Page 223 of Damaged Mogul
Holy shit, what’s going on with my stomach today?
I take several deep breaths, praying to God, I don’t have to rush to the bathroom.
That does the trick.
When I regain my composure, I scour the restaurant, searching for my father.
Where is he?
I wouldn’t put it past him if he had left.
“Mr. Edgington requested a private room,” the maître d’ says from over his shoulder as if he could read my thoughts.
Whatever he has to say must be important if it has to happen behind closed doors.
The maître d’ arrives in front of a room, knocks three times, and opens the door. With a hand gesture, he ushers me in.
“Thank you,” I say.
With a curt head bow, he scurries off.
When I enter the room, my father isn’t alone.
Crap.
Two men dressed in impeccable bespoke suits rise to their feet.
“Finally,” my father says. “At this rate, it’ll soon be happy hour.”
Asshole.I force a smile. “I’m sorry I’m late.” I keep it simple. Excuses will only earn me a lecture.
“Lily, do you remember Giuseppe DeMaro?”
My eyes shift to the man with dark brown hair and coffee-colored eyes that stands a foot over my father’s five-feet-nine-inch frame. His wide smile takes over his face.
“You’re Dario DeMaro’s son.”
“Yes,” he says, extending a hand.
I shake it.
“Please call me John––the English version of my Italian name. All my friends do.”
We’re not friends.
“I’m flattered you’d remember me.” He smiles. “A stunning woman like you must meet so many men, far more memorable than me.”
Giuseppe DeMaro is right. Other than his expensive tailored suit, nothing about him stands out. The same applies to his three older brothers. His younger sister is pretty in an artificial way. In my opinion, she’s way too young for collagen lip injections.
I let go of his clammy hand and resist the urge to wipe my hand on my dress.
I can’t find it in me to match his smile, so I don’t eventry.
“Your father had donated a large amount to the charity that supports the advancement of black youth from poor neighborhoods in New York’s five boroughs in the technology field,” I say.
“Dad is all about a good tax deduction.”
So is my father.“His interest doesn’t go any deeper?”
