Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Belle
I twisted the bar spoon between my fingers, admiring how the silver caught the light as I stirred the Manhattan to perfect dilution.
Six weeks at The Gray and I'd finally found my rhythm behind the bar.
I moved with confidence now, something seemingly impossible during my first nervous shifts.
The whiskey, vermouth, and bitters blended together in the mixing glass, transforming from separate entities into something complex and balanced.
Not unlike how I was starting to feel in this strange new world of luxury and power that I'd stumbled into.
"I think that’s just about perfect," I murmured to myself, straining the liquid into a chilled coupe glass. I added the brandied cherry with a small pair of tongs, then slid the drink across the polished black marble to a waiting patron who barely looked up from his phone to acknowledge me.
"You're a natural, Belle." Carlos, the head bartender and someone who made the best damn drinks I’d ever tasted, shot me a grin. He nodded toward the drink I'd just prepared. "Took me weeks to get that balance right when I started. You picked it up in what, three shifts at the bar?"
I smiled, pleased by the compliment. "I still have a lot to learn. I was a server. I can remember drinks and food choices, but this is a whole different beast altogether.”
"Maybe, but you've got good instincts." Carlos reached around me for a bottle of aged rum. "And you actually listen when people want to teach you things. That's rare."
I ducked my head, unused to praise. Most of my previous jobs had been exercises in survival rather than skill-building.
The Gray was different. Everyone employed here didn’t just serve drinks or food or anything else.
Our job involved theater, chemistry, and psychology all rolled into one.
Despite the realization that Dario Luca and his family weren’t exactly what most would call “good people”, I couldn't deny that working here had awakened something in me.
I seemed to have uncovered a hidden talent I hadn't known I possessed.
"The key-lime martini is still giving me trouble," I admitted, wiping down my station. "I can't seem to get the foam right."
Carlos laughed. "That's because it's a fussy bastard of a drink. Even I hate making those."
The music shifted, the beat deepening, vibrating through the soles of my feet and up into my chest. Around us, The Gray pulsed with life.
Beautiful people in beautiful clothes laughed and danced and flirted.
As always, most of them were spending more on a single round of drinks than I made in a day.
The lighting changed with the music, washing everyone in electric blue before fading to deep purple.
Through it all, I mixed drinks like I’d been doing it years instead of weeks.
I still hadn't processed what I'd overheard between Dario and his brother.
The raw vulnerability in his voice when he'd admitted he couldn't stay away from me haunted my thoughts at night.
Part of me was terrified by the intensity of his interest. Another part, a part I wasn't proud of, thrilled at having his attention.
"Bourbon, neat. Blue Label Johnny Walker if you have it.
" The voice pulled me from my thoughts. I looked up to find a distinguished man watching me from across the bar.
He leaned casually against the polished surface, his posture relaxed but somehow commanding.
His suit was impeccably tailored, charcoal gray with subtle pinstripes that probably cost more than my monthly rent.
His face was handsome in a sharp, deliberate way, all angles and careful grooming.
When he shifted his weight, I noticed a slight limp, though he carried it with such confidence it seemed more like a stylistic choice than a discomfort.
"Of course, sir," I replied, reaching for the bottle. "Would you like water on the side?"
He smiled, the expression not quite reaching his eyes. "How refreshing. A bartender who doesn't automatically assume I want ice with my bourbon." He extended his hand. "Vincent Rossi. And you are?"
I hesitated before taking his hand. Something in his manner set off warning bells, though I couldn't pinpoint why. His grip was firm but not aggressive, his skin cool and dry against mine.
"Belle," I said, withdrawing my hand as soon as politeness allowed.
"Just Belle? Like Madonna or Cher?" His smile widened, showing perfect teeth.
I poured his bourbon with a steady hand. "Yep.” I smiled at him. “Just Belle."
He accepted the drink, taking a small appreciative sip. "Excellent. You have a good pour, Belle. Not too generous, not too stingy. That's rare in establishments like this. They either try to impress you with heavy pours or maximize profits by shorting you."
"Thank you," I replied, unsure how to respond to his assessment.
"You're new here, aren't you?" Vincent swirled the bourbon in his glass, watching the light play through the amber liquid. "I don't recall seeing you before, and I'm something of a regular."
