Chapter 3
Lennon
I’m tugging at the bustline of the scoop neck top, so my boobs don’t look so indecent but only succeed in exposing my abs.
“Sloane,” I groan. “Don’t you have a bigger uniform?” I try pulling the stretchy black skirt up to cover my stomach, but then I can feel the air conditioning on the top of my thighs. I turn and squeak as I see the skirt is now barely covering my ass.
Sloane snorts as she applies a fresh coat of red lipstick and then lets her expertly lined hazel brown eyes sweep over me. “You have to stop squirming. You’ve got a hot bod, just own it.”
I roll my eyes. We’re in the bathroom at The Vault, a swanky event venue on Bayshore Boulevard in Tampa. Sloane owns Shoreside Catering and called me an hour ago in a panic. One of her servers got into a car accident and couldn’t come to work tonight for this big event.
After some impressive begging, I finally relented and came in to help, mourning my planned Netflix and popcorn night.
My regret grows by the second.
I turn my attention to my hair. There wasn’t time to do anything but throw my auburn waves into a high ponytail.
I fluff out the curtain bangs that frame my face and shrug.
It’ll have to do. No one will be looking at me anyway.
One thing I’ve learned when you’re a worker around the rich and influential, you’re basically furniture.
Crossing my arms under my exposed cleavage, I lean against the sink and finger the tiny gold cross around my neck.
I’m not religious but it was my mother’s.
It keeps her close to my heart. It’s the only jewelry I wear besides the tiny emerald nose piercing I got on my twenty-first birthday after way too many margaritas with Sloane.
My best friend blots the excess lipstick onto a paper towel.
We’re complete opposites in every way, which is probably why we get along so well.
She’s all dark hair, lithe muscle, sharp cheekbones and wit.
She doesn’t believe in second chances or mercy.
She built her business with her blood, sweat and tears after her wealthy family cut her off.
I take a softer approach to life. Try to understand where people are coming from. Mom told me everyone is fighting a battle you can’t see, and that’s the truest truth I’ve learned given my career.
“What’s this event for anyway?” I’ve helped her with weddings, which are fun. There’s always some entertaining family drama. Especially when an open bar is involved.
“Some boring fundraiser. The who’s who of Tampa political royalty.” She snaps her bag closed and turns abruptly to pull me into a hug. “I really appreciate you, ya know.”
I smile. Once she decides you’re in her inner circle, she’s such a hugger. “I know.”
Pulling back, she checks her phone. “All right, let's get the crew together in the kitchen. Almost time to start serving the hors d'oeuvres and champagne.”
Six servers and I follow Sloane onto the main floor, pushing carts loaded with food—including her popular goat cheese and salami-stuffed dates—along with bottles of champagne.
She leads us to the left side of the room where we have a clear view of the whole area. “We’ll set up and serve from here.”
I take in the space. Vaulted ceilings and floor-to-ceiling windows offer a stunning view of the water and sky, where an amazing fluorescent orange sunset is unfolding.
Round tables draped in white linens are arranged in front of a raised stage.
Bouquets of red roses and flickering candles adorn the tables.
A parquet dance floor sits in the middle of the room under a giant chandelier and a long bar runs along the back wall.
Piano music is being piped into the room, and the air conditioning is on full blast, so goosebumps break out on my arms.
People are starting to trickle in. The men are wearing tuxes or designer suits. The women are in sparkling dresses that hug their bodies like a second skin, jewels dripping from their necks and arms shimmering as they walk beneath the chandelier, their hair in complicated updos.
I tug at my skirt self-consciously.
Sloane notices. “Lennon, since you don’t have experience carrying trays, why don’t you stay here at the station and pour the drinks, get the trays ready for the servers to pick up.”
Nodding my relief, I grab a bottle of Moet & Chandon to pop open. This I can do.
I get into an easy rhythm filling glasses and arranging the food trays as the venue fills up. Laughter and conversation begin to mix with the piano music.
I’m not sure how much time passes when Sloane is next to me, telling one of the servers that the mayor’s wife has requested her dinner be vegan when she suddenly stops mid-sentence.
I glance up at her. Surprise is widening her hazel brown eyes, and I follow her stare.
