Snapping Point||Book 1

31.

"I didn't see you at the party last night," she remarked, plucking out the raisins from the cake.

Did she know me? Nope.

"I don't fuck with parties. I'm a prude," I quipped, joining her in a chuckle before taking a sip of my milkshake.

"F-Y-I, prudes don't say fuck." She gathered all her acquired raisins and popped them into her mouth. "Raisins are so good. Hm. Cakes are not. Who thought of that combination, anyway?" Her gaze returned to me, a smile on her face. "I'm Les. And you are?"

"Ivan's niece, Zee," I replied, still chuckling at our exchange of three-letter words. "When did you arrive?"

"Yesterday. Joe mentioned you to me, I just couldn't recall your name," she confessed, leaning in to whisper, "She warned me to stay the f away from you. But I think you're exciting."

I smiled at her genuine comment, if it truly was. It was a novel experience; people who weren't typically drawn to me didn't find me exciting. "So, what's your role here?" I inquired, picking up the now-empty cake box and tossing it into the trash can.

"One Lorenzi Amato is looking to hire a chef," Les informed me. I remembered why Lorenzi needed a chef, because Ivan had taken out his old chef coldly to find a fitting replacement.

My gaze tightened involuntarily. Anything related to the TIF always drew my attention like iron to a magnet. Ivan seemed intent on infiltrating the TIF until even they themselves didn't know who was friend or foe.

Turning back to Les, I found her index finger tracing the rim of my glass. "You're that chef?" I asked, intrigued.

At her nod, I pressed on, "Can you cook?"

"What?" She giggled. "Don't give me that look. We don't cook with our looks. In fact, at Western Diners where I used to work, my looks got me hired amongst many."

It was as if my mind had become a sponge, ready to absorb any information—anything at all that I could potentially provide to Romano if he ever called. And as long as he had my number, he would call. And when he did, I couldn't afford to give him nothing.

This was my chance. Les had been hired by Ivan to be in Lorenzi's company. I needed to find out what she knew and what her mission was.

Brushing crumbs off my hands, I returned to my seat and settled onto the wood. I crossed my arms. "I really don't like the dude. I hope you're fond of him, for your own sake."

"Ivan says he's impulsive, stubborn, and has a superiority complex. Harsh, too."

Those were typical traits of anyone born and raised in the TIF. I didn't dwell on that with her. Instead, I pressed further about what I needed to know. "Will you just be handling the cooking?"

"Of course not," Les replied with mock terror. "I'm so done with cooking for a living. Now I get to be a goddamn spy. See that? Wearing a cape and an apron."

It was a bizarre combination, but who was I to rain on her parade? And I guessed Ivan hadn't even briefed her on the ins and outs of this mission. She'd probably have realized that cooking was more enjoyable than dying.

"That's amazing," I lied with a big smile on my face. "So, what's your strategy? I mean, you can't use vegetables to wire a room. And chefs aren't allowed past the kitchen. How do you plan to cook information from a man? And what kind of information are you aiming to gather?"

Les paused, her suspicion evident in the way her gaze saturated. "Well, Ivan certainly didn't mention sending a policewoman to interrogate me first."

"Whoa, whoa, whoa, I mean no harm," I interjected quickly. "I'm just trying to be helpful here. I know a few things about Lorenzi, and I was hoping to fill you in."