I hadn’t expected that. It shows a strength of character. Another thing I find appealing.
“Everything okay at the restaurant?” Gideon places his cigar down in the ashtray.
I train my gaze on him. “Of course, why do you ask?”
“You seem preoccupied.”
Bennett scans my features. “Must be a woman.”
“Astute observation. One I agree with.” Tristan fixes me with a considering look.
They continue to stare at me, until I have no choice but to admit. “It is a woman. But not the way you're thinking.”
None of them reply. The silence stretches. It’s uncomfortable. If I break it first, it puts me on the defensive. But when the three of them continue waiting for me continue, I realize, I don’t have a choice.
“It’s my new sous chef. I hired her two months ago.”
“You’re attracted to her?” Beckett throws down his cards. Clearly, our conversation is more interesting.
Given I haven’t made sense of it for myself, there’s little I can share with them at this stage. I also don’t want to lie to my brothers.
“It’s complicated,” I finally offer.
Tristan barks out a laugh. “Isn’t it always?”
I scowl. He isn’t my legal counsel for nothing. Man’s got a mind which thinks a hundred steps ahead of anyone else. I’m not sure I want to know what he’s gleaned from my body language and the little bit I’ve revealed.
Also, it’s time to change the topic.
"Don’t the rest of you have something else to gossip about?" I place my unlit cigar between my lips.
“You mean, like Michael Sovrano being back in town?” Tristan takes the segue, but the look in his eyes tells me I haven’t heard the last of this from him.
“Didn’t he relocate his family to Italy after his wife passed away?” Beckett scowls.
“Now, that’s true love,” Gideon drawls. “I feel sorry for the ol’ chap.”
Michael’s a family friend. He used to be head of the Cosa Nostra but went legit after he got married.
His wife, Karma West Sovrano, started the renowned, eponymous designer label. She passed away from a heart ailment a few years ago. Michael, poor guy, was overcome with grief. Of course, there are persistent whispers that she isn’t actually dead, that he took her to Italy to care for her.
“How about we talk about something closer to home? Like you being insistent on killing yourself free diving, despite my trying to talk some sense into you last month?” Beckett lights up his cigar.
“You freedive? Isn’t that dangerous?” Tristan’s voice is curious.
"I'm careful. I practiced with an instructor until I was confident I could do it safely. And I do it in an Olympic-grade swimming pool with lifeguards on duty. So no, it's not dangerous."
‘Course, you’re supposed to freedive with a buddy watching you, a safety protocol I ignore because I’m confident in my abilities to stay under water for long periods of time while holding my breath. And lifeguards aren’t always on duty when I dive, which suits me fine. This is a routine that’s holy for me, and I don’t want anyone intruding.
Being underwater is one of the few times I can truly relax.
You'd think, for someone who needs control as much as I do; free diving would be the ultimate test of giving it up. But that's precisely why it works.
“Why do you put yourself through it?” Gideon surveys his cards.
I choose my words with care. “In the kitchen, I control everything. Every temperature. Every second. Every movement. But underwater, I can't control anything. My heart rate. The oxygen in my blood. The pressure. The physics." I look around the table to find my brothers are listening with rapt attention. "My need to be in control in the kitchen feeds on the illusion that if I just manage enough variables, nothing bad will happen. But underwater, there are no variables to control."
"So, your brain stops trying?" Tristan’s brow furrows.
