Chapter 13
brUNO
“If I see you anywhere near one of my clubs, I’ll do much worse than this. Understand?”
The man in front of me—he looks like a boy, now, with pain and tears glassing his eyes as he keeps his mouth shut from crying out—nods quickly, desperately. This is the second man in as many weeks I’ve had glued to this chair, in this very room, as I use the blade to have my way with irritating, sniveling idiots who have done nothing but piss me off.
Last week, Spencer had been right here because of sticky fingers, thinking he could pull one over on me and steal from me. The dumbass forgot I have eyes and ears everywhere, and the second things seem off, I take care of them. Better to nip things in the bud before they can blossom into greater grievances.
Now I gaze at the man sitting before me, and I’m fully aware that whatever he did, it hadn’t been a personal slight against me. But I had watched him; I’d seen the way he touched and kissed Diana in my club, danced with her. Diana is not mine to be jealous over, I know, yet I don’t care. Because I had recognized the fire that had flooded through my veins, electric and licking down my spine when I watched her with this guy—this Derek Porter.
Besides, Derek isn’t in this chair with his blood dripping onto the hardwood floor because he was simply dancing with Diana. If that was the only reason, I would’ve brought in the others Diana had danced with too. No, Derek is in here because I watched as he held her against her will when she had obviously been trying to push away from him.
I had watched, as lights flashed, music pumped through the speakers, and the crowd pulsed as Derek gripped her closer. There had been a flash of panic that had flickered across Diana’s face, and that was when I’d pushed myself away from the banister, ready to head down there and rip the fucker away from her. But then Diana had managed to free herself from his hold, moving back toward her friends—but not before sending a scathing glare toward Derek. She’d saved herself.
Still, I’d memorized Derek’s face and had easily tracked him down, and now I’m making sure he understands not to touch what doesn’t belong to him.
With how deeply I sliced across both of his palms, I think he understands the message loud and clear.
His skin wears a slick sheen of sweat, tears mixing in on his face as he whimpers against the tape that’s placed over his mouth. He’s just a boring, insignificant guy who isn’t used to this kind of pain, and although the room is soundproof, I’m not too keen on hearing his pathetic screams.
Once I’ve had my fun, Raf hauls Derek’s ass away and I walk back to my office, pulling out a cigarette and lighting it up. I feel far more relaxed than I had before, sitting on the edge of the desk as I blow out a plume of smoke, too aware of both Raf and Leo staring at me.
It’s just the three of us in the room, and the weight of their stares prickles against my skin. ”What?” I demand sharply.
Leo raises an eyebrow. “Is there a reason why you sliced that kid’s hands? He’s a nobody.”
He knows damn well why I did. There’s rarely anything I do that Leo doesn’t know the motives behind. He and Raf are my top two enforcers, most of the time, they know all of my moves. “Have I ever needed a reason?” I ask dryly, cigarette between my lips as I fix the cuffs of my sleeves.
Raf sits down on a chair, hands interlocking on his stomach as he leans back. “I’m surprised he didn’t piss himself.”
Leo pours himself a drink from the trolley in the corner of the room. He meets my gaze and pours me one as well, knowing I like a drink or two after having someone in the chair. A little torture always makes me a little thirsty.
The metallic scent of blood still lingers in my nostrils, and I’m only happy to get rid of it. “The kid was at the Hideaway last night,” Leo comments, and I’m not surprised he knows that. His eyes can be sharper than mine sometimes. It’s why he is my underboss. He hands me a glass of Scotch, arching a brow. “This wouldn’t have anything to do with Diana, would it?” he asks knowingly.
I hold the cigarette between my fingers and take a sip of the Scotch with the same hand. Something tightens in my chest, but my expression remains stoic. “If you already know the answer, why are you asking?”
“To hear you say it yourself,” Leo smirks in response.
I down the drink in one go, the alcohol burning a path down my throat. I know what he’s doing, but I won’t give him the satisfaction. If it was anyone else, I’d make them regret questioning me in any sense. But it’s Leo, so I choose to ignore his knowing looks and sharp eyes by drinking my Scotch and smoking my cigarette.
But there’s no distraction from the thoughts that whip around in my head. With each day that passes, I find myself thinking more and more about Diana, and it all came to a head last night when I saw her at the club. She is an attractive woman, there’s no doubt about it. But, more or less, she’s forbidden. As my children’s nanny, that trumps anything else, including whatever attraction I have for her. If I fuck things up by pursuing her in any way and drive her away from looking after Monica and Matteo, I will be pissed—at no one but myself. At the end of the day, Diana is the best at what she does, and my children deserve no less than the best.
I’ll have to keep it in my pants if I want to keep her as the twins’ caretaker. What a cliché would that be, for me to fuck my kids’ nanny? One as young as she is?
It’s a cliché, I resolve, that cannot come true.
*****
There’s music playing when I walk into my house. It’s slightly distant, telling me that it’s coming from the back of the house where the kitchen is. I shrug off my suit jacket, hanging it for now on the round top of the banister of the stairs as I pass by it, heading into the kitchen. The closer I get, the more prominent becomes the sound of my children’s giggles over the sound of the melodic music that’s playing. I recognize it—it’s Disney music that Monica loves listening to.
