“So you don’t deserve to be happy, Reese?”
Though I am absolutely incapable of answering my best friend’s question, I murmur, “Jamie, Lure doesn’t offer refunds, let’s go dress in our robes, and discuss this somewhere down the road…”
Though I'm more than presentable in an olive colored chiffon dress which pops against my golden skin tone, and stops mid-thigh, I smooth out imaginary rumples while stepping into the five-star restaurant.
It's barely noon and a violinist has the demure lunch crowd captivated. The room is all lush white, with gauzy drapes separating various sections. Pops of shimmery cream from the chandeliers to the leather chairs add a smidge of color to a posh environment.
The host must know my grandfather by reputation because this is our second meeting. The first was a month ago, and the host still recalls my name.
“Hello, Miss Dunham, you look simply ravishing.” He kisses my ass with the flirtations, and I wonder if it's due to fear of my grandfather or gratitude due to how much Sal drops for the price of wine. “Mr. Giugliano is expecting you on the loggia.”
“Thank you,” I attempt a smile, concluding that maybe he’s kissing my ass because of the hard glare of my brown eyes and the rigidness of my shoulders. His hips sway flamboyantly as I follow him past intimate tables of well-to-do patrons and or business associates. Sheesh, his walk would put Jamie to shame.
The outside terrace has white lace lanterns almost as boisterous and eye appealing as the chandeliers inside. Clear vases taller than my five-foot-four, filled with draping orchids spot the grounds.
A pianist is placed center, yet my grandfather dominates the entire scene. Giovanni Salvatore Giugliano is seated, donning a cream double-breasted suit. Chunky rings on his middle finger as he nods to the wine selection, a silver cart before him. The connoisseur opens a fresh bottle, pours him a glass and leaves the wine on the table. From the haughty flare of the slim man, I can tell the bottle is a big ticket item.
The host then presents my presence. Noting the tension, he hightails it toward the entrance.
As Sal gives a greeting, I dig into my purse. The box of cannoli in my hand is haphazardly thrown across the white linen table and lands between a meticulous, yet creatively crafted linen napkin and my grandfather’s glass of red wine.
Giovanni rubs his hands together and then picks up the powder-blue box by the silver ribbon, turning it over so that the label shows my bakery insignia. “Glad to see you, bella. Sit down.”
“Reese. Call me Reese, if you must,” I say through gritted teeth.
He glances at the gilded chair in front of me, giving a nod. Something tells me this man who I barely even know will not ask me again. I'm sure his hands have been painted red with blood, but my father––his son’s blood is woven through my veins so call me stupid. I open my mouth to recite the overly rehearsed monologue—
“Sit,” Giovanni's voice is lusher than the wine he picks up to take a drink.
Despite being at a classy Italian restaurant in Beverly Hills, I plunk down onto the velvety cushion.
“Before you get all mouthy, order lunch,” he adds, sliding the menu toward me.
“I’m not hungry. Moreover, I don’t appreciate…”
“Reese,” he says, eyes meeting mine again. “I understand that you’ve been raised by your mother. There’s no changing the past, but it would have been nice to have had different circumstances. But food tastes better when eaten with family, thus being said, I will not eat if you do not eat. Which also implies that I will not be able to communicate your issues.”
“My issues?” I point a stiff hand to my chest.
Salvatore glances at the menu and then me. “I suggest the orecchiette or cappellacci are always good to start.”
Lips tensed, and spine erect as ever, I say, “No need. I'm not eating, Salvatore—oh, excuse me. That's not your real name.”
“Actually, family calls me Sal. The Family calls me Gio.”
“I'm neither, “I reply knowing that the Family implies the arsenal of soldiers and associates at Giovanni's disposal. “Guess we'll have to keep it formal, Mr. Giugliano.”
Something flickers in those honey-brown eyes of his. Eyes that remind me of my father, Milo. A man I feared. A man I loved... with every bit of my heart and still do despite what a weasel he was. I'm trying Giovanni's patience.
“I can't believe this crap. You've come into The Flour Shoppe every month since its... You, you came to the friggen grand opening, Sal.” I slip up and call him the name I've known him for almost three years. I am always loyal to my returning clients. “I chatted with you about my entire life, I hate you.” Hmmm... Well, not exactly as rehearsed.
His puffy jaw shakes just slightly, clearly he is at his boiling point. He undoes the top button of his suit jacket. Sal proceeds with caution, each word from his mouth is selected and available for me to grasp. “Reese, you're my granddaughter. I understand you feel like I played you, doll. But you gotta understand, there's no fucking way I'd live my life without knowing a piece of me.”
“I am not a piece of you,” I sneer. “You’re… a bad person.” Any association with you puts my relationship with Evan in danger, and that’s not acceptable. I gotta keep him.
The waiter steps before us. Oblivious at first, I'm sure his mind is set on telling the chef’s specials until his gaze flicks back and forth.
“Nothing for me, please.”
“We need a few more minutes,” Giovanni assures.
The server nods, then backs away.
I turn in my seat just slightly, feeling someone staring. Then paranoia creeps in. I'm sitting across from the Don of the Giugliano Crime Family. Giovanni and I are like sitting ducks. Over the years, I noticed he had a driver when a luxury car pulled up to Flour. But was that driver one of his goons? There're no
