Chapter 11
DIANA
“Come on, Di—it’ll be fun,” Cathy pleads on the other end of the phone. “You need a night out to just live, okay? It’s healthy.”
I roll my eyes, though a smile tugs at my mouth at her words. “Getting drunk off my ass doesn’t sound healthy, ironically enough,” I say sarcastically, though my voice is dropped to a whisper. Monica and Matteo sit a few feet away, eating and entranced by the cartoon playing on the kitchen TV. I don’t need them hearing about their nanny getting drunk—and then asking what getting drunk means. The last thing I want is that getting back to Bruno.
“It’s healthy because you’ll be with friends, and you need time to enjoy yourself,” Cathy replies, not one to back down. She’d always been like that. “Please, Diana?”
I chew on my dinner for a moment as I think over my decision. I’m not going to lie—going out tonight does sound appealing. I can’t remember the last time I was able to leave my problems at home and just have fun with some friends. Work has always kept me so busy; I barely got any time for myself. It’s the reason for my lack of relationships. “Fine,” I concede with a sigh, chuckling when Cathy exclaims in excitement. “But I’ll have to come out later in the night after the kids are asleep and their dad is home. So probably around ten-ish.”
My days are spent looking after Monica and Matteo, but I have the nights for myself, especially when Bruno’s already home. I haven’t used that to my advantage yet, but I guess tonight is the night that I do.
“That’s fine,” Cathy says, speaking quickly out of her excitement. She’s definitely a partier. “Be prepared for shots of Fireball.”
Before I can respond with a stern absolutely not, Cathy has already hung up the phone, and I blow a breath out with a shake of my head, already cringing at the idea of drinking that horrible whiskey. I like to stick to my fruity cocktails, thank you very much.
After dinner, the kids are in the living room, getting their last hour of screen time in while I tidy up the room. Eventually, I hear the front door open, and Monica sits up from the couch, grinning. “Daddy’s home!” she cheers excitedly.
Within moments, Bruno appears in the entryway of the living room, in his regular get-up, as always. I purse my lips as I gather the kids’ coloring pencils and put them back in their box, crouching by the coffee table and trying not to let my gaze linger on Bruno as he greets his kids. The only time I ever see him smile is with Monica and Matteo, and the sight is, much to my chagrin, beautiful. His smile reaches his dark eyes, and the love he has for the twins is deep and obvious.
He’s a man with razor-sharp edges, bloody hands, and a voice that sends shivers down your spine. But with his kids, he is softer than one could ever think, gentler. It’s a stark contrast to the man the public knows him as—the man that he, obviously, keeps hidden from his children. But whether he’s Bruno Cataldi, the terrifying mob boss, or Bruno Cataldi, the loving father of twins—the man is undeniably attractive. So fucking sexy that sometimes it’s hard to breathe while being in the same room with him.
He’s approaching his mid-forties, but I swear, he looks like he’s in his mid-thirties. It’s those Italian genes, I guess. Or maybe killing keeps him young. Who knows? I don’t question it—I just quietly, secretly, admire it.
While the kids keep their dad entertained, I quickly slip into the kitchen and grab the glass of water I’d kept for him. It feels like a routine now, just like taking care of the kids. I admit, in the beginning, I had told myself that he can get his own damn glass of water, but I don’t really mind it much anymore.
So when I come back to the living room and hand him the glass, as the kids run back to the couch, I say to Bruno, “Is it alright if I head out tonight? After the kids are asleep.”
Bruno takes the glass, his dark eyes flickering up to meet mine. I damn near freeze in place. “Where are you going?” he asks. His expression is carefully blank like he couldn’t give a shit where I’m heading, but he asks, anyway, to keep up pretenses.
“I don’t know,” I say. “My friends want to head out to some bars downtown, get some drinks.”
He’s silent for a moment, nothing but the sounds of the television filling the room, and part of me wonders if he’s going to refuse. Technically, I don’t need his permission to go out, especially after the kids are asleep and he’s home—and the estate is surrounded by security, too.
When Bruno lowers the glass, he lifts his chin and says, “Would you and your friends be interested in going to my club? Hideaway off the fourteenth street?”
I blink at him in surprise. Hideaway is one of the most exclusive clubs in San Francisco, with lines that are always wrapped around the block on the weekends. Everyone knows it’s owned by Bruno, but no one cares about that because they care more about the exclusivity of being able to get into the club.
“Uh—” I’m too surprised at his offer to conjure up a proper response, embarrassingly enough.
Bruno is already pulling out his phone. His expression is still blank like we’re talking about the weather. “I’ll have them put your name on the list. You won’t have to wait in line.” I gape at him because the gesture is nice and despite my stipulations that came with accepting the job to be his nanny, I didn’t expect something like this. He glances at the kids before saying to me, “You don’t have to wait until they go to bed. I’m here with them.”
I feel like I stepped into a parallel universe. “Um, okay,” I say slowly, cautiously. “Uh, thank you, Mr. Cataldi. I appreciate it.”
