Chapter 45
Emily's POV
Ethan was picking me up tonight after my shift. I'd agreed because of our last conversation, when he'd looked so lost asking me to share more of my life. It felt like the least I could do.
The Wednesday evening rush at Luciano's had just wound down when the door chimed. I glanced up from clearing table six and my hands stilled on the plates.
Alex Monroe stood in the doorway, scanning the dining room with that same calculating look from last week. Tonight he wore a charcoal suit, the jacket unbuttoned and tie loosened like he'd come straight from the office. His gaze found me almost immediately, and something flickered across his face before he moved toward the counter where Marco was reviewing tonight's receipts.
I forced myself to keep moving and carried the dishes back to the kitchen while my mind raced through possibilities. Another recruitment attempt? The timing felt deliberate, arriving after the dinner rush when Marco might actually be willing to listen.
When I came back out, Alex had already launched into what was clearly another pitch. I couldn't hear the specifics over the ambient noise of the remaining diners, but Marco's body language told me everything I needed to know. His arms were crossed and his head was shaking with that stubborn set to his jaw that meant he'd already made up his mind.
Alex remained perfectly composed despite the rejection, his posture relaxed like he'd expected this outcome and considered it merely the opening move in a longer game. Marco turned back toward the kitchen with a dismissive wave that would've discouraged most people, but Alex didn't head for the exit. Instead he claimed a seat at one of the empty tables near the window and asked to see a menu.
I approached to take his order, hyperaware of his attention tracking my movements. "The osso buco is excellent tonight," I offered, falling into my server autopilot.
"I'll take your recommendation." He handed back the menu without looking at it, his eyes steady on my face. "And a glass of the Chianti."
I wrote down the order and retreated to put it in with the kitchen, grateful for the excuse to break away from that unnerving focus. Throughout the rest of my shift I remained acutely aware of his presence at that table. He ate slowly and seemed in no hurry to leave, occasionally glancing toward the kitchen like he was studying the restaurant's operations.
The last customers finally departed around nine-forty. I'd started wiping down tables when I noticed Alex had stood up and was methodically stacking chairs on top of the table nearest him.
"You don't have to do that," I said automatically, even as I watched him execute the task with unexpected efficiency. His movements held the precision of someone who'd performed this routine countless times before, despite the expensive suit that looked completely out of place in the context of restaurant cleanup.
"I know." He moved to the next table without breaking rhythm. "But I have time, and it'll help you close faster."
I didn't stop him because the rational part of my brain calculated that his assistance would cut at least fifteen minutes off closing time. I kept working on my side of the dining room while he handled the chairs, and we fell into an efficient pattern without needing to coordinate.
"Marco's not going to change his mind," I said after a few minutes of silence. "Even if you stick around until we close, it won't make a difference."
Alex glanced up at me with something that looked like amusement. "Is that what you think I'm doing?"
"Isn't it?"
"Not exactly." He finished stacking the last chair and moved to start consolidating the salt and pepper shakers from each table onto the counter. "Though I suppose waiting until closing does serve a purpose. Sometimes the best negotiations happen when both parties are too tired to maintain their defenses."
The calculated honesty of that statement should have annoyed me, but instead I found myself fighting back a reluctant smile. At least he wasn't pretending this was pure helpfulness or spontaneous generosity.
"Well, you're still wasting your time," I said as I carried another load of dishes toward the kitchen. "And if you think helping with cleanup means I'm giving back your tip, you're definitely wasting your time."
His laugh caught me completely off guard. It was genuine and unrehearsed, nothing like the controlled persona he'd maintained until now. "I wouldn't dream of it. You earned that fair and square."
When I came back out from the kitchen, I found him leaning against the counter and watching Marco through the pass-through window with that same thoughtful expression I'd noticed earlier. Something had shifted in his attention, his focus no longer on the restaurant itself but on Marco specifically.
Marco's phone rang then, cutting through the quiet restaurant. He answered in rapid Italian, his tone initially warm before it sharpened into clear frustration. The conversation escalated quickly and I could hear his voice rising even though I couldn't understand the words. His free hand gestured emphatically at nothing, the way people do when they're arguing with someone who can't see them.
I understood exactly none of it beyond catching what might have been family terms. I returned to wiping down the bar to give Marco some privacy, but the conversation kept getting louder and more heated. Marco's face had gone red and his gestures were getting increasingly aggressive. Whatever this was about, it wasn't good.
When I glanced over at Alex, I found him watching Marco with an intensity that made warning bells go off in my head. His expression had shifted into something calculating and analytical, and I realized with a jolt that he understood every single word of the heated exchange.
The call ended abruptly with Marco practically slamming his phone down on the steel counter. He muttered what were definitely curses under his breath before disappearing back into the kitchen. The sound of aggressive pot-scrubbing filtered out through the pass-through, loud enough that I winced.
"You speak Italian," I said to Alex, making it a statement rather than a question.
"Business necessity," Alex said simply. "When you're expanding into international markets, being able to understand what people say is invaluable. Italian, French, Spanish—they're all useful in the hospitality industry."
"So you understood all of that."
"Yes."
I waited but he didn't elaborate. The silence stretched between us and I felt the weight of information he possessed and I didn't. It created an imbalance that made my teeth set on edge. I hated being at an informational disadvantage and I hated the way it made me feel like I was operating with only half the necessary data.
"Are you going to tell me what he said, or is this some kind of negotiation tactic?" The question came out sharper than I'd intended.