Next In The Series
“More coffee, sir?”
“Bourbon. Please,” I say as I let out a sigh of frustration and undo the top two buttons of my black dress shirt. The friendly waitress whose bared witness to the three-hour shitshow of me trying to find a housekeeper gives me a knowing look and quickly relays the order to the bartender. As I wait for my beverage of choice, I glance half-heartedly at the applications of the two least objectionable candidates, but find it only frustrates me more.
Now that my French Quarter residence has been converted into the offices for BB Private Security, I stay full-time at my place on the grounds of the Amato estate. Which, used to be tended to by the same staff tasked with maintaining the main house. With Alister and Sophia’s departure from New Orleans, it’s been vacated and most all the staff dismissed. And while I may be skilled in many things, cooking and cleaning aren’t part of my repertoire. So, here I am, in search of a suitable live-in maid. Someone skilled in domestic duties, capable of cooking at least three meals a day, but most importantly, someone I can trust. I suppose that’s where the true issue lies and why it’s taken me so long to seek help.
The FBI’s investigation into the Amatos has just successfully wrapped. They found nothing tying them to organized crime as I made sure there was nothing to find. However, during that process of disposal and an active investigation, I couldn’t risk hiring someone who could witness my efforts or plant evidence against them. It’s been months of take-out and frozen meals, and I won’t even get started on the house itself. I should be ashamed I’m not better at this. Nevertheless, things have settled enough where I feel I can bring someone on but no one feels right. Among my many roles in the world of organized crime, I read people. And, so far, no one I’ve met feels like someone I’d want in the same house as me—day and night.
I let out another sigh as the waitress brings me my bourbon. She delivers it with a smile and I manage to give her one in return. The first sip settles my frustration. The second releases the tension in my muscles. It’s then that a sharp chime draws my attention to the entrance of the small cafe. The woman who enters is a sight for sore eyes, causing my gaze to linger on her a bit longer than it should.
She has bright blonde hair, almost white. It falls somewhere between wavy and straight and is made to look even more disheveled by the heat and humidity which makes New Orleans almost unbearable in the last month of summer. I spot the sweat on her pale neck from here. It drips down her chest, creating a sparkling glow atop her cleavage. As she makes her way to the bar, holding the hand of a small girl with the same light features, I take in her soft, womanly body—her full chest, the dramatic curve from her breasts to her waist to her wider hips, which are somehow still obvious despite the flowy, cream-colored dress she wears.
The word angel rests on my dry tongue. It seems the sight of her has sucked the last bit of my strength from me. With that, I finally withdraw my gaze and take another sip of my bourbon. Though, as I register her in my peripheral, I hone in on her conversation with the bartender.
“Please, I know the summer rush is nearly over and no one is really hiring right now. I’ve heard it from thirty other places in town. But, I’m desperate for a job. Anything, please. I’ve just moved here and I have a daughter to provide for.”
The desperation in her tone tugs at my heart. I turn my head slightly in her direction without looking directly at her. As the bartender denies her without a second thought or any noticeable remorse, she sighs in defeat. The sound is even more disheartening than the one I released just moments ago.
“Well, can you at least pour me a drink and a juice for my daughter, please?” She asks as she places the small girl atop one of the wooden stools.
“Can you afford it?” The bartender responds and with that, my eyes darken and the muscles in my face stiffen my jaw. My grip on my own drink shakes so dangerously that I place the glass onto the bartop before I break it. A newfound frustration bubbles inside me as I stand. My movements are so abrupt both the woman whose name I do not yet know and the asshole of a bartender turn to watch me as I approach. As I move, I keep my cold eyes directed solely at him.
Reaching the three of them, I say, “I think she can afford it. Unless there’s a problem with my Black Card?”
“Of course not, Mr. Moretti. I’ll put them on your tab.” The spineless man bows his head as he backs away. I offer him nothing in return except the mercy of allowing him to retreat with the same face he was born with. I take a moment to shake the frustration from my features and replace my hardness with a softer expression before turning my attention to the woman and small girl beside me.
As I do, I’m taken aback by her sweet musky scent and breathtaking beauty which is all the more noticeable in close proximity. Though, it is the tear-filled look in her eyes that leaves me truly speechless. I’m not sure if the tears are because of me or despite me, but as she thanks me she does her best to make sure they go unnoticed. “Um, thank you, sir,” she says, lowering her eyes to the floor. As she speaks, she wraps a protective arm around her daughter who sits on the stool between us. “You didn’t have to do that, but we appreciate your kindness.”
“It’s my pleasure, Ms.?” I ask, hoping to learn her name.
She returns her gaze to me then. “Darcy, just Darcy.” I nod, sensing her nervousness. In those three words, she’s told me more than she realizes. She’s anxious, intimidated, kind enough to be appreciative, and yet, scared enough to be cautious. And, with a clear dismissal of any surname, I sense the reason for her fear and sudden move to the Crescent City may reside in her past or perhaps, something or someone she’s hoping to leave in her past.
I’m not sure if it’s her beauty or her desperation that draws me to her. Perhaps, both. Perhaps, it’s something else entirely. But, now that I’m here, I can’t seem to walk away. “Well, Darcy, I’m Gio. Welcome to New Orleans. I hear you’re looking for a job and I just so happen to be looking for a housekeeper. I’d love to tell you more about the opportunity over dinner. My treat, of course, with no obligations. Though, I do insist. I can’t in good conscience allow you to leave without eating something. I sense the two of you have had a long journey.”
“You are too kind, Mr. More?—“
“Gio, just Gio,” I say, interrupting her. “And, only to those who deserve my kindness.”
“What makes you think I deserve it?”
“What makes you think you don’t?”