Grievous (Scarlet Scars #2)(36)

“All the time,” he says.

Of course, makes sense, since they recognized him. “You know, dining and dashing only works if you’re able to get away, which doesn’t really bode well for us, since they know your fucking name.”

He laughs. “I know.”

“So why are we here?”

He doesn’t have to answer that, no, because the universe tells me exactly why we’re here when I glance up and come face-to-face with Leo. He’s wearing his tuxedo work uniform.

I realize right away that he’s our waiter. Oh boy.

“What do you want?” he grumbles, stalling beside the table, staring at his brother. He’s kind of adorable, with that little black bow tie, especially with him pouting at the moment.

Makes me want to pinch his cheeks.

“Is that how you greet all of your customers?” Lorenzo asks. “Because if so, I would’ve fired your ass long ago.”

“Look, it’s been a long day already, and I’m working a double, so can you cut me a break?” Leo asks. “I’m doing my best here.”

“I know,” Lorenzo says, snatching the menu from my hand, discarding it. “We’ll just take the tasting menu.”

I scowl. “You’re ordering for me?”

Lorenzo cuts his eyes my way. “Is that a problem?”

“Depends,” I say. “What did you order?”

“Tasting menu,” Leo chimes in. “It’s a little bit of everything, like a sampler or whatever.”

“Oh, well then...” I wave toward Lorenzo. “Not a problem.”

“You want some wine or something?” Lorenzo asks.

“Or something,” I mumble, picking up the drink menu, which is a hundred and fifty times bigger than the food one. Not even joking. A hundred and fifty pages of alcohol. I flip through it, scowling some more. Wine. Wine. Wine. Red. White. Locations and years and who the fuck knows what all the French means. My eyes skim along the price list. “Oh geez, who can afford to even smell half of these?”

“I can,” Lorenzo says.

“Does that mean you’re buying?”

He shrugs.

I take that as a yes.

“Well, in that case...” I close the drink menu, shoving it aside. “A bottle of your most expensive whatever the hell is on that menu, thanks.”

Leo laughs, while Lorenzo snatches the menu up. “Whoa, whoa, I’ll be goddamned... that’s like twenty-thousand dollars, Scarlet. Drop some fucking zeroes, woman.”

I roll my eyes, turning to Leo. “You got anything fruity, like the crap that comes with little umbrellas?”

Leo nods.

“Give me one of those,” I say. “Surprise me.”

Leo looks at his brother again. “What do you want?”

“Rum.”

Rum. Of course.

“Glass of our best rum,” Leo says.

“Cheapest rum,” Lorenzo says. “And the whole bottle will be nice.”

“Glass of our worst rum,” Leo mutters. “Whole bottle, my ass...”

Leo walks away, while Lorenzo glares at him.

My drink doesn’t come with a little umbrella, it turns out, but instead is decorated with some fancy orange peels in curly shapes. I pluck one out, looking at it peculiarly while I take a sip of the whatever-it-is. Sweet and fruity and strong.

“Those are my oranges,” Lorenzo points out as he takes a swig of his rum from the small glass Leo brought him. No bottle.

I eye the peel. “Straight off the Gambini groves?”

“Yes.”

“Huh, isn’t that something,” I say. “Must make you proud, having such a successful business.”

“It’s all right.”

“It’s all right,” I say, repeating him. “Geez, man, contain your enthusiasm.”

He smiles slightly. “Forgive me for not squealing like a little bitch about it. It’s a lot of work for not much pay off. It’s kind of depressing, having spent over fifteen years working sun up to sun down, busting my ass to keep the family business going, and not banking even a fraction of what I’ve made since coming to New York. And I don’t even break a sweat here, you know. It pays to be a non-sentimental asshole.”

“But yet you keep the groves,” I point out.

“They’re my home.”

That response surprises me. Home. “You think of that as home?”

“Why wouldn’t I?”

“Uh, I don’t know,” I say. “Maybe because of what you went through there, with your stepdad and your mom and—”

“Doesn’t matter,” he says, cutting me off. “My father built the place and left it to me. Nothing they could do would ever ruin that. I refuse to let it.”

“So why are you here?”

“I already told you why,” he says. “Same reason as you... I saw a movie.”

I know he’s bullshitting. How do I know that? Because I was when I said that to him on the roof all those weeks ago, that I’d come to Manhattan because of the Muppets.

“There are, what... eight million people in New York City?” I ask.

“Something like that.”

“I just thought, you know, that many people, I was bound to find somebody to give a shit about me. So that’s why I came. I was young, and lonely, and sick of being ignored and overlooked. I wanted to matter to someone.”