Christmas with the Boss (The Fiore Family 2)

“No. They won’t be back tonight.” Dr. Malcolm won’t ever be back again, and the next time Anabelle comes in, it will be on my arm. I head into the back office and lock the door because I need to be alone with my thoughts.

Most nights we’re open until midnight, but the last reservation is for ten thirty because I don’t like keeping my staff past their scheduled time and don’t like rushing my guests out. As soon as the restaurant is closed for the night, I come up with a plan that will get both Franco and me the women we need.

I wait until everyone has left before I load the table and chairs into the back of my SUV. I need to dispose of this piece of shit before I lose my mind. The best place to get it done is my brother’s estate, so I make the hour drive to Rochester and enter my code to get in his gate. Only the family has access to the gate codes.

Pulling around to the back, I see his light in his office is still on. What the hell? It’s two in the morning. I try to be quiet and get out the table and chairs, setting them out to become firewood. The back door on the east end of the castle opens up and my brother, still dressed for the day, steps outside with his overcoat on. “What’s going on?”

“I’ve got some wood chopping to do, but with city ordinances and all, I’ve come here,” I remark, dragging out the pieces and moving them toward the axe-chopping stump just a few feet away.

“It’s a table and chairs.” Yes, I suppose not your traditional firewood, but it will be just fine.

“Damn right it is. Now you can go back to bed. I won’t be too loud.”

“I’m just worried. You do realize what time it is, right?”

“And yet you’re still up.”

“I was reading a new book,” he says. Well, that’s a fair point.

“Fine. Let’s just say I won’t sit by while my woman moves on without me.” The thought of Malcolm kissing her, touching her causes me to swing the first strike, chopping one leg off the table.

“Your woman?” he asks. He knows me better than anyone. Everyone around me only sees what I want them to see, but Franco understands me.

“Yes. Your nosy ass has surveillance on my restaurant.”

“I haven’t watched it since she left.” Franco’s sole objective was seeing her, so I suppose that’s another fair point. The fucker has to stop making sense at this hour when I’m feeling nothing but irrational.

“Well, take the video back a few hours ago, and you’ll see why I’m doing this.”

“Okay.” He heads back inside, closing the door behind him so all the heat doesn’t get out, but he turns on the back floodlights for me. I get back to work, hacking up these pieces like an angry lumberjack or Jason Voorhees on unsuspecting horny teens. Sweat drips down my back as I continue giving my best to work out the ache in my heart.

About forty-five minutes later, he comes back with a glass of amber liquid. “Here you go, little bro. There’s just something about them.” I nod. “Now that you’re done destroying a perfectly good and expensive set, come inside and spend the night.”

“Thanks.” I follow him in, taking off my winter things and my boots before marching upstairs to our rooms.

“How are you feeling?”

“Physically, some days are better than others. Well, the other part you understand a lot more than before.”

“That I do. Goodnight, bro.”

“Goodnight.” We part ways, and I take the hall down to the room that I use while I’m here.

By the next morning, my plans have been thwarted as an emergency sends me down to the Rochester location to work hands-on. It’s lousy, but I have to cancel our afternoon meeting on Monday. For the next few days, we exchanged emails.

Chapter Three

Anabelle

Finishing the last of the menu design changes for Fabio, I send it over. Two minutes later, my phone rings. Seeing the caller ID, I’m tempted to send it to voicemail, but the sooner I get this over with, the better. “Hello?”

“It’s Fabio.” No shit. I roll my eyes, angry because I want him and every call is like teasing my broken heart.

“Did you get my email?” I ask, wondering why the fuck he’s calling, considering the email was self-explanatory.

“Yes, I did, and that’s why I’m calling. I don’t like the color.”

I start seeing red. After he ruined my dinner date and spent two days going back and forth when he’d had time, he’s changing his mind again. “It’s the color you asked for. Sometimes on different screens it appears a different shade.”

“I printed it out, and I still don’t like it. It’s drab. What do you think of the color?”