I walk quietly and look into the kitchen once I arrive at the threshold, and the sight before me squeezes my chest. Monica and Matteo are standing on step stools so they can reach the top of the center island where ingredients are spread around to bake cookies. Diana stands right with them, and the three of them are rolling chocolate chip cookie dough into balls in their hands before placing them on a tray with a baking sheet spread on top of it.
The kids are giggling, obviously enjoying themselves, with Monica nodding her head to the music as Diana hums along. Matteo sneakily attempts to steal a chocolate chip from the bag that rests on the counter. But right as he pops it in his mouth, Diana, without even looking up from her hands as she rolls the dough between them, says casually, “Every chocolate chip you steal equals to a bite of your veggies with dinner tonight, Matteo.”
Matteo freezes, eyes widening slightly as he swallows the chip. Monica is giggling as Matteo puts on an innocent act. “That was just my first one.”
“Oh, really?” Diana muses, putting the rolled-up dough ball on the tray before bending to look Matteo in the eye. No one notices me yet, and I watch as Diana playfully narrows her blue eyes at my son, her fisted hands resting on her hips. “Then how come I counted six, mister?”
Matteo smiles at her, wide and charming. I suppress a smirk; the kid’s going to be breaking hearts when he’s older. I would know. “Maybe you counted wrong.”
“Really?” Diana repeats with an arch of her brow. “Tell me—who checks whose math homework every day?”
This time Matteo pouts, apparently having no argument against that. “How did you know?” he asks instead. “You weren’t even looking.”
Diana grins at him, and the tightness in my chest intensifies at the sight of it. Her smile lights up the fucking room, even if it’s bright as hell in here thanks to all of the kitchen lights. But none of it compares to the happiness her smile radiates. “I have eyes in the back of my head,” she tells Matteo, widening her eyes dramatically.
My son wrinkles his nose. “That’s gross.”
That makes Diana laugh, and that sound—fuck. It echoes in my ears, resonating deep in my bones. I bite the tip of my tongue, keeping my own smile from upturning my lips. It wasn’t as though our house was lacking any laughs or smiles—I made sure to give my kids the kind of life where they wouldn’t ever lack anything. I want them to always smile, always have reasons to laugh.
With Diana in our house, the smiles and laughter are still there, but it feels different now. Lighter, if possible. And while I worked day and night to make sure my kids always had everything they wanted, and that they would never feel like they were missing something, I know that we are. I feel it, every day. Maria’s ghost haunts the hallways.
I miss my wife, every day, and the pain of her loss stays with me. But Monica and Matteo—they never knew her. I keep her memory alive for them, I always will, but I’m grateful that they don’t know that kind of loss.
And the longer I watch them with Diana, with a light in their eyes that is wonderfully blinding, I’m grateful that Diana is here.
My gaze slides to the glass of water that is resting on the counter, and I inherently know that it’s for me. Gloria used to always hand me one whenever I came home at the end of the day, cracking jokes about how I couldn’t live off of whiskey and Scotch. I appreciated it every time she did it.
But now Diana has taken up that task, along with taking care of the kids, and the first time she had handed it to me, there had been a foreign sensation brewing deep in my chest. A feeling I haven’t experienced in a long time. It had taken me aback because I absolutely didn’t expect her to do it, too. I’m aware it’s a mundane thing, her just handing me a glass of water, but something about Diana doing it instead of Gloria feels different. And I’m afraid it’s in a way that I can find myself rapidly growing attached to.
I step into the kitchen then, immediately announcing my presence as the kids look over at me. They grin widely, their smiles thawing the cold heart that beats in my chest. “Hi, Daddy!” Monica greets me, waving a doughy hand at me. “We’re baking cookies!”
The corner of my mouth lifts up. “I see that,” I say, walking over to the end of the counter and picking up the glass of water. My gaze flicks up at Diana, and her eyes lock with mine; bluer than any ocean I’ve ever seen. I have an incriminating feeling that if I could, I’d happily drown in them.
“Will they taste like the ones from the bakery?” Matteo asks Diana, looking up at her with wide, green eyes. “The ones daddy gets?”
A part of me tenses at Matteo’s question, at him bringing up the bakery. I keep my gaze fixed on Diana as I sip my water, my grip on it tight. In raising my kids, I’ve worked hard on protecting them from the darkness of the world and the horrors that live in it—especially because I work so intimately in the shadows of it all. My children are the only light in my life, the only good. For as long as I can, I want to protect them from anything unsavory, anything they might not fully comprehend just yet.
So, to them, asking about the bakery is normal. But to Diana, they’re practically asking about her father, about the very place he was killed in.
And for the first time, I find myself wanting to protect someone other than my children.
