Page 58 of Dark & Deceitful

Looking up from a plate he’s sliding eggs onto, Romeo gasps at the sight of me and rushes to my side. The sweet man drags me to a stool and forces me to sit.

“What the hell happened?” He looks around suspiciously, likely waiting for my owner to claim his property.

Combing a hand through my messy hair, I don’t say a word, knowing damn well we are being recorded, and I don’t want to cause any trouble.

The back of Romeo’s finger caresses my cheek, and I suck in a sharp, pained breath because it hurts. The cut’s raised and swollen, skin tender.

Not pleased, Romeo curses and leaves me long enough to scoop ice into a baggy and wrap it in a towel before he presses it gently to my cheek.

Again, I hiss, this time because it’s cold.

“Sorry. Sorry,” he apologizes. “You take it.”

Following his instruction, I hold the pack to my face as he moves fluidly through the space, finishing breakfast. Outside the kitchen windows is a vast blue sea of gentle waves and a cloudless sky. It’s gorgeous out there. Too bad my day had to start like this—with pain and a fight. What’s even sadder is these rich bastards get to live like this anytime they want. They wake up on luxury yachts with attractive women by their side. They’refed by some of the best chefs. Yet, they always want more money, more power, more influence, and never stop to appreciate the things that ordinary folks would give their left tit for. Money is wasted on the rich.

“Have you fed the employees?” I ask, knowing Romeo always makes breakfast sandwiches with the option of coffee or bottles of Gatorade. There were mornings when he was busy feeding Darmond’s guests so I delivered the employee’s food instead of him.

“Not yet. We’re running behind.” He winces and massages the bridge of his nose before washing his hands and returning to the stove to finish the sausage. It’s relaxing watching them work. The flow, the efficiency, the talent.

When Romeo finishes the meat, he sets it on the center island for the sous chefs to work their magic while he sets a cup of orange juice on the counter before me. “It’s a mimosa,” he explains. “Go slow.”

I hum in appreciation.

Orange juice and expensive champagne… I won’t say no to that.

Sipping bubbly from a standard glass, I smile politely, ice my cheek, and continue to appreciate their unique dance.

Romeo sets out multiple champagne flutes on a tray, but more is needed for all those being served. Wanting to be of use, I leave my stool and put myself to work. I open another bottle of champagne and fill the bottom half of each glass.

“Hannah. Go sit down. I’ve got it.” Romeo tries to shoo me away with a white kitchen towel.

Head shaking, a soft laugh bubbles out of my throat as I ignore his directive. “Why aren’t there more flutes?” I ask.

“The… women aren’t allowed to drink alcohol,” he answers, whisking something in a steel bowl.

“Oh.” The,but I am? is somehow communicated without being communicated. Now that I think about it, there wasn’t a single woman drinking more than water. No wine. Not even a cocktail. Interesting. Perhaps it’s an age thing? I don’t know, nor does it matter, I suppose.

Next comes the orange juice, but clumsy ole me accidentally spills it all over the tray—the entire container.

“Dammit.” I grab whatever I can to sop up the mess. Ever the valiant man, Romeo’s there in a flash, helping me wipe down flutes and transfer them to another tray.

“I’m so sorry.” I toss a sodden rag into the sink and collect another to wipe the mess from the side of the cupboard where the juice spilled down, creating a little puddle on the floor.

“It was an accident,” Romeo reassures.

Walking over to the sink, I set my orange-stained cloth with its equally stained cousin. “I’ll get another orange juice. We have another, don’t we?”

“Yes. In the walk-in.” He flicks his chin at the closed steel door, lifts the old tray, and dumps what’s left of the juice into the sink.

Nodding like a frazzled bobblehead doll, I hurry to the walk-in fridge, where an entire shelf of unopened orange juice cartons sit on a wire shelf. With my back to the door, to shield what I’m about to do, I extract the loose powder from the confines of my dress, unscrew the lid, and set it on the shelf. I open the orange juice and scoop two, okay, three scoops of the powder with the small spoon hidden inside the container. Wasting little time, I return the powder to my dress and turn to leave with the contaminated orange juice just as a sous chef joins me in the walk-in. I sniffle as if I’ve been crying, and I shuffle past him, head down, hugging the carton of OJ against my chest. He doesn’t seem to suspect anything, nor does Romeo when I pourthe contents into the flutes. Then, they deliver them to the guests awaiting food in the dining room.

Still pretending to hide from Dark, I don’t join the rest of the men and women for breakfast. I need to execute another part of the plan in the next twenty minutes, or all hell will break loose if those carrying the big guns are still conscious. We can’t have that, can we?

Once the sous chefs return and resume preparing the employee breakfasts, I collect the bag Romeo uses to transport the sandwiches to the men. Then, I take it upon myself to gather the sports drinks from the walk-in. I perform a little magic as I’m in there, you know, more cap unscrewing, powder dumping, and a little shaky, shaky, so the men will be none the wiser. Collecting the dozen colorful drinks, I stuff them into another tote, and when I return to the kitchen, everyone’s almost done.

“Can I help?” I set the bag of contaminated drinks on the island.

“No,” Romeo replies, wrapping the sausage, egg, and cheese biscuits with foil to keep them warm. “You shouldn’t even be here.”

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