Chapter 2 - The Translation
The kitchen of Il Canto was spinning out of control, but Chloe was trapped in the eye of the storm.
When she had returned to the kitchen with the order for the seafood risotto, Chef Lorenzo had looked at her like she was carrying a bomb.
“Costello wants a seafood risotto at this hour? The fish market closed six hours ago!” Lorenzo had roared, waving a wooden spoon in the air.
“He doesn't want regular risotto, Chef. He wants the special. The one you keep in the back chiller for VIP auditors,” Chloe had replied, not blinking.
Lorenzo had grumbled curses in rapid-fire Italian, thrown a towel across his shoulder, and started tossing shrimp and scallops into a copper pan with a ferocity that suggested he was personally angry at the sea. Twenty minutes later, Chloe was walking back into the VIP room with a silver tray bearing a steaming, fragrant bowl of risotto that smelled of garlic, white wine, and fresh lobster.
She placed it carefully in front of Beatrice Costello.
The old woman took a deep breath, inhaled the steam, and looked up at Chloe with genuine adoration. Her hands moved swiftly.
Thank you, child. This smells like heaven. Tell the chef he is forgiven for the veal.
Chloe smiled, a genuine, unguarded smile that reached her eyes for the first time in as long as she could remember. “I’ll tell him.”
She turned to leave, thinking her bizarre duty for the night was over, but a heavy hand caught the edge of her tray.
“Sit,” Gabriel said.
Chloe froze. She looked down at his hand, then up at his face. The six lieutenants were watching the exchange with varying degrees of shock and curiosity. The man with the scar—whose name badge Chloe hadn't seen, but whom the others called Dante—was leaning back, arms crossed, a smirk playing on his lips.
“Mr. Costello, I’m a waitress, not a family counselor,” Chloe said, keeping her voice level despite the tremor in her chest. “My shift ended ten minutes ago.”
“Your shift ends when I finish my dinner,” Gabriel replied smoothly. He gestured to an empty chair across from him, nestled between Dante and a massive man named Sal. “Sit down, Miss Bennett. I am paying for your time.”
“I don't want your money,” Chloe said.
“Take it as a consultation fee,” Gabriel countered, his dark eyes locking onto hers with an intensity that made it impossible to look away. “My mother has lived in my house for twelve years since my father passed away. For twelve years, we have communicated through grunts, nods, and notes scribbled on the backs of receipts because I am too busy running an empire to learn how to speak her language.”
He paused, his jaw tightening.
“Tonight, a twenty-four-year-old waitress walked into my private dining room and showed me that I’ve been a stranger in my own home. I want to know what else she has been trying to tell me.”
Beatrice stopped eating her risotto. She looked at her son, her expression softening into something tender and complicated. Then, her hands began to fly, addressing Chloe directly.
Tell him he has always been a fool, but he is my fool, and I love him.
Chloe blinked, surprised by the emotional whiplash. She looked at Gabriel, who was watching her hands with hawk-like concentration.
“She says,” Chloe translated softly, “that you’ve always been a fool, but you’re her fool, and she loves you.”
Gabriel closed his eyes for a fraction of a second. A muscle ticked in his cheek. When he opened them, the hard, impenetrable armor of the mafia boss seemed slightly cracked, revealing the tired, burdened man beneath.
“Ask her,” Gabriel said, his voice dropping lower, “why she didn't tell me about her doctor’s appointment last Tuesday.”
Chloe turned to Beatrice and signed the question.
Beatrice scoffed, rolling her eyes so dramatically that Dante let out a short, barking laugh. The old woman’s hands moved with rapid-fire irritation.
Because if I told him, he would surround the hospital with twenty armed men, interrogate the cardiologist, and shut down half the medical center just to make sure the chair I sat in was clean. I am eighty-two years old, not a fragile glass doll.
Chloe watched the translation form in her mind, feeling a strange warmth bloom in her chest. She looked back at Gabriel.
“She says if she told you, you would have surrounded the hospital with twenty armed men, interrogated the cardiologist, and shut down half the medical center to make sure her chair was clean,” Chloe recited. She hesitated, adding, “And she says she’s eighty-two years old, not a fragile glass doll.”
Silence descended on the table again. But this time, it wasn't a silence of fear. It was a silence of profound, heavy realization.
Gabriel slowly leaned back in his chair. He looked at his mother—really looked at her—not as a dependent or a liability, but as a person with her own mind, her own humor, and her own life outside of his protection.
“Tell her,” Gabriel said quietly, his eyes fixed on Beatrice, “that the hospital was already surrounded by twelve men. And the cardiologist is my cousin’s husband, so he was thoroughly vetted.”
Beatrice stared at him, her mouth dropping open. Then, slowly, a brilliant, wrinkled smile broke across her face. Her hands moved in a swift, mocking gesture.
You are as paranoid as your father.
Chloe translated it without missing a beat: “She says you’re as paranoid as your father.”
Gabriel let out a short, genuine laugh—a deep, resonant sound that seemed to chase away the dark shadows lingering in the corners of the VIP room.
“She’s not wrong,” Gabriel muttered. He reached across the table, picking up a clean napkin, and then looked directly at Chloe. “How much do you make an hour, Miss Bennett?”
Chloe stiffened, her protective instincts flaring up. “My wage is between me and Marco.”
“Make it twenty times that,” Gabriel said, pulling a sleek leather wallet from his jacket. He didn't pull out cash; he pulled out a heavy, matte-black business card embossed with a subtle gold emblem. He slid it across the mahogany table until it rested right beside Chloe’s thumb. “Effective immediately, you are on retainer for the Costello family.”
Chloe stared at the card. “On retainer? As what? A waitress?”
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“As a translator,” Gabriel said firmly. “My mother has a lot to say, and apparently, I need an interpreter who isn't afraid to tell me when I’m being an idiot.”
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