Page 2 of Daddies of the Underworld

I shouldered my single bag and approached the side entrance mentioned in my welcome packet.

The door opened with a tiny squeak, and I stepped into a muted wonderland of bronze and brown.

A woman looked up from a desk tucked into the corner. She eyed me up and down, and I did my best not to fidget or fix my clothes. “You’re the new hospitality girl?” She held a clipboard up to her face.

“Yes, I’m Nina.”

“Welcome, Nina. I’m Rosa.” She stood and approached me. “Welcome to Villa Belladonna.”

“We’ve met before, actually.” I offered her a smile, though I had no idea why it suddenly felt important to let her know I wasn’t new to the villa. “I worked the season here two years ago. You trained me in the wine service.”

Something like recognition flickered in her face. Finally, she shrugged. “My apologies, Nina. I see so many new faces around here. It’s difficult to keep up. But yes, I remember you.” She said each word slowly, her expression shifted into true recognition. “You were the one who never complained, even when the agency had you working doubles through August.”

“That’s me.” Pride rolled my shoulders back.

“Well.” She softened enough to smile. “Welcome back, then. I should warn you, this season is nothing like the last one. There’s a private event tonight. Very private.” Her lips compressed. “You’ll see faces you might recognize from the news, faces you will not mention. No matter what you see here, you did not see anything. Do you understand?”

This explained the non-disclosure and all the other legal paperwork I’d signed. I nodded. “I understand.”

Rosa lifted a finger, not quite pointing at me but still meant to be a threat in her own way. “I mean it. Whatever you hear in this house, whatever you see, it stays in this house.” She handed me a stack of clothing. “Here are the rest of your uniforms. Trousers and white shirt, along with the apron are mandatory when working anywhere within the villa. The skirt and shirt you have on now are for the kitchens. I need you with me.” She pointed toward a door with a plaque announcing it as a changing room hanging in the center. “You have ten minutes, then I need you on the terrace for cocktail hour.”

I changed in record time, twisted my long, dark brown hair into a knot at the back of my neck, and rushed out to meet Rosa.

I’d taken the job this year for the same reasons as before. The agency promised good tips and better food than I could afford on my own.

Even though I hurried, by the time I made it to the terrace, the cocktail hour was already underway.

The villa had transformed as dusk spread a hazy purple across the sky.

The terrace overlooked the sea, and strings of lights woven throughout the olive trees twinkled just enough to make the people standing beneath them appear ethereal.

Men in tailored suits stood in clusters while women in jewelry worth more than I’d earn in a decade drifted between them with practiced ease.

Security wasn’t visible, but they were there, watching, scanning the crowd.

I picked up a tray of champagne flutes from the kitchen pass-through and stepped out into the terrifying space with my head level and my gaze locked on my path.

My brain tried to lock onto conversations, but I shut it down, turning on a mindless static that buzzed and kept me safe.

For a moment, I let myself imagine a different setup, one where I was dressed in the elegant clothes and drinking the champagne, the warm air off the water brushing me with the scent of lemon and salt as I stood still and let the world revolve around me.

This place dripped elegance and gold, and I was not part of it.

I turned, intent on making my way back around to the kitchen for another tray since mine was almost empty.

A low, muted sound brought my head up, and it didn’t matter that I was supposed to be working, the sight before me stole all reason from my head.

He stood near the balustrade with two other men, and even from across the terrace, his powerful presence radiated. Dark hair threaded through with silver at the temples.

A gray suit cut so well he must pay his tailor a fortune.

And when he said something quiet to the man beside him, that man immediately turned and brought a phone to his ear.

The man beside him looked like he’d been carved from granite. Gargoyles had more softness than he did.

Black hair, dark eyes, forearms covered in ink made visible by his rolled up sleeves despite the formality of the event.

He watched the party, his gaze sweeping back and forth in slow passes that reminded me of a lighthouse beam.