Chapter 6 #2
“You like it?” Marcello asks me, topping my glass until it is near the brim.
“Yes, thank you. It’s decadent.”
“It is decadent, isn’t it?” Marcello looks at Damon, smiling as he leans back in his chair. It's like they had a secret I am not part of.
“You know, when I met my Maria, she was about your age. Innocent and sweet. You remind me of her.” Marcello shows the first big, genuine smile I have seen on his face since working here. But there is also a bittersweet tinge that I recognize. It is the same way I speak about James.
“I’m sure I would have loved her. Did you have any children together?
” Marcello looks surprised but recovers quickly, leaning further back in his chair, pulling out a large cigar and proceeding to snip the tip and light it as he talks.
The motion is so practiced it all happens quickly before a puff of smoke fills the air.
“We tried, but after her third miscarriage, we stopped. I have a son with my second wife, Lucy. Alessandro. You will meet him when he returns from his business trip next week.” How he spoke his second wife’s name compared to his first made me think his first wife was his great love.
Something that both saddened me and made me happy. Guilt warring with hope. I was glad James was my great love, but would he be my only love?
The conversation continues, with little input from Damon besides the occasional grunt. That, however, doesn’t lessen his contribution to this situation. Unlike a wallflower that disappears quietly into the background, Damon’s presence just inches away is utterly deafening.
It consumes me. Being this close to him for this long as alcohol sweeps through my system must be what a candle feels like. I am the wax, and he is the flame. He is also the darkness at the end when the wick finally runs out.
Every shift in his seat. Every movement of his hand. Every facial expression. I cannot help myself. I am addicted.
“How long have you two known each other?” My finger points from Marcello to Damon, my eyes following the same path. The alcohol has made me brave, and I figure Marcello might be a good source of information regarding the mystery that is Damon.
“Too long. We met fifteen years ago when he was a male entertainer. Before he became what he is today.” The shock at Marcello's words can’t be contained, an ‘oh’ leaving my mouth as I imagine Damon on stage. Daddy Damon.
A shiver runs down my spine, and a throb settles in my core as images of Damon removing his clothes piece by piece run amuck in my mind. Dirty mind, I scold, realizing I have zoned out of the conversation and missed what was just said.
Marcello's phone rings, and he gets up, answering before telling whoever is on the other side to hold.
“It is settled then. I will see you next week. Damon will give you the details.” I cannot protest even if I wanted to, though I wouldn’t even know what I was protesting to, as he turns and leaves.
Shit. My eyes remain locked on Marcello’s retreating form until he disappears through the door Gavin holds open. The tension is thick as I look at Damon, his relaxed form doing nothing to calm me.
I take another sip of the champagne, my hand clutching the glass so tightly I am surprised I haven’t broken it. His eyes follow every movement, dipping down to my lips as the glass leaves them and following my tongue as it darts out to catch any excess.
His silent perusal of me makes me nervous, and I shift in my chair, squeezing my thighs together to stop the ache that constantly seems to be there around this man.
Air is in short supply, and I am starting to feel a bit dizzy. This is precisely what I read about in books—that ‘heady’ feeling.
“Are you enjoying yourself, Sienna?” The way he says my name, his voice so low and sensual, makes me visibly shiver, his brow arching up slightly, letting me know he has noticed. I stiffen, willing myself to be a statue. A statue that doesn’t give anything away.
“Yes?” I answer, not sure what response he is looking for.
“You don’t drink much. You’re tipsy. Don’t drink alcohol when I am not around.” It’s a statement. One that, for some reason, makes me laugh.
Who did he think he was? And why did it matter to him what I did when he wasn’t around?
I estimate we are only a few years apart, and I wasn’t his daughter.
The last thing I wanted was for him to see me as familial.
This is exactly what I am thinking as his head tilts to the side, his eyebrow rising as he waits for me to agree.
“Yes, sir, Daddy Damon.” I give him my best salute as the words fall into the space between us.
Everything happens so quickly that I can’t register or react. My eyes take in the black material of his suit jacket, the back of it, confirming what I cannot believe. I am slung over his shoulder.
His long legs eat up the distance, and my face is ablaze with embarrassment. Gasps are heard as we walk past groups of people and probably staff. The direction we are heading in is clear. We are going to the restricted section, probably his office.
Scrap that. I look to the side, his office door passing us by as he continues, only to stop in front of one of the seven doors that have piqued my curiosity since starting here.
Door number one.