Page 57 of Mob Queen

“It’s excellent.” He wipes his hands down his apron and clears his throat.

“Do you require anything for the kitchen? An appliance? Extra plates? Flatware? Anything?”

“No, ma’am, the restaurant has an exceptional budget which allows me a lot of creative freedom. I have everything I need.” Good, because this is a lucrative money laundering business for me.

“If there’s anything you need, then let me know.”

“Thank you.” He stands awkwardly, fidgeting with his hands. “Shall I prepare you a tasting plate of all our new dishes?” His eyes widen with hope.

I stand staring at him for a moment, before I nod and leave. G and I head into my private dining room, and G pulls the chair out for me to sit. “You know you intimidated the chef?”

He sits opposite me. “Yep.” I pull my phone out and scroll through my emails.

“And you know he’s the guy who’ll be making our food?”

“Yeah, which is why you can try my food and if you drop dead, I won’t eat it.” I rock back in my seat and lift my chin.

“Lovely,” G replies in a deadpan voice then snickers. “I can’t believe you’re willing to sacrifice me.” He lifts his hand and places it to his chest in jest. “How will my heart heal?”

“If it’s any consolation, if Rome was here, I’d sacrifice him first.” G throws his head back as a deep guttural laugh tears through him. “Self-preservation,” I add and lift my shoulders.

“Good evening, my name is Hayley, and I’ll be your server this evening.”

“Bring us a bottle of scotch,” I say without looking at Hayley.

“Very well, Miss DeLuca.”

She quickly exits, and G’s eyes follow her. I turn to look at where G’s attention is. “She has a nice ass,” I say.

“That she does,” G’s voice cracks. “But she’s too young for me.”

“So?”

“She’s probably twenty-five at most.”

“Again...so?”

“I’m nearly double her age.”

“I’m sure she can show you a few new tricks.”

G rolls his eyes and shakes his head. “She’s too young.”

“Ahhh, I see what’s happening.”

“What?” G asks defensively.

“You probably need help getting it up, now you’re what, eighty-nine?”

G roars a guttural laugh again. “You’re an asshole,” he retorts with equal mirth.

“Fine, seventy-three.”

“You’re such a shit. Just for that, I’m not trying your food, and if the chef poisons you, then don’t worry, I’ll look after Rome.”

It’s my turn to release a loud laugh just as the waitress returns with top shelf bottle of scotch. I look at the brand and give her my nod of approval. I’d be pissed off if she returned with a two- or three-hundred-dollar bottle. “Ma’am.” She unscrews the bottle and pours me two fingers before doing the same for G.

I take a sip and wave her away. “Leave the bottle,” G instructs as she’s replacing the lid.

---