, actually. It’s so good it should be fucking criminal.”
“So then why wouldn’t I—”
“Because it’ll ruin you,” he cut me off. “Trust me. You don’t want to do this. It’ll ruin you forever.”
“There’s been a lot of ruining going around,” I smirked at him.
“Still.”
Andre reached out, took a slice, and crunched into it. Right away his eyes closed, and he seemed to go somewhere else entirely.
“Oh, fuck this.”
I grabbed a piece of the toasted ciabatta bread soaked in olive oil and bit into it, and instantly I knew. Angels soared. Religion happened. I saw God. It was like my taste buds fell to their knees, trembling in awe, begging me to take the next bite.
And bite I did. I ate the whole thing, savoring it, cherishing the moment, chewing it slowly. When I’d finished and swallowed the last crumb, I was already reaching for more.
But the plate was gone.
“Can I have another one?” I asked quickly. “Please?”
Bruschetta Joe was already back to working on his glasses. Lining them up, he slowly shook his Italian head.
“Can’t. The rest are for the guests.”
“Joe,” I growled, as if I’d known him all my life. “Don’t do this to me.”
He paused to look down at me with those coffee-colored eyes. Beneath that strong Roman nose, he was secretly smiling.
“Do what?” he asked innocently.
“Told ya,” Andre sighed, adding a shrug.
“But… how’d he do that?” I demanded of Andre frantically. I whirled to face Joe again. “How’d you do that?”
“Family recipe.”
“But what’s in it?” I swore, still lost in awe. “What the hell did you—”
“C’mon,” Andre said, pulling me away. “We still need to get your uniform. And you need to get dressed.”
I was all but dragged from the room, my stomach growling, the lingering taste of heaven still in my mouth. It wasn’t until Andre led me through the kitchen that I realized where I was.
Just outside in the atrium, beyond the floor-to-ceiling glass doors, two people were splashing around in the pool. I could hear playful voices and laughter, even through the thick pane.
“Emily…”
There was a stern foreboding in Andre’s voice. I ignored the growing sense of dread in my stomach and wandered over anyway, already knowing what I’d see:
Kayden and Evelyn.