Destino (4 page)

Fabiana picked up her wine in a mock toast to his departure. “Yeah, sorry about Mr. Gigolo. Apparently, he thinks you’re a stuck up American bitch.”

Mira frowned. “Is that what that pip-squeak said?”

Fabiana nodded. Mira sighed, resigned to the fact that she’d never escape the place until Fabiana had at least one more conversation with her heartthrob. She rose from her seat. The bathroom had to be close. “I’ll be back.”

“The monk fish is good, hurry.” Fabiana grinned.

Mira searched the way for the bathroom and found herself in a dead end. She stopped a drink waiter with her hand to his arm. The young man blinked at her.
“
Bagno
?”
she said, asking for the bathroom in her limited Italian. He pointed to the far left, in the direction of the private dining area. She nodded and made her way.

A man dining with what looked to be a young group of friends actually yelled something to her from across his table, startling her for a moment. The men weren’t shy in Italy. She did however notice that most things in Italy were small. The plates were small, the men were short, the rooms were tiny, the closets, even the cars. That was until she saw Lorenzo. He was quite tall and imposing. A giant among the men she met thus far.

And she’d met quite a few men. The flattery over the attention her dark skin drew had become a bit overwhelming. Older men in particular took notice of her when she entered or left a room. She flashed the guy a sweet smile and kept moving. When she drew closer to the hall, which led to the bathroom, she caught the shadow of a man’s tall form from the corner of her eye. Her gaze flickered left.

It was Lorenzo. He walked up three purple velvet steps where four men were seated in a private meeting. The walls circling behind them held shelves of wine bottles, and the large round table spaciously sat ten to twelve easily. Mira’s attention was immediately drawn to the man seated before the center of the table. Who wouldn’t be? Even in the dim lighting it was clear he had a strikingly handsome face compared to the others. She found him a bit similar to Fabiana’s heartthrob Lorenzo. His hair was dark, thick, it brushed his collar and was tucked behind his ears combed back from his face. And his dark brows were drawn together over piercing light eyes. She guessed them to be blue, but wasn’t sure.

The man in all black tilted his gaze up to Lorenzo upon his arrival. He appeared remote, cool, and a bit disinterested. An air of authority clung to his persona and reminded her of how at times Chinese store owners in Chinatown would behave when Kei took her to dinner. They always regarded him with respect and humility. Kei dismissed it, but she knew there was more to him than the investment banker he claimed to be. And this one here was Kei magnified by ten.

Deep within her core her body warmed with mounting curiosity. She watched him lift a glass and take a sip, causing a ring on his pinky to catch the light. The center was a black stone, possibly onyx, but there was something engraved in gold on top of it. She had an eye for detail, and the ring thankfully wasn’t on his wedding finger. The stranger possessed broad shoulders. She guessed his height equaled Lorenzo’s. Without thought or reason she moved closer, drawn like a penny to a magnet, desperate for a better look.

Despite her best efforts, her clear view of the stranger had become obstructed. Lorenzo’s towering form before the table forced her to step forward and to the right to get another glimpse. He clasped his hands behind his back as he spoke to the group. For a moment everyone at the table seemed to tense and go still over whatever news Lorenzo delivered. The man in the center studied Lorenzo. An impatient scowl had hardened his handsome features and stopped Mira cold. The stranger spoke. She wished she could hear his voice; a man’s voice was always telling for her. The group exploded into a chorus of laughter, including Lorenzo. Whatever tension occupied the gathered men had subsided. Without warning, his gaze shifted and locked on her.

Surprised, she froze.

Dammit! What are you doing Mira?

He was undeniably focused on her solely and the raw intensity made him still as well. An eternity passed before she could even muster the courage to take a breath.
Run! Girl, turn and run to the bathroom. You look like a fool watching this man. Go! Go! Go!
The corner of his mouth curled up sly and easy, half shaping a smile. She felt her cheek twitch with the making of her own smile.
Oh good grief, are you flirting with this man?
He winked at her. It was as if he telepathically transmitted into her thoughts an invitation through his wink. Lorenzo noticed. He glanced back over his shoulder, and he too soon wore a darkly suggestive smirk.