I freeze. My breath catches in my throat.
It can’t be.
A dozen men have filed through the doors, some with polished, sleek women on their arms, some alone. They are all wearing perfectly tailored black suits, their powerful, dark energy unmistakable. After spending every summer in the presence of made men, I’d recognize them even in their underwear.
Most of them continue strolling, their every move followed by curious gazes as they confidently stride into the crowd, shaking hands and plucking champagne flutes from the servers’ trays.
But one man stands at the edge of the dance floor, hands shoved in his tailored suit pockets, jaw clenched, and his brutal stare locked on me.
“Ah, Lennon?” Sloane whispers harshly next to me. “Why is that smoking hot guy staring daggers at you?”
I try to swallow but my throat is too dry. “Sandro.”
His name, a whisper on my lips, rises straight from the graveyard of things I’ve buried deep. I haven’t spoken it in ten years.
Did I even say it out loud?
The only thing I can hear now is the blood rushing in my ears as my heart beats like a frantic, caged bird in my chest.
Our eyes are still locked as he stalks toward me, ignoring the people trying to get his attention as he passes. And then he’s in front of me, blue eyes burning like a cold fire, square jaw dusted with a purposeful five-o’clock shadow, muscles twitching with rage.
I can’t help but notice how he’s filled out, how the teen boy has become a sculpted Adonis of a man. His signature cologne scent—sandalwood and citrus—reaches me, and I’m suddenly that heartbroken seventeen-year-old girl who lost everything again.
Sloane places a hand on my shoulder, her mouth close to my ear. “You okay?”
Tiny black dots appear in my vision as I realize I’m not breathing. I force air into my constricted lungs and nod slowly.
I feel her squeeze my arm and then reluctantly leave my side.
Sandro’s icy gaze trails down my body and his nostrils flare.
My chest flushes, and I have to resist the urge to tug at my top. If I could crawl into a hole and disappear right now, I would. Of all the ways I imagined running into him again, this was not it.
Finally, he speaks. His tone is rough and laced with anger. “You’re back in Tampa.”
It’s a statement, not a question so I don’t answer him. I don’t know if I could push the words past my dry throat anyway.
I’m embarrassed by the hold he still has on me. His voice. His scent. Those thick-lashed eyes I’ve watched sparkle like sapphires in the sunlight and turn midnight blue when his mood darkens.
Like now.
Everything familiar about him, about the boy I knew is there, beneath the surface of this man I don’t. Like a shimmering mirage. But I have a feeling that, like a mirage, the boy will disappear if I get close.
Because I’m looking into the eyes of a man who has spent the last ten years being molded into someone who’s embraced the darkness he was born into.
A fist grips my heart, crushing it. Mourning the death of the sweet boy I once knew.
Oh, Sandro.
As we stare into each other’s eyes, I see the conflict rise.
“Jesus, Lennon,” he whispers, his gaze falling to my mouth. He steps closer, about to say something, when someone interrupts, lacing their arm through his.
I tear my gaze away from him and blink at the beautiful woman pressed against his side, a cruel smirk tugging at her filler-enhanced lips.
Giada Zerilli.
“Lennon.” Giada draws out my name as she looks me up and down. “I guess the apple doesn’t fall far from the tree.”
The blush is now creeping up my neck, radiating heat. She’s referencing my mother being a worker at Club Paradiso. How dare she bring up my mother. A flash of my mother’s smile makes me bite the inside of my cheek to keep the emotional pain in check.
But what comes out of Giada’s mouth next is much much worse.
“Has Sandro told you we’re getting married?” She lifts her hand, fluttering her fingers so the large diamond engagement ring sparkles in my face.
I try to hide the shock ripping through my soul like an earthquake, rearranging everything I thought I knew. By the satisfaction glittering in her dark eyes, I know I’ve failed.
I move my gaze back to Sandro. He’s watching me, his eyes the blue-gray hue of storm clouds. Shuttered. Unreadable. I’m numb.
“Congratulations,” I manage to croak out. My chest is tight and the urge to flee is strong. “Excuse me,” I mumble and give in to the urge.
