Chapter 3
DIANA
“Alright, I’ll see you later, okay?” My old friend from high school, Cathy, says as we both exit the quaint little restaurant down the street from Slice of Life. “Tell your dad I said hi!”
I grin, waving her off as she gets into her car. “I will.”
As she pulls out of the parking spot, I walk down the sidewalk in the direction of my dad’s bakery. I’ve known Cathy since we met on the first day of ninth grade, and we’ve been friends ever since. There aren’t that many people from high school I’m still friends with, but Cathy is definitely one of them, and right after telling dad I was moving back to San Francisco, I told Cathy as well. She was still living in the area, so she had been excited to have me back, and the two of us made plans to meet up for lunch before I headed to the bakery to work.
We just spent the last two hours or so catching up. One of the times I had visited last year was because Cathy was getting married, and now she just told me that she and her husband, Jay, are planning on having kids sometime soon. Her telling me that was a startling reminder of how we aren’t in high school—or even college—anymore. That the people I went to high school with are engaged, already married, or popping out kids. It’s such a different stage of where I am in my life, and I can’t help but wonder if and when I’ll ever get there.
I push the thought out of my head as soon as it flits through. I have more important things to focus on these days.
I make my way down the familiar sidewalk, taking in the various stores located on the strip. Cafés, boutiques, all sorts of stores—some new, some that have been around since I was a kid. It’s not too busy in the middle of the afternoon, with people walking around me, shopping, and going about their day. The sun is up high, warm against my skin, and just as I near the bakery, a car pulls up on the street right alongside the sidewalk.
Glancing over, I take note of the luxury black SUV, the windows too tinted for me to be able to make out anyone inside. An unsettling feeling churns low in my stomach as the car comes to a stop and, logically, I know I should keep walking. But I don’t know why I stop, too, frozen in place when the passenger door opens, and out steps a tall, handsome man dressed in all black.
He’s got sunglasses on, so I can’t see his eyes, but he’s older than me and towers over my five-foot-six frame, and I can just tell he’s looking directly at me. When he asks, “Diana Elliott?” I feel myself freeze up.
He knows my name. Panic pulses through me for a moment, wondering who the hell this guy is. Still, I find myself stammering out, “Y-Yeah, that’s me.”
The guy steps toward the backseat door, gripping the handle and saying to me, “Get in the car.” Then, almost like an afterthought, he adds, “Please.”
What the fuck?
I gape at him as he opens the door, and from where I’m standing, I can’t see the backseat. Still, though, I stare at the man in disbelief, my heart thundering as I try to make sense of what the hell is going on. If people around me find this exchange suspicious or weird, no one says anything.
Hasn’t this man heard of stranger danger? Why the fuck would I get into some random, scary-looking guy’s car?
As if he’s reading my mind, the man with light brown hair says, “Mr. Cataldi doesn’t like to be kept waiting.”
The name sends ice through my veins, freezing me over. Mr. Cataldi. . . He couldn’t possibly mean Bruno Cataldi.
How many other Cataldis do you know in San Francisco, Diana?
To be fair, I don’t know any Bruno Cataldi, but I sure as hell know of him, and that’s more than enough. But I also know I can’t just outright refuse to get in the car, not when that particular man is expecting to see me. And that itself is a shocking, slightly terrifying idea because what the hell could the number one crime boss in San Francisco want with me?
Still, I don’t want to piss him off, so I force my feet to move. Warily, I get into the SUV, sliding into the leather seat, and the breath catches in my throat at the man who is already seated on the benched seats right across from me.
I try not to jump when the man outside slams the door shut, closing me in this small space with a man whose mere presence takes up all of the room in the car. Bruno Cataldi is a man of legends, kind of like the monster under your bed. The one you tell kids about so they’ll behave unless they want the scariest man in San Francisco to take you away.
I have never met the man, but everyone knows of him. What’s more, a couple of years ago, he purchased the building my dad’s bakery is in, making Bruno Cataldi the overall owner of all the businesses on that particular side of the street. So, while dad runs Slice of Life and makes a good living out of it, it’s all owned by the man sitting across from me in a black suit and an expensive silver Rolex gleaming on his wrist.
He is much more handsome than I thought he would be.
I know he’s older than me—a little over fifteen years older than me. And still, despite the intimidating circumstances, I find myself admiring his features. His dark hair is thick and styled back, his beard closely trimmed to what looks like a sharp, chiseled jaw. The material of his suit seems to strain against his muscular build, and his dark eyes are sharp and intense like he can see right through me.