He doesn’t say you’re welcome like a normal person. Instead, he just finishes typing on his phone and brushes past me to get to the kids. “If you’re planning on drinking tonight, have Bastian drive you.”
Bastian is Bruno’s driver, who I’m required to use whenever I want to go out with the twins. I was fully prepared to just Uber out and meet my friends, so Bruno’s request—or, well, demand is more appropriate because he didn’t request anything—takes me by surprise.
He’s already wrapped up in his kids by the time I come to terms with this new development, so I head to my room, texting Cathy about the new location of the night. She’s thrilled, surprised that we’re going to be able to get in. Perks of having a wealthy boss. I’ve had nice gestures done for me by previous parents of the kids I nannied, but truthfully, I hadn’t expected anything of the like from Bruno Cataldi.
For the next nearly two hours, I get ready. After showering, I blow dry my hair until the strands are dry and silky, putting on some music to play softly in the background as I do my makeup. I can’t remember the last time I did a full face of makeup, but I let myself enjoy it as I do. It’s kind of like baking, for me—both things are almost therapeutic, in a way, as I focus on creating a dessert treat, or a different kind of look with my makeup. It distracts me from the shitshow that is my life.
Leaning toward the mirror, I apply my mascara, but my gaze drifts to the photo frame I have resting on my bedside table. That picture of me and my dad. Suddenly, I recall the conversation I had the other day with the twins about how Bruno brings them cookies from their favorite bakery every Saturday night. And how, funnily enough, their favorite bakery is the one my dad owned. It had taken a lot for me not to burst into tears in front of the kids as I started thinking of my dad, of the bakery that would need to be rebuilt, and, God—did I even want to rebuild it? Would I be able to continue the legacy he left behind? Or would it be too hard for Slice of Life to exist without my dad in it?
My throat tightens, my hand trembling as I try to finish up my makeup. It’s too difficult, too painful to think about this stuff now—or ever. But at this moment, I continue doing my makeup for a night out with friends and hope that I can put these thoughts out of my head for long enough to just enjoy a couple of hours.
*****
As expected, the line into Hideaway wraps around the block. When I get out of the car, thanking Bastian for the ride, I easily spot my group of friends waiting off on the side. I had told them that we wouldn’t need to wait in line, so they said they would wait for me—which they would have to do anyway since apparently Bruno gave the security my name and I’d have to show my I.D.
With Cathy are a couple of other girls we’d been friends with in high school—Julie and Willa. We’ve all put on our best outfits, it seems since the club’s exclusivity level commands it. My own outfit consists of black skinny jeans with a red spaghetti- strapped bodysuit tucked into it and black heels. Some gold jewelry on my ears and around my neck completes the look.
“Hey, gorgeous,” Cathy grins when I approach them, pulling me in for a quick hug. Her floral perfume wraps around me comfortingly. “I’m so happy you came out tonight.”
I smile, chest warm. “Me, too.”
I quickly hug Julie and Willa in greeting before the group of us heads toward the club’s entrance. For some reason, my stomach flutters in nerves as I pull out my I.D. card, ignoring the dirty looks from the few people in the front of the line. I go up to the bouncer with a flat expression, looking at me like he’s ready to tell me to get to the back of the line.
“Hi,” I say with a smile, trying to be loud because the club is practically vibrating behind him with the bass of the deafening music. “I’m Diana Elliott—I think Mr. Cataldi called and said I’d be coming tonight?”
God, I sound like a privileged bitch. I would hear people in Los Angeles talk this way all of the time, and after a while, it stopped fazing me because it was their lifestyle. But now I’m saying words that they would always say to cut the line of some exclusive party or club or whatever, and it feels like I’ve stepped into someone else’s shoes. I’ve never been someone who found it to be the end of the world if I had to wait in line for something, but I felt like if Bruno found out that I decided to queue, he would be insulted.
You don’t want to insult a mob boss—even if you’re his kids’ nanny.
Recognition seems to instantly flash across the bouncer’s face. He checks my I.D., verifying that I am who I say I am, and he nods. “Of course—Mr. Cataldi said you’d be here.” He quickly checks my friends’ I.D. cards as well before gesturing toward the door. He even smiles at us like if he didn’t it would somehow get back to Bruno and he’d be in trouble for it. “Enjoy your night, ladies.” We walk past him, and I swear I hear him saying into a radio, “Ms. Elliott’s party is walking in now.”
Just like that, we are ushered into the booming, busy club, purple and blue lights flashing in time to the beat of the song as my friends and I exchanged impressed looks of being right in. I did not at all want to look back at the line to catch more glares from those who had to wait in that long ass queue.
Unsurprisingly, it is hotter in the Hideaway than it was outside, the crowds of bodies packed in here making up for a lot of warmth. A long bar is toward the left side of the room, the middle opened for a dance floor where most of the people are. To the right is a staircase that leads to the second floor but I can’t see what’s up there other than more dancing bodies.