She lost her nerve.

The attention from them both forced her legs to move. She quickened her steps and beat a path to the bathroom. Once inside, air returned to her lungs. “Goodness!” she laughed. “What the hell was I thinking?”

It took several minutes for her heart to calm to a manageable beat. Mira walked over to a chaise in the suite outside of the stalls and dropped on it. She needed to get her emotions under control. First, she couldn’t stop the memories of the life she’d abandoned with Kei in New York. Then a wink from a stranger had her conjuring up rebellious naughty thoughts. Even now she felt a bit giddy remembering the cool calm leveled at her in his gaze.

“Fabiana is right, I really do need to get out more,” she sighed. Three long years of hard work and sweat had garnered her the acclaim to show off her designs along one of the most sought after catwalks in the world.

The success, however, had come with a heavy burden. It was a hard business to be in. Many marginalized her work by labeling her a ‘black’ designer. It was a fickle business, too. Financial backing could be extremely lacking if she failed to stun critics with original and trend setting material. This is why her focus had been singular, and she remained so committed. It’s also why her relationship began to suffer. No matter how sexy the man in black appeared, she had no time for flirting or God forbid a new romance. She shuddered at the thought of it.

Determined, she collected herself and used the facilities. In Italy, they referred to the bathroom as the toilette and she always had to flush by pressing a button above the commode. She washed her hands with perfumed soap, and refreshing her makeup, she felt a bit more at ease. There were times when the death of her grandparents would drill her purpose in her hard. She was alone in the world. Her mother died when she was a baby, and she never knew her father. She would often wonder about who he was. Maybe she could convince Fabiana to abandon the romantic notions of the city and just do some fun girl things. Neither of them had the time nor energy for much relaxation. A spa trip and some snorkeling along the beaches of Capri might do them some good after the show. Mira escaped the bathroom and stopped. Francesco paced angrily outside of the door.

He followed me?

When she emerged, he paused, and his puffy lips spread into a hideous yellowish brown, toothy smile. Mira frowned. She tried to sidestep him, and he matched her movement blocking her in.

“You were rude earlier
Signora
,” he spat, his English almost perfect.

“So were you,” she countered.

He advanced on her.

“I don’t appreciate your tone. Show me respect!”

“Get out of my way.” Mira refused to take another step back.

Francesco sneered. Even for his pint-size he bulked in the chest and arms. He definitely had the ability to deliver on the malevolent threat she read in the depths of his black-layered irises. The grip she had on her clutch bag tightened, and she readied to use it as a weapon. The deep baritone of a man’s voice broke above them. He said three words in Italian that drained the color from Francesco’s face. Mira dared to break eye contact with Francesco to glance beyond him into the face of her hero. This time the stranger didn’t focus on her solely. He kept his eyes trained on the back of Francesco’s head. She could see him much clearer now. He towered over them both. The rich outlines of his broad shoulders and muscular form filled his dark suit nicely. His hands were shoved down in his pockets and his posture relaxed, but his stare remained fiery hot. Francesco began to apologize profusely to Mira. He tried to reach her hand to kiss it, but she stepped back and away. Francesco turned and nodded his head in respect to the stranger and almost scurried out of the tight hall they shared.

“
Grazie
.” Mira said.

The stranger tracked Francesco until he was gone and then returned his focus to her. His smile was quite charming. He extended his hand. “Giovanni Battaglia.”

Mira accepted his hand and he immediately drew hers to his lips. He spoke with less of an accent than the rest of the men she’d met that evening. His voice was smooth and commanding.

“I’m Mira.”

“Ciao Bella,” he continued to hold her hand. “Are you okay? Did he touch you?”

