Chapter 25
He keeps his eyes locked on mine as he shoves backward through the swinging double doors to the kitchen.
In an urgent whisper, I say, “We can’t go in there.”
His face is like a serpent’s. “We can do anything. We’re the guys. We’re the ‘F’ word.”
A silver tray heavy with Champagne flutes rattles into Bruno’s back. “Careful.” He doesn’t look round at the girl in the black servers’ uniform and white apron, fighting to keep the balance of the tray. With an expert swerve, she recovers and gets around him without losing the balance of the tray.
He jerks his head toward the kitchen. I press my lips together. And I give him a shake of my head.
With only the trace of an amused grin, he shakes his head as he yanks on my finger.
I want to tell him, No, but my voice has dried up. I take another sip of the Gibson.
So what is this, am I going to get manhandled and mauled by two of the Fortuna brothers in the same night?
Who am I kidding? Carlo is the man I’m supposed to marry. Nothing short of an act of God would keep him from helping himself to a piece of me before the night is out. A wicked thought from deep down wishes I could just have all three of them together.
Mikey told me long ago, ‘Don’t try to be smart, Princess. You are smart. Plenty smart enough. Trying will just make you trip over your own feet. Play the cards you’ve got and you’ll never go wrong.’
And so I follow Bruno into the kitchens. But only to tell him, ‘You can’t do this. Whatever it is you’re thinking of, people are working in here.’ In the echoing jangle and clatter, and the firm, sharp voices of the kitchen, warm air is rich with the smells of baking, mixed with heavy scents of chocolate and coffee. My nipples ache.
As the doors swing shut behind us, he lifts his voice. “Okay, listen up. Everybody out. This kitchen is now out of use. The other kitchen is on the far side of the room. Take all you need and work from there for the next half-hour.” He looks down, exploring my eyes. “Make it an hour.”
A large, burly waiter steps toward him, tight jawed and frowning. He’s tattooed and he looks like a vet of several tours.
“Look, we’re…”
One look into Bruno’s eyes stops him dead in his tracks.
“You’re going to the other kitchen.”
The waiter nods, then he reverses away with a bow and in a hurry.
While the kitchen and wait staff bustle and stream smartly out, Bruno backs me against the tiled wall. The tiles are a cold and wet shock against my back.
“You can’t,” I start to tell him. I’m very hot and very wet. His eyes light up at the challenge.
“No?” He takes my wrists with one hand and lifts them above my head, stretching my arms up until my heels begin to rise.
“Bruno…”