I look at Diana, and I see the way her smile freezes for a fraction of a second. In this moment, she is vulnerable, and she wears her heart on her sleeve. I see the emotions flash across her face; the pain, the grief. But she smiles through it. “They sure will,” she tells the kids with a grin. “What’d I tell you? I used to bake a lot of the stuff in that bakery. And now, you get the good stuff right here at home.”
Matteo giggles. “Awesome.”
For the next few minutes, I stay in the kitchen, watching as they finish with the dough. Then, Diana takes the tray and walks over to the oven. Making sure the kids stay back, she pulls it open and slides the tray in, shutting the oven afterward and setting a timer.
“Alrighty,” Diana grins at the kids. “In about ten minutes, they should be done. Why don’t you two wash your hands, huh? We’ll have dinner and then cookies.”
Monica and Matteo nod before hurrying out of the kitchen, their feet lightly thudding along the floor as they go. I set the glass down, watching as Diana washes her hands before moving to clean up the mess on the counter. Today’s meal is already sitting, cooked, on the stove, so I move toward the cabinets to pull out plates.
I hear her clattering behind me as she cleans up, and just as I turn around with the plates, Diana clears her throat. I arch an eyebrow. She’s holding the bowl they had likely mixed the dough in as she locks her gaze with mine and asks, “Do you have any updates on the fire?”
I press my teeth together, unsurprised by her question. She hasn’t asked about the fire in a while—and I had hoped she wouldn’t. Diana doesn’t move from where she stands, still holding onto the bowl, short hair pulled back into a ponytail. Wisps of blonde hair frame her face, and I see that hope in her eyes. It’s bright and runs deep, and the muscle in my jaw tics from how hard I’m clenching my teeth.
My instant reaction is to tell her it isn’t any of her business—except, I know that it is. It’s her family’s bakery, it’s her father who died in that fire. But I have nothing new to tell her, and there is a voice in the back of my head that I listen to more often than not telling me to keep her in the dark. For now, at least.
“My business is not something to concern yourself with,” I say coolly, walking around her to place the plates on the round table toward the back of the kitchen.
I hear Diana scoff behind me, though she tries to be quiet about it. I press the tip of my tongue to my cheek, feeling her gaze burn my back as I walk to the table. “It’s actually my family’s business that burned down,” Diana retorts. When I turn around, I see Diana’s brows pulled together, though she seems like she’s trying not to glare at me. Except, there’s no hiding the hurt that swims in those baby blues. Her throat works, she’s practically hugging the bowl to her chest now. “I just want to know what’s going on.”
“And you will, once there’s something for you to know,” I respond, my voice tight and leaving no room for arguments. I straighten my shoulders at the down-turning of her lips, lifting my chin. She’s obviously disappointed—hurt—at my refusal. “My men are still conducting searches, trying to find out if anybody got into the bakery and how.”
I sure as fuck am not about to tell her that they’re digging into her father as well. She won’t react to that well, believing that we’re going to be looking at him as someone at fault instead of a victim. And the fact of the matter is, we don’t know for sure how or if Benny Elliott was involved in something shady that led to his vicious death. I’m certainly not about to hint at it to his daughter before I know myself for sure.
“And finding out why,” Diana emphasizes, walking to the sink and putting the bowl in it. She does it more forcefully than necessary, the ceramic of the bowl clanging with the metal of the sink. I see the way her shoulders hunch up, cursing slightly. “Sorry,” she mutters, just loud enough for me to be able to hear with us on opposite ends of the kitchen.
My jaw tightens again, taking in a deep breath. Guilt prickles my skin, the sensation unknown, and it has me inhaling deeply through my nose. Diana doesn’t turn around to look at me. She keeps her back to me as she washes the bowls she used while baking, instead of popping them into the dishwasher. The scent of the chocolate chip cookies slowly begins filling the air as Diana washes the dishes.
Rubbing a hand over my jaw, I gaze out of the window. The sun has set, and the bright lights of the kitchen have my reflection staring right back at me. I see the conflicted look in my gaze, and it rattles something inside of me. Turning my gaze toward Diana once more, I take in the tension in her shoulders, my hand sliding from my jaw to the back of my neck before I drop it to my side.
“Thank you,” I say suddenly. The words taste. . . strange in my mouth, but they’re enough to get Diana to shut off the water before she turns around.
She looks at me, the wariness evident in her eyes as her eyebrows pull together slightly. “For what?”
I jerk my chin toward the entryway of the kitchen. Distantly, I can hear the sounds of my children giggling. “For keeping them happy,” I tell her truthfully. I see the slight widening of her eyes as if my words are truly a shock to her. For some reason, her incredulity at this small show of gratitude from me grates at me. “I’d been. . . worried the transition from Gloria to you was going to be difficult but you’ve made everything effortless for them.”
Diana blinks out of her stupor, pink lips quirking up in a close-mouthed smile. Her hands are behind her back, likely clutching the counter she leans against, as she nods. “It’s my job,” she says, brushing it off. “I’m just glad things are, uh, working out.”
As am I. It’s why I have to remind myself not to listen too closely to the way my heart does a ridiculous skip in its rhythm every time her eyes meet mine.