Another lapse of silence—loaded to me, but likely meaningless to him. I sighed, bit the bullet, and took a seat across from him at his desk.
“The fuck do you think you’re doing?” His voice cut through the silence like a bullet slicing through skin.
“Sitting,” I offered, dragging out the two syllables in a way that exposed what little I thought of his intellect.
“That’s top of the line nubuck leather.” He eyed where my body pressed against the seat. “If I wanted something cheap on my chairs, I would have gone with polyester.”
I waited for the ball to drop. For his full lips to curl up in a smile and his mouth to form the words, “Just kidding!” But he didn’t. Christ, he was serious.
My ass didn’t budge from the chair. We stared at one another, our resolves locked in an inescapable impasse. A knock sounded at the door. I didn’t dare look, and neither did he.
“What?” he barked, his cold eyes still on mine.
“Your meal, sir,” came a voice, wrapped in hesitancy and delivered with caution.
Sir.
Not Bastiano.
Not Bastian.
Not Mr. Romano.
Sir.
My God, he was like this with everyone, commanding supremacy like it was reasonable to demand. Like he ran the world instead of a restaurant and bar in New York City. I couldn’t imagine the balls it took to act and think like Bastiano Romano.
My eyes involuntarily dropped to his crotch. I couldn’t see it past the bulk of his desk, but it was like my body had a mind of its own. His eyes instantly narrowed, whether at my defeat or the direction of my sight, I didn’t know.
In the background, I heard the same voice whisper, “Uh, sir? I have to get back to the dining service.”
With his eyes on mine, Bastiano snapped, “Then leave already.”
“But the food—”
“Leave it in the break room.”
The sound of a cart creaking filled the air, loud but not nearly as loud as the tension between us. As soon as whoever had come was gone, Bastiano stood and left, not bothering to talk to me.
Gritting my teeth, I reminded myself of the greater good to dealing with Bastian’s bullshit. Plus, I wanted better assignments, and nothing screamed unqualified like flunking a simple interview.
I stood, following after him like a mindless puppy. I suspected that was the point of his game—to drill into me that I was less than him, merely a minion meant to follow his every command and do his bidding, even when he didn’t speak or ask anything of me.
And because I loathed that feeling, I took a seat as soon as we entered the break room, not bothering to wait for him to offer one. The chair was plush leather that curved around my body when I sat. It was larger than the other chairs and boasted a taller back. Clearly, it was the one meant for him.
But as soon as I sat, the waiter, who had been standing off to the side, pushed the cart, which was more like a traveling table with silverware and a tablecloth, in front of me. He left quickly after, passing a stone-faced Bastiano on the way.
When the waiter was gone, Bastian closed the door and locked it. The daunting click sent a shudder down my spine. I watched warily as he took his time approaching me, a look of indifference pasted on his face.
He removed his suit jacket, revealing wide shoulders and a broad chest; took his time sitting; placed a cloth over his lap; loosened his diamond-plated Stefano Ricci tie; unlinked his Jacob & Co. cufflinks; tossed them onto the table like they hadn’t cost him more than a hundred thousand dollars; and carefully rolled up the sleeves of his tailored white button down until they sat midway up his generous forearms.
Meanwhile, I sat there, bathing in silence and feigning patience—all while pretending I wasn’t affected by his impromptu strip show. He was taking his damn time because he could. Another power play, but from him, I would expect nothing less. I might have taken his seat, but he had won the battle.
Finally, he spoke. “The wine is in the wine cart by the door.”
He expected me to get it. Of course, he did. I sat still for a moment, my back relaxed against the better chair as I childishly relished in my smaller victory and pretended for a short-lived second that I had another choice.
He was removing the lid off one of the silver-lidded dishes on the table when I got up. He paused what he was doing, giving me his full attention, no doubt reveling in my obedience. In my submission.
My humiliation.
And for the first time since becoming an undercover agent, I truly had no idea what to do. I was used to letting the legends react. Allowing my covers to dictate my feelings, words, and actions. But I wasn’t a legend right now.
I was Ariana De Luca, and while I had no clue what that entailed, I figured I could allow myself to act on instinct. But instinct wanted to fight. And pride wouldn’t allow me to shut up and take Bastiano’s torment.
I was going to get the wine cart. Truly, I was. Until I wasn’t. Instead, I found myself walking to his side of the table, hovering above him. He pulled his seat back, angled it toward me, and pushed forward until I stood between his thighs.
His thighs were spread lazily apart, the tailor-made qiviut slacks pulled tightly across his powerful thighs. His strong forearms rested on each arm of the chair, and his lips twisted into something between a smirk and a sneer. He looked both devastatingly handsome and entirely entertained.
I was about to confront him, and he was amused. I wanted to hit him hard with the things I knew and he didn’t. The FBI had been siphoning the online job applications for the bartending gig, leaving only the unqualified applicants.
Which meant I had this job.
Though he was acting like he had an alternative, the truth was he didn’t. However today went, this job was mine. We both knew this, but I couldn’t tell him that I did. And at that realization, the fight in me died a painful death, murdered in my throat and buried beside my indignation.
“Well?” He arched a perfect brow, so damned smug and rightfully so.
I pivoted before he could see the pink hue of my cheeks and revel in my embarrassment. This whole situation was a disaster. I couldn’t be too combatant. I needed this job. But if I wanted to survive it, for my sanity’s sake, I couldn’t just take his shit and pretend I liked the stench.
Beside me, someone banged on the door. I glanced at it, my embarrassment heightened when I caught sight of Dana and another employee through the glass panel on the locked door. They were trying to get into the employee room, but at the sight of me, they stopped and stared as I approached the cart.
I could feel Bastiano’s amusement from across the room as I obeyed him in front of an audience. My anger flared. We could have easily done this job interview in his spacious office, but he knew what time it was and had deliberately chosen a public area—at a time when employees were showing up—to publicize my humiliation.
“Problem?” he asked, and even though I couldn’t see him, I could hear the satisfaction in his voice.
My fists tightly clasped the bar of the cart, and I tried with all my might to transfer my humiliation into it and ignore the crowd. When I turned around and pushed the cart to him like his personal fucking maid, I had a saccharine smile pasted on my face. Like I wasn’t fazed by his radical brand of assholery.
“None at all.” Keeping the smile on my face felt like stepping in quicksand and giving my consent to sink. “Forgive me. I’m used to being around gentlemen who’d never let a lady exert herself.”