The car smells like leather and something else—cologne mixed with a sandalwood scent, and I realize that it’s him. My stomach dips. A good-smelling man is an attractive thing all on its own.
“Ms. Elliott.” I press my tongue to the back of my bottom row of teeth, trying not to react to the velvety smooth, deep tone of his voice. Oh, hell. He even sounds as attractive as he looks. He’s sitting relaxed in the seat, ankle resting on his knee and an arm stretched over the top of the seat. “It’s a pleasure to meet you. I’m Bruno Cataldi.”
“I know who you are.” The words are slipping from my mouth before I can help myself, my cheeks flaming up. If Bruno—Mr. Cataldi? I don’t know what the hell to call a crime boss—is amused by my words, he doesn’t let on. His expression remains expertly stoic, which is unnerving. I try to steal some of the confidence he exudes. “And you know who I am. So, can I ask, why am I here?”
My nerves are shot. Why the hell am I talking to this man like he’s any other kind of guy? He’s obviously not. He’s probably armed and could shoot me square in the forehead for disrespecting him if he wanted to. My stomach churns once again, and I tell myself not to throw up in Bruno Cataldi’s car.
“I apologize for the cloak and dagger.” Funny, he doesn’t sound sorry at all. “But I have a business proposal for you.”
I blink, bewildered. “A business propo—”
“I have two children if you weren’t aware. Twins, five years old,” Bruno continues as if I never spoke up. I press my lips together. I didn’t know he had kids, because I don’t make it my business to keep up with San Francisco’s mafia families. “And I’m looking for a live-in nanny and tutor for them. You come highly recommended, the best of the best, I’ve heard. The job is yours if you accept.”
I like how he uses the word if because I feel like I don’t have a choice in the matter. But even so, I try art to calm down my racing he as I find the words to speak. Because this is shocking. Nannying is one thing, but nannying the children of a notorious criminal? That doesn’t exactly look stellar on my resumé.
“I’m sorry, Mr. Cataldi,” I begin, hoping my voice is steady. “But I’m not currently looking for any kind of nannying job.”
He doesn’t let me continue, cutting in, “I’ll pay you half a million annually.”
My heart launches itself into my throat. Holy shit. I’m not surprised that money isn’t a big deal to him but, in all honesty, it isn’t to me, either. There are more important things. I straighten my shoulders. “My dad is sick, and I want to spend my time taking care of him. I’m sorry,” I repeat, “But I can’t accept this job.”
Irritation so obviously flashes across his eyes, and for a moment I’m terrified that he really is going to shoot me or something for refusing the job. He turns his head slightly, just so he can rub his lips with his fingers as he thinks for a moment. My stomach is fluttering anxiously, eager to get out of the car.
“I see,” Bruno murmurs, dark eyes on me. He doesn’t say anything else, and I try not to bristle in my seat.
I glance toward the window. We hadn’t moved, but the guy from before stands right outside the door like he’s guarding it. Glancing back at Bruno, I find myself asking, “May I leave?”
Bruno looks at me for another moment, his eyes wandering over my features. I try not to flush under his scrutiny, nor do I tense up when he reaches inside his suit jacket before pulling out a card. He holds it out to me between two fingers. “My business card, in case you change your mind.”
I won’t, but I take the proffered card, not wanting to insult him any more than I probably already have. Bruno gives a single knock on the window of the door, and the man outside opens it. With the card still in my hand, I get out of the car, feeling Bruno’s gaze sear into my back as I try not to stumble on my way out. The door shuts behind me, and the other man doesn’t pay me any attention as he gets back into the front seat before the car is driving off, leaving me standing on the sidewalk.
I feel like I just narrowly escaped death, as dramatic as it sounds. I hope that’s the only time I’ll ever have to see Bruno Cataldi, but a quiet, taunting voice in the back of my head tells me that it won’t be.
*****
“Why are you still here? I thought I told you to leave ten minutes ago?” dad demands as he walks out from the back of the bakery, throwing me an exasperated look.
I hand the customer their change before bidding them goodbye. Looking at my dad, I raise an eyebrow, “Why are you trying to get rid of me so badly?”
He rolls his eyes, coming to stand with me behind the counter. “I’m not. But you have a date, which is a miracle on its own.” He says it with a teasing grin, and it’s my turn to roll my eyes. “And it’s on the other side of town. You still need to get ready—so, go, Diana.”
