Page 3 of His Wicked Wants (West Coast Mobsters #6)

CHAPTER 2

GAbrIEL

It’s not until much later that evening that I find out what must have been passing through Nero Andretti’s head at that moment.

I try to avoid dining up at the main house as much as I can. I arrived at Redwood after the infamous parley that some on the staff still whisper about—it left three people dead, I hear—but it never seemed like a great idea to get too close to anyone. I was here to do a job, not make friends.

But a few days ago I was stopped by Darian Thornfield-Hayes, the butler, as I was walking past the back patio. It was Chef Laurent’s sixtieth birthday, and to celebrate, he had insisted on cooking a five-course dinner for the handful of staff who lived on the grounds of Redwood. That, Darian pointed out, included me, and I was too tired to find an excuse.

So tonight I’m forced to pull out a pair of dress pants and my best shirt—not white, but at least the cuffs aren’t frayed, and my mother always said pale green suited me, made my eyes stand out more. Not that I care about dressing up for this dinner, I just want to make sure I don’t stand out.

That’s my mission in life these days: Go unnoticed.

Perhaps that’s why Nero Andretti unnerves me. I can’t ever seem to escape his notice. If there had been any suggestion he might be there tonight, I would have refused point-blank, but Darian seemed anxious to make sure I understood it was staff only.

“It could be fun,” I tell myself in my bathroom mirror. I don’t look any more convinced than I felt before. I try to tidy my brown hair—getting too unruly these days since I haven’t had it cut in a few months—and after a little back and forth, decide on no tie.

It’s California, after all. And this is just a staff dinner.

But as soon as I step into the dining room tonight, I regret my decision to lean casual. The chandeliers—the sparkling of silverware and the fine china—it tugs at memories I’ve buried deep. “I didn’t realize it was a formal affair,” I say to Darian, who greets me in a three-piece suit. I tug at my shirt cuff and then leave it, try to stop fidgeting.

“Oh, it’s not,” he assures me, though everything from his perfectly pressed jacket to his shining shoes suggests otherwise.

There was a time when I would have had any number of evening outfits to choose from. Not, perhaps, as stylish and interesting as Darian’s, but still—serviceable. These days…

“Definitely not formal tonight,” Raffi DeLuca chimes in, coming up to shake my hand beside his boyfriend. I relax as I take in Raffi’s black jeans, boots, and tight white t-shirt. He’s still in his work clothes, it seems—and next to him, my dress pants and open-collared shirt don’t seem so bad. “Good to see you here, Mr. Carstairs,” he continues.

“Gabriel, please. And I appreciate the invitation.”

“D here thought it was about time we forced you to socialize,” he says with an easy grin.

It’s not quite staff-only, if Raffi is here—he’s security, but he’s also a made man. But he’s the only Castellani member here tonight, and Darian, who seems more relaxed than his usual mode, is a decent conversationalist. During our spectacular dinner the wine flows and I find myself opening up more than usual.

Until the third course.

“Did you find Nero?” Raffi asks, his fork poised over perfectly-seared duck. “Pedretti said you were looking for him.”

“I did,” I say stiffly, my own appetite suddenly disappearing.

Raffi gives a half-smirk. “Not a fan?” he asks, dropping his voice.

Under normal circumstances I’d change the subject, but unfortunately for me, in vino veritas . “I am not,” I say decidedly, “what you would call a fan.”

Raffi snorts. “Me either,” he says—and then I get the distinct impression that Darian has kicked him under the table, based on the way he jumps a little and starts talking more loudly. “Uh—so, Gabriel, what brought you here to Redwood? You’re from New England originally, right?”

They don’t mean to pry. And Raffi works security. He must know at least something about my background, so he’s probably just being polite. “That’s right,” I say as casually as I can. “But I prefer a milder climate, and I was fortunate enough to be recommended to Mr. Castellani when he required a landscape gardener during the building of the Retreat. He asked me to stay on as landscape architect for the whole estate.”

“So what exactly is the difference between a landscape architect—” Raffi says the term slowly, as though testing the words. “—and a gardener?”

It’s a question I’ve grown used to. There was a time I would have been defensive, talked about my four-year degree, asked if there was a difference between Michelangelo and a house painter. But I’ve managed to blunt my ego over the years—except when it comes to Nero Andretti, apparently.

“In simple terms,” I tell Raffi, “one tends plants. The other plans their placement. When Mr. Castellani was building the Retreat, he wanted to make sure it didn’t disturb the look of the estate—particularly the redwood grove. But once we were done with that…” I need to be careful here. “There were other projects he wanted me to take on. Restorations. Renovations. Rejuvenations.”