Sloane finds me in the kitchen, takes one look at my face, and wraps her arms around me. “Okay, whatever that was, we’ll deal with it. Just get through the next few hours. I’ll be out of here by ten at the latest. I’ll meet you at your place. Ice cream or wine?”
The clinking sounds and voices from the kitchen are far away. Her warm hands clutching mine are the only thing keeping me anchored to this moment, so I don’t float away into the abyss.
“Tequila,” I whisper.
“Oh, babe. That bad, huh?” Sloane squeezes my hands until I meet her gaze. “You’ve been through worse, Lennon. Remember who you are, a badass goddess who doesn’t owe anybody a damn thing.”
My body is trembling, my vision shimmering with unshed tears. But I bite back the flood of emotion threatening to drown me. I won’t let them see the wound they’ve inflicted. No, they don’t deserve my tears. Anger overtakes the devastation. I nod.
After washing my face in the restroom and doing a few minutes of calming breathing exercises I learned in yoga, I head back out to help my best friend like I promised. I’ll just keep my eyes on the job in front of me. I can do this. Just a few hours, and I’ll never have to see them again.
I fall back into a rhythm, mindlessly filling glasses, keeping my head down so I don’t accidentally catch sight of Sandro or Giada.
After another torturous hour that moves as slow as frozen molasses, a man steps up to the microphone on the stage and directs the crowd to start moving to the tables for the first course of dinner.
The servers return and start rolling their carts back to the kitchen.
Almost finished.
After I’ve scraped the food off the trays and stacked them, I search for someone to help me push the cart back to the kitchen.
The servers are all busy.
I make the mistake of glancing toward the bar, catching the eye of Milo Zerilli. He hasn’t grown much height-wise or as a person, I note. His cruel smirk is unmistakable. He raises a hand and waves.
I raise my middle finger and flip him off. Cursing under my breath, I begin to push the cart myself. The sooner I can get out of here the better.
People have taken their seats. Mayor Suarez is on the stage now, talking about some charity his wife is involved in. I tune him out as I unlock the wheels and concentrate on returning the heavy cart to the kitchen without running into walls or people.
Once in the kitchen, I push it against the wall and lean against it. I’m emotionally drained. I need a minute before I can drive home.
Exiting the kitchen, I grab my purse, find a seating area down a quiet hallway, and collapse into a chair. I can’t close my eyes because Sandro is there waiting, his blue eyes burning with anger. So instead, I stare at the ceiling.
What’s he doing in Tampa? Does he live here now?
Why would he marry Giada? They hate each other.
Or they used to. It’s been ten years, things change.
Could it be an arranged marriage? Even if it is, he obviously agreed to it.
So many questions that I will never get answers to. He’s not my business anymore.
I pull out my phone and text Sloane: heading home. See ya there when ur done
With a heavy sigh, I push myself out of the chair and head back to the main room so I can sneak out the front doors.
I’m in the back, halfway to the doors, when I hear his name. I freeze. Against my will, my gaze flicks to the stage.
Sandro and Giada are standing beside Mayor Suarez. Sandro’s eyes are locked on me.
The mayor is saying, “I’d like to make a toast. We have a special guest here tonight.
Alessandro LaRocca, who many of you know is a new businessman in the area and also a very generous contributor to Brighter Tomorrow’s Initiative.
And he is also newly engaged to Ms. Giada Zerilli.
” He holds up a glass of champagne. “A toast to the lovely couple. May your union be happy and blessed.”
Giada glances up at Sandro and follows his stare to me. She grabs his hand and turns him to face her. Her chin tilts up, and she says something to him with a smile. Time freezes as they stare into each other’s eyes.
I blink hard, tearing my gaze away. I meet another set of eyes staring at me from one of the tables.
Gunnar.
His blond hair is in a top knot, shaved at the sides. He’s also bulked up, grown into a beast of a man. He cocks his head and lifts a hand in greeting.
I’d always liked Gunnar, but was also kind of jealous of his relationship with Sandro if I’m being honest.
My hand slowly raises to greet him back, and the movement is enough to get me out of freeze mode. Lowering my head, I race to the door and push out into the muggy night air.