“God, okay, alright,” I concede, pushing away from the register and making my way around the counter.
I would’ve put up a harder fight, except we already had this conversation ten minutes ago when dad first told me to leave. The date is a spontaneous thing, one that was set up by Cathy after I aired my thoughts on the fact that I haven’t dated in a while, and that I might be interested in it. Especially after dad sat me down and told me that my life can’t revolve around taking care of him without doing anything for myself. In a way, I think, going on this date is to get him to see that I’m also living my life. Who knows, maybe it’ll be fun.
It’s a lazy afternoon anyway, a bit of a slow day. Two other employees are here, so I know if I take off it won’t be a big deal, and dad said he can close on his own. So, I grab my things and wave everyone goodbye, getting into dad’s car. One of the employees said they’d drop him home, so dad handed me the keys to his Volks Wagon, and I’m off to get ready.
I’ve never really been someone who goes on blind dates, but I figured this would be a good start in dipping my toe back into the dating scene. Cathy arranged the date with a coworker of her husband who she has met a couple of times, telling me he’s a nice, handsome guy. I wasn’t a hundred percent sure if I was excited about the date, or just cautiously anticipating it. I don’t think I had much of any expectations, wanting to see how I’d feel once the night is over, but I’ve been sitting at the restaurant for about half an hour and the guy isn’t even here yet.
My leg is bouncing under the table as I sip my water and look at my phone screen, opened to the text conversation with Colin, my supposed date. He hasn’t even read my messages, telling him I’m at the restaurant and then asking where he is. Embarrassment heats up my skin because it’s obvious I’ve been stood up, completely ghosted.
“Typical,” I mutter to myself, gathering my things. Of course, the first time I decide to go out with a guy in a while, it goes like this.
As I make my way out of the restaurant, crossing the parking lot to my car, my phone starts ringing. It’s Marley, one of the bakery employees. “Diana!” she exclaims as soon as I answer, not letting me get a word in. In just uttering my name, I instantly hear the panic in her voice. “Oh, my God, Diana—the bakery. It’s on fire,” she rushes out, prompting me to freeze right next to my car. “I’ve been trying to call your dad, but he hasn’t been answering. Diana, you need to get here now.”
I can’t think of anything. All that’s echoing in my head is bakery and on fire and the fact that dad isn’t answering his phone. I don’t remember hanging up on Marley, or getting in my car and beginning to drive toward the bakery.
But it all comes to a head when I’m sitting in the middle of a traffic jam, the air conditioner blasting to cool down my overheated body as the panic pulses through me. I try calling my dad, over and over again, but his phone keeps going to voicemail, and with each unanswered call, my stomach churns and nausea rolls through me.
“Please be okay,” I whisper to myself, my voice shaking in the otherwise silence of my car. “Please, please be okay.” I look ahead, at what seems like a sea of cars stopped in front of me in the traffic jam. “Come the fuck on!” I yell, my grip on the steering wheel tightening.
It takes me too long to get out of the traffic jam. It takes too long for me to drive from one part of the city to another. And I wonder, unreasonably, if I had been a little faster if things would be okay.
Because when I get out of the car, the bakery I grew up in is burnt to the ground, lights flashing all around us belonging to the fire trucks, police cars, and ambulance. Dark smoke plumes the air, everything smelling like fire and burnt wood and bricks. It’s all gone. Completely gone.
I can feel my bones trembling as I stumble forward, a crowd of people gathering around as my gaze darts around. “Dad,” I say, too quietly. The panic rises like a scream in my throat as I yell, “Where’s my dad?! Dad!”
I don’t know if I’m pushing through the crowd or if they’re moving out of the way, realizing that this bakery is mine, and I see a few police officers and firefighters looking at me. They exchange some words before a policeman and a fireman make their way toward me. They wear grave looks on their faces, and I cannot breathe.
“Ma’am,” the policeman starts as they stop in front of me. “Does your father work at the bakery?”
There’s a huge lump in my throat, my heart thundering. “Benny Elliott,” I croak out my dad’s name. “He runs the bakery. He’s my dad. Please—is he okay? Where is he?”
The fireman purses his lips, his jaw clenching, while the policeman slowly shakes his head. “I’m sorry, miss,” he starts, and I don’t want him to continue. I don’t want him to say anything I don’t want to hear. I don’t want him to tell me the truth that’s already cementing itself in my head and heart. “Your father was found in the bakery.” No. “He didn’t make it.” No. “I’m so sorry.”
No.