I nodded, keeping my expression neutral but pleasant as I wiped down the already spotless bar. "A few weeks."
"And already working the main bar on a Friday night? Impressive." His gaze was evaluative, almost clinical. "You must have caught someone's eye."
My hands stilled momentarily before I forced myself to continue cleaning. "I'm a quick learner. And pay attention when someone tries to teach me something."
"I'm sure you are." Vincent leaned in slightly, his voice dropping. "Do you enjoy working for the Luca family?"
The question caught me off guard. Most patrons didn't explicitly connect The Gray to the Luca family, even though Dario's ownership wasn't a secret. Something about the deliberate way Vincent phrased it made me uneasy.
"The Gray is a very good place to work," I said carefully.
"Indeed. Dario runs a tight ship." Vincent's eyes never left my face. "He has quite the reputation for... taking care of his people."
I grabbed a towel and began drying glasses that were already dry, needing something to occupy my hands. "I wouldn't know about that. I'm just a bartender."
"Oh, I doubt that very much." Vincent's smile was knowing now. "Dario Luca doesn't personally intervene when 'just bartenders' have trouble with handsy patrons. That was quite the scene last week, I hear."
My breath caught in my throat. How did he know about that?
I'd been careful not to discuss the incident with anyone outside of management, embarrassed by both the attention and my reaction to seeing Dario's darker side. "I'm sorry. This isn’t something I’m comfortable talking about. If you’ll excuse me, please." I wasn’t sure if I was more upset that this man knew about the incident when Dario had banned a patron because he’d grabbed me or that my reputation was already taking a hit.
Was I going to be regulated to Dario’s fling of the month?
Week? Yeah. This is why that fucking kiss had been a bad idea.
I set the glass I was polishing aside and turned away, but Vincent shot out his hand, not grabbing me but landing on top of my hand, trapping it between his hand and the glass.
He didn’t threaten me, but he effectively stopped my retreat.
"Just one more drink, please. A Negroni this time. I've heard they're your specialty."
I swallowed hard, unnerved by his knowledge of my preferred cocktail to make. It was such a small detail, but the fact that he knew it suggested he'd been asking questions about me. The thought made my skin crawl.
"Of course," I managed, reaching for the bottles with hands that weren't quite steady.
As I measured gin, sweet vermouth, and Campari, I felt Vincent's eyes tracking every movement.
His interest wasn't sexual, at least not primarily.
This felt more like an assessment, like I was being evaluated against some unknown criteria.
"You have lovely hands," Vincent commented as I stirred the drink. "Dario has always appreciated beautiful things. Beautiful, useful things."
The implication hung in the air between us, making my cheeks burn with a mixture of embarrassment and anger. I set the finished Negroni before him with more force than necessary, a few drops splashing onto the bar.
"Will there be anything else, sir?" I asked, my voice tight.
Vincent's smile was almost sympathetic now, as if he understood exactly how uncomfortable he was making me and found it amusing. "Not at present. But I suspect we'll be seeing more of each other, Belle." He raised his glass in a small toast. "I make it a point to know all of Dario's... interests."
I turned away, heart hammering in my chest. I didn't know who Vincent Rossi was, beyond his name and his expensive suit and the calculated way he'd tried to unsettle me.
But I knew, with instinctive certainty, that he was dangerous in ways I couldn't begin to comprehend.
And somehow, I had caught his attention simply by catching Dario's attention first.
Vincent took a slow sip of his Negroni, savoring it with exaggerated appreciation. "Perfectly balanced," he pronounced. “Especially considering you’ve not worked here long.”
I concentrated on pouring an order from the floor carefully and precisely, refusing to let him intimidate me into fucking up. I didn’t meet his eyes, instead concentrating on my pour. "I'm good at my job."
"I'm sure that's part of it." Vincent leaned forward, resting his elbows on the bar again. "What was your impression of the Luca brothers when you met them? Are they what you expected?"
My throat tightened. The calculated casualness of his question couldn't mask its intent. He wasn't making conversation. He was conducting an interview. "I haven't met all of them," I said carefully. "Just Mr. Luca and briefly his brother when he came through the club."