“Him? No. No, he was just a jerk. He did nothing.” She swallowed another bout of nervousness that made her want to giggle. His hand naturally fell away from hers, and her body registered the neglect. His appreciative stare travelled from her toes, up the front part of her dress, over her tummy and the swell of her breasts to her face. He did so unapologetically. The heat banked in those dreamy sapphires captured her breath.

“Thank you, uh, again,” she stammered and walked around him. The heady scent of his aftershave nearly convinced her to return. She dared to glance back and was glad she did. He stared. She felt alive, sexy, desired under his gaze. It had been a long time since Kei stared at her that way. Mira hurried through the tables back to her safety zone.

“What took you so long?” Fabiana asked irritated. “Your food is cold.”

“I…I got lost.”

Fabiana kept eating. “Lorenzo came back while you were gone. He apologized. I think I was a bitch to him. So I apologized too.”

Mira unfolded her napkin and laid it on her lap trying to appear normal. “You weren’t a bitch to him.”

Fabiana smiled, nodding in agreement. “Tonight’s a bust. He can’t take us on a tour of the coast on his boat. Business matters or something. So he wants to make the whole thing up to us. He’s invited us out to his vacation home when the show is over. It’s not far from Milan. He says that Francesco won’t be there.”

Mira glanced down at her pasta and felt famished. Her adrenaline spiked and her stomach churned with such a raw hunger. “Sure sounds like fun,” she said forking some of the fresh rolled rigatoni and savoring the rich spicy garlic tang to the sauce.

Fabiana blinked at her confused. “You feeling okay?”

“Oh yes! Girl, I feel great.”

****

“
Per favore!!
No! No! I’m an innocent man!” Francesco squealed as he was thrown into the kitchen. The cooks and wait staff immediately fled from the stoves, leaving all food unattended. Lorenzo cringed inwardly over the sniveling ball of apologies Francesco curled into. Did the man have no pride? Nico grabbed Francesco by the collar and forced him to his knees. The man slumped over with his palms tightly pressed together and head bowed.
Was he praying?
Lorenzo cut his eyes in disgust. What would be next? Pissing his pants? Could he not hold it together long enough for Lorenzo to think of a way out of the mess? Francesco would be useless. Stupid fucker.

“Un figlio di puttana
!” Carlo chuckled, the toothpick in his mouth switched to the other side. He and the others got a thrill over the sight of the man whimpering before them. Lorenzo had to agree. Francesco was a bastard, the dumbest of them all. Yes, he was innocent, but the begging and crying only made him appear all the more guilty.

The raid on the club wasn’t their fault. They never dealt in human trafficking. Someone had set them up, and he half suspected who. The truth of the matter was he and Francesco had committed another crime against his Don and their family, and Lorenzo had to quickly think of a way to keep his true sins from being revealed. Lorenzo feared the truth would spill from Francesco’s quivering lips and blow his world to smithereens. If Francesco even hinted at their business dealings Lorenzo silently vowed to put a bullet in the coward himself.

The praying stopped. Francesco openly wept. His head hung low and his shoulders shook through his sobbing. The doors to the kitchen opened. Lorenzo didn’t bother to look up. Tension rippled through the men like a cold wave, and he knew Giovanni had entered. Lorenzo’s gaze lifted from Francesco to confirm. His cousin locked eyes with him and then swept the room of those gathered. Francesco’s head lifted, and his eyes stretched to the point of escaping their sockets at the sight of Giovanni. Even Lorenzo felt a twinge of dread over what was to come next. Violence was in their blood. They were all their fathers’ sons. Giovanni ignored Francesco, whose attempt to crawl over for mercy was halted by the hand of Nico. Instead he approached the stove and a large boiling pot of tomato based gravy for some pasta dish. No one spoke as Giovanni removed a spoon and sampled it. Lorenzo glanced to Carlo. His best friend was focused on Francesco, a bloodlust in his hateful stare.

“
Bennisimo
!” Giovanni exclaimed after one taste. He turned his gaze to Lorenzo. “I always say the food is much better here than the pussy you try to sell out of the back door.”