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I’ve lost my server. Damn it. I turn to go back to the terrace when a man calls out again, louder this time. “Ms. Corrado Mancini.”
I take a few more steps when it hits me that I’m Ms. Mancini the man is calling. Turning, I face the man we met at the door. Samuel.
“This way,” he says, and leads me through a narrow hallway with dim lighting and pale green doors separating textured, beige-wallpapered walls. All the way at the end of the hallway, we enter a room, where two men stand at ready. One wears a toque, and the other holds a golden tray with an assortment of dessert samples on it.
A chef and a server, just for the pair of us.
“We hope you enjoy the evening,” Samuel says as he closes the door behind me.
Exotic gold-foil wallpaper artfully displays rich and dramatic oil paintings. The thickness of paint applied to the canvas gives a three-dimensional impression, making me want to pluck the painted grapes from the bowl.
Instead of touching the art (even though I want to so badly), I brace my knee on the deep green Chesterfield and lean in so I can run a hand over the foil on the wallpaper underneath the painting.
My knee brushes something soft. It’s a furry, deep purple pillow. I fluff it up, then put it on my lap. I pet it as if it’s a dog, which makes me think of the pair of Dobermans Corrado rescued today. I hope they find a loving home.
Once I settle in, the server offers me a cup of decaf with milk and sugar while also placing a decanted glass of what might be whiskey on the wooden coffee table in front of the couch. The chef remains standing with the tray.
Since Corrado takes longer than ten minutes to arrive, I figure I’ll use a bathroom outside. On the way back, I’m fixing the zipper of my purse, and when I enter the lounge, I stop in my tracks.
Corrado sits on one side of the couch, his right arm thrown over the back, left leg extended, right hand swirling a decanted drink.
Across from him, sitting on the couch, is a beautiful brunette with long, straight, black hair cascading down her bare back. She wears a red dress too, but it’s a red that’s somehow richer than mine. She paired her dress with silver shoes and a French manicure on her toes.
Her red lipstick leaves a print on her wineglass.
She gives me the same look I’m likely giving her. It’s the what are you doing here look.
Corrado breaks the tension. “Michela, I believe you’ve met Isabella last night.”
Isabella, although already pale in complexion, pales even further before fumbling a confused “Nice to meet you” before looking at Corrado the way a woman looks at the man who broke her heart.
I feel bad and approach her, offering my hand. “Hi again,” I say.
She narrows her eyes, and pure hate-rage replaces her heartbroken expression as she looks down her nose at my proffered hand, then slurs out, “Looks like I’m in your seat.”
Before I can respond, Corrado pulls me into his lap. “Not at all. My wife was just sitting on my face.”
Holy crap! I slide my arm around Corrado’s shoulder.
Isabella downs her drink. “She’ll bore you, and then you’ll call me.” Drunk and clearly heartbroken, she stumbles to the door.
Samuel arrives and apologizes profusely for the interruption while trying to escort the woman out of the room. I presume Corrado isn’t impressed or forgiving when he barks in Italian.
“I don’t need your charity!” she screams.
No woman should make a fool of herself over a man, but love makes us all do crazy things. I’m not sure if she loves Corrado, but if she does, she’ll find a way to grieve what might’ve been between them and move on. Sadly, before she moves on, she’s here screaming at and kicking the security team that’s arrived.
Samuel is still apologizing profusely, but Corrado isn’t having it. He snatches Samuel’s tie and yanks it toward him, forcing the man to bend. Then he takes the burning candle from the table and brings the flame to Samuel’s tie.
It lights on fire.
Samuel bends one knee.
Corrado nods. “Good. Now, we can talk. Make sure no one sees her and drive her to Franko’s home. Tell Franko to get her under control before she does something dumber than this. Tell him she put my wife’s old car in the junkyard and that I’ve retaliated for that. Let that be the end of it.”
“She was the one who junked my car?” I ask, biting my lip as Samuel’s tie keeps burning up toward his face.
“Mmhm,” Corrado says to me. To Samuel, he says, “Two things. You will discipline whoever allowed her in here, and if you find out it’s Dominico Benvenuti, you will scrape out his eyeballs with a spoon and deliver them to me in the empty vase I left on his table.”