Raffi and Darian nod blankly. I steer the conversation away, and soon they turn their attention to the woman sitting opposite me. Elise, her name is—one of the housemaids. She used to be a daily but she switched to live-in a few months ago, she tells me, and she’s extremely glad of that tonight, she adds, as the next course arrives in a parade of silver domes.

The flowing wine is getting to all of us, I think, because over dessert—something decadent involving chocolate and gold leaf—the reason behind Elise’s extra hours is revealed. Her sister’s daughter has been very sick, and Elise helps pay the medical bills.

“I’m so sorry to hear that. You know I’d be happy to talk to Mr. Castellani,” Darian says. “Or even…” We all know who he means. The Don. “I know they’d be delighted to help out. Perhaps a fundraiser?—”

“Oh, no,” Elise says quickly, and her cheeks redden for a different reason than the wine now. “No, I—I don’t like to ask that kind of thing, Darian. My sister, she…well, she doesn’t really approve of…” She trails off, but heads nod around the table.

Including mine. I understand exactly what she means. Her sister doesn’t approve of dirty money. She’ll take Elise’s, since she worked for it, but donations from the Castellanis and their friends? That’s a different matter.

And I know exactly how she feels. I work here because I have to, because the things I want to do in the world require bankrolling. But I’d never ask the Castellanis for money beyond what I put in an honest day’s work for.

But…does it make any difference, really? I’m still working for the Mob.

That’s the depressing thought I ponder as I make my way home after dinner is over. I go the long way around so that I can cast an eye over the hedge maze, make sure the renovations that I’ve been undertaking on Julian’s orders haven’t disturbed the?—

Speak of the devil.

“Good evening, Gabriel.” Julian Castellani himself sits on the fountain situated just next to the hedge maze, trailing his fingers in the waters of the fishpond, staring into it. He greets me without glancing over his shoulder, showing that uncanny ability to identify me without laying eyes on me. I was almost relieved seeing him display the same talent with others, including his brother, Sandro, his lover, Leo Bernardi, and even Nero Andretti.

“Good evening, Mr. Castellani.” I’m ready to walk on by, but he turns to me and fixes me with those strange eyes of his, so I stop and wait.

“Roxanne Rochford is very keen to have her wedding here in front of the fountain,” he says after a pause. “What do you think?”

What do I think? I think it’s none of my business. I know Roxanne Rochford was granted permission to hold her wedding on the grounds, but it’s got nothing to do with me. Still, this fountain…it’s one of those places around Redwood, sprinkled here and there, that gives me the creeps, though I’m not sure why. “Perhaps for photographs,” I murmur, trying to be diplomatic. “But the wedding itself might be better placed on the front lawns. Larger seating area, for one thing.”

“I want you to be involved in the wedding planning, Gabriel.”

“ Me? ”

“You.”

“Surely she has a wedding planner?”

“She does, but my brother prefers to keep outside visitors to a minimum at the moment. Besides, Roxanne Rochford needs someone to make suggestions about the grounds—to tell her what can and can’t be done. I’m sure you understand. Raffaello will also attend any meetings to discuss security plans.”

I wish I could get out of it. But I nod. “Of course, sir.”

“Nero Andretti also came to me with a suggestion for a new project.” His eyes flick over me, taking in the way I clench my hands at the mention of that damn name. “He said that removing the trees on the top of the rise over there—” He points, though from here, the rise isn’t visible. “—would allow a pleasant view of the LA skyline.”

I really have had too much wine, because I lose all control of my mouth. “If you want me to cut down those trees just to allow Mr. Andretti a view of concrete and steel, I will not do it, sir. In fact—in fact, I’ll resign here and now!”

I’m left breathing hard, my fists still clenched, while Julian looks me over with curiosity and without any of the heat or suggestion of Nero’s eyes. “My goodness,” he says mildly. “Is there something in the water here at Redwood that makes all my staff threaten resignation at the drop of a hat? I wanted your opinion, Gabriel. That’s all.”

“Oh.” A little embarrassed, I have to look away. “Well, I-I don’t think it’s a good idea. The beauty of Redwood is that it’s a haven from Los Angeles. The city might as well not exist when one is on these grounds. That was its original purpose, and I think dismantling that would be a mistake.”

Would be sacrilege, actually. But that might sound over the top.

Julian takes in my words, then gives a nod. “I agree.” He waves a hand, royalty dismissing a servant. “Well, goodnight, then.”

“Goodnight, sir.” But I’m not heading to bed. Not yet.

My blood is up, or maybe it’s the wine making me bold. Either way, someone needs to learn that I will not put up with attempts to manipulate me either directly, or by going over my head.