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Alessio rides his powerful motorcycle the same was as he fucks, when he’s in his most fierce and ferocious rage. Like a form of dance, as a martial art. Swiveling from his hips, he swings the weight of the bike with a smooth violence, cutting and darting, surging, blasting up through the gears.
I grip tight and hold myself close against him, feeling his muscles and sinews pump and pulse as he twists and pulls the cycle up, hefting it with surgical precision at neck-snapping speeds.
He leans hard in every turn, his knees almost grazing the hard blur of black pavement. Cool precipitation cuts through my clothes as he slings the bike over, left and right.
When he brakes before a turn, he slips the back wheel sideways into position, shifts gear and rockets out at the apex of the turn. The road surface whips by in a flash of haze, inches from my shoulder.
He zips past the imposing white block of The Royalton Yacht Club and around the back. Dust churns as he skids the bike sideways. He stops at the staff entrance.
At the rear door, even we have to pass layers of biometric security. We watch each other’s eyes as we register thumbprints and we’re both thinking the same thing.
How did anyone get through this?
Members of the Sun-a-do, arrive at the front. They pass through the polished and nautical Yacht Club foyer, then detour down an anonymous corridor. The passage through security is efficient and businesslike.
On a normal day, smart and respectful guards are welcoming. They’re huge and they’re clearly men to avoid messing with. From a point of view of security, though, the visitors have been thoroughly scanned and pre-processed during their walk up the corridor. What the guests see hides all of the security apparatus, unless their appearance raises a red flag.
Even Carlo has said the biometric and database screening is close to impregnable.
When the lock clicks, Alessio shoves the door with his shoulder. We enter quickly into the hallway behind the kitchens. Servers and club staff locker rooms are on the left, chefs’ rest and changing areas to the right.
I leave my helmet on a table. Alessio keeps his with him as we go straight ahead into the main kitchen.
Alessio swings the doors wide and we slip into the heat, the hard rattle, and the steam. In the center of the noise, a clutch of chefs hats bobs and angry voices rasp.
In the middle of all the commotion, Tai, the CEO, towers over the cluster in his loose gray silk suit with the red and yellow embroidered lapels. Most of the tall hats are only a couple of inches higher than him. His long waves of hair cascade over his shoulders, tied and pulled back tight from his craggy face.
The noise and commotion stops as his heavy brow turns quickly to us.
“You can’t be in here. Not without whites and covers for your hair.”
Under the suit, he wears a loose, oversized cashmere polo.
Alessio tells him, “Your head’s not covered.”
“Remember,” under Tai’s heavy lids, his eyes gleam. “I am the boss here.”
He raises a hand for us to wait, and tells the kitchen brigade,
“Anyone wants to go off shift, get a drink, or go home and lie down, I understand. No hard feelings,” the chefs shuffle, backing away. The air in the kitchen got heavier. “Maybe you need a little cry. I understand. It’s okay. Do what you need.” Feet shuffle. “Only, don’t come back.”
He says, “Those of you who thought to bring your backbones, well done. Service and quality matter today more then ever. No lumps in the sauces, no bitter soups.”
The chefs hats all begin to turn away and lower as they reluctantly melt back to their stations, although everyone is still watching Tai.
As his body turns toward us he leaves the brigade with a look and an assurance. “We’ll remember. You will all be taken care of.”
Towering over both of us, he puts a big, confident hand on each of our shoulders and lowers his voice as he steers us back out to the hallway.
“We’ll talk outside.”
The doors swing shut behind us and Alessio says, “So how did those punks get in?”
He and Kai lock eyes for a moment. Neither man is going to back down.
Tai always holds back a grin as he breaks our balls about something, every time we come to Sun-a-do. We all slam rough edges of respect up against each other. It’s a kind of currency. It’s as close as he’s ever going to come to showing us any affection.
As always, it reminds me of how he, and all the members of the twelve tribes, will always keep some distance from us. I know my history. I don’t blame them.