It’s a pretty nice place with ceilings high, perfect for a laser show. From what I can see, the collection of alcohol behind the bar is extensive, and five bartenders work to serve customers. Along the sides, a safe distance from the bustling dancing crowd, are tables and leather couches for table service, and I see servers walking around, holding up trays filled with bottles and glasses, sparklers going off on top of them. Purple and pink LED lights line up the backs of the couches, lighting them up, and all the way to the back is where I see the grand DJ booth.
“Wow,” Willa says next to me. A laugh escapes her as she adds, “This place is amazing!”
Before any of us can respond, a man comes up next to us and asks, “Are you Ms. Diana Elliott’s party?”
I blink at the sound of my name, bewildered. “Um, yes. I’m Diana.” I show him my I.D. which I hadn’t put back into my wallet yet.
The guy looks at me and at my driver’s license before nodding and offering me a smile. “Right this way, ladies.”
“Uh—” I exchange confused looks with the girls, who all just shrug, looking just as lost as me. We have no choice but to follow the guy, though he doesn’t lead us too far.
We follow him along the side where the tables are until we reach the middle and he stops to gesture toward an empty section. “This is your table; a bottle girl will be right over to provide you with your drink. You have full bottle service, so don’t hesitate to order whatever you’d like.”
My eyes widen, blinking in surprise. Next to me, the girls are both shocked and excited, not that I blame them, but I still feel the need to clarify. “I’m sorry, there must be some mistake. I didn’t—I didn’t reserve a table for tonight.”
The guy blinks at me like I’m the one talking nonsense. “Mr. Cataldi reserved it for you, Ms. Elliott.” His words knock the air out of my lungs, and despite how loud the music throughout the club is, all I can hear is a stunning ringing in my ears. “He’s taking care of everything tonight. So, please,” the man smiles, “Enjoy your night.”
He leaves after one last gesture to our section but I’m still stuck frozen as the girls sit down on the leather couch. As surprised as they seem over this development, they’re quick to the excitement, while I’m still trying to process this. “Shit, Diana,” Julie laughs over the music. “Your boss must really like you.”
My cheeks flame up, and I swallow the lump in my throat as I force my feet to move. “It’s not like that,” I refute, though I keep my tone casual as I sit down on the end of the couch. I try to appear nonchalant, leaning back into the corner where the armrest meets the back of the couch, hands on my lap and one leg crossed over the other. “He’s probably just being nice.”
Even I want to laugh at my words. Bruno Cataldi—being nice? It sounds as outrageous as pigs flying.
“Whatever it is,” Cathy speaks up with a grin, “Apparently the drinks are on him. So, I say we take advantage of this and test the limits of our livers!”
That has me letting out a laugh, despite the insanity of this situation. My skin still feels hot, an effect Bruno seems to have on me even when he’s nowhere near me. When Cathy catches my amused look, she scoffs and rolls her eyes. “What? I haven’t been able to get drunk in a while, okay?”
Willa snorts out a laugh. “Yeah, ’cause you’re too busy getting fucked by your husband.”
That makes Julie and me laugh, and I welcome the change of topic, not wanting my thoughts to linger on Bruno or the arrangement he’s made for my friends and me tonight. I’ll analyze the why of it all later.
“Trying to get pregnant is hard work, okay?” Cathy sniffs, chin raised, though her mouth tugs up in a smile. “And besides, once I do get pregnant, I won’t be able to have nights out like this for a long time, alright? So let me live a little.” She turns to face me, sitting right next to me. “And you, my friend, deserve it the most out of all of us.”
My smile softens at her words, appreciating the concern in her eyes, just as a woman walks up to our table, asking us what drinks we’d like. The woman is quick with bringing back the bottles we requested—vodka, tequila, and some bottles of juices as well to mix our drinks. Once my Malibu Bay Breeze is in my hand, I quickly sip it, reveling in the fruity taste with the hint of alcohol peeking through.
“We need to do shots!” Julie exclaims once we’ve all made our drinks. The music pulses through the club, and I swear I can feel the couch vibrating beneath me. “Tequila?”
I immediately shake my head, holding my drink up. “I’m drinking vodka.” No way am I about to mix alcohols—that’s a surefire way of my head ending up in the toilet tonight.
Willa and I are both drinking vodka, while Julie and Cathy are drinking tequila, so we split up our shots accordingly. Willa pours two vodka shots for herself and me, while Cathy pours tequila shots for her and Julie, who gets the salt and limes ready for them.
I scoot forward and grab my shot glass, careful not to spill the vodka over, and as we hold up our glasses, Cathy asks, “What’re we toasting to?”
Julie grins widely, shooting me a wink. “To Diana’s boss for funding this night!”
The girls laugh, and I don’t think too deeply into the flush that warms my cheeks as I clink my glass with theirs before downing the drink. I squeeze my eyes shut as the vodka burns down my throat, the harsh taste lingering, and I quickly drown it down by sipping my mixed drink. I haven’t drunk in a while, and I feel warm already from the shot and the fact that I’m already halfway done with my cocktail.
I can already tell that tonight is going to be a long night.