His guilty pleasure, p.1
His Guilty Pleasure, page 1
HIS GUILTY PLEASURE
WEST COAST MOBSTERS 5
LEIGHTON GREENE
This is a work of fiction.
Product names, logos, brands, and other trademarks referred to herein are the property of their respective trademark holders. All trademarks remain the property of their respective holders.
Names, characters, businesses, places, events, locales, and incidents are either the products of the author’s imagination or used in a fictitious manner. Any resemblance to actual persons, living or dead, or actual events is purely coincidental.
© 2024 Leighton Greene. All rights reserved. This book or parts thereof may not be reproduced in any form, stored in any retrieval system, or transmitted in any form by any means—electronic, mechanical, photocopy, recording, or otherwise—without prior written permission of the author.
Cover: Natasha Snow
Beta reading and consultation: Leslie Copeland
Content Warnings: gun and knife violence, Mafia-related crime, murder, abusive people, homophobic attitudes from some characters, sexual harassment, manipulative behaviours.
CONTENTS
Author's Note
1. Darian
2. Raffi
3. Darian
4. Raffi
5. Darian
6. Raffi
7. Darian
8. Raffi
9. Darian
10. Darian
11. Raffi
12. Darian
13. Raffi
14. Darian
15. Raffi
16. Raffi
17. Darian
18. Darian
19. Raffi
20. Raffi
21. Darian
22. Darian
23. Raffi
24. Raffi
25. Darian
26. Raffi
27. Darian
28. Raffi
29. Raffi
30. Darian
31. Raffi
32. Raffi
33. Darian
34. Raffi
35. Darian
36. Darian
37. Darian
38. Raffi
39. Darian
40. Raffi
41. Darian
42. Raffi
43. Darian
44. Raffi
45. Darian
46. Raffi
47. Raffi
48. Darian
49. Raffi
50. Darian
51. Darian
52. Raffi
53. Raffi
Dear perfect pleasures…
Also by the Author
About the Author
AUTHOR'S NOTE
His Guilty Pleasure begins several months before the events in His Sinful Need (West Coast Mobsters Book 4) and finishes after it.
CHAPTER 1
DARIAN
While working at the Bellamy Grand I have always been aware of wealth, have observed the trappings of it in guests, but this is the first time I've seen it so…
Up close and personal.
I stare out the window of the town car that picked me up from my embarrassingly-addressed apartment, my fingers tracing the intricately embossed pattern on the polished wood trim as we glide past the rows of towering redwoods that must give this estate its name.
Redwood Manor.
From the private driver and town car, to the iron gates and guards, to the extensive, manicured gardens, this place drips wealth. Even for Los Angeles, it's an extraordinary home, taking up three times more space than the already-extensive estates that can be found out here.
At least I know I look the part. My clothes are always on point, because I subscribe very heavily to the idea that clothes maketh the man. I'm dressed today in a bespoke suit that suggests Savile Row with an LA twist. I've done a lot of Google-stalking of my potential employer and I think Julian Castellani will appreciate the look.
I hope he will, anyway. This is my chance—my opportunity to prove myself. When the interview offer came through the management of the Bellamy Grand, I was surprised but flattered. Julian Castellani had personally requested me to interview for the position of butler. It's a position I'm admittedly young for, but as my manager pointed out, it would give me a huge jump forward in my career.
As the car turns the final bend and the house comes into view, I straighten my already perfect posture.
First impressions count, after all.
The driver brings the car to a smooth stop before the front of the house, and I have my first surprise. Four men stand there, all dressed in black, with what looks like—are they—tactical vests? Body armor? And they're all heavily armed, weapons slung around their bodies on straps, guns in holsters on hips—
The driver is already opening up the door for me, but I shrink back, uncertain, as four sunglass-wrapped sets of eyes take me in. For a moment no one says anything.
Then one of them steps forward, leaning down to look into the car.
"Hey," he says, taking off his sunglasses. "Darian Thornfield-Hayes, right?" His eyes are a deep brown, almost the same color as his hair, and he has laugh lines radiating out from the corners of his eyes though he can't be much older than I am myself, at 26. "I'm DeLuca." He slings his weapon to one side and holds out a hand. "Raffi DeLuca. Security."
I put my hand in his. It's warm and reassuring and he gives mine a little squeeze as he helps me out of the car, then lets me change the grip into a firm, decisive shake. "It's a pleasure to meet you, Mr. DeLuca."
He's taller than I am, and broader, and he's very good-looking in a scruffy sort of way. He flashes the kind of grin that can only be described as roguish. "Pleasure's all mine," he says, gaze traveling over me in a manner that does not seem strictly…necessary.
I'm still holding his hand.
Clearing my throat, I take my hand back and clasp both behind my back, adopting a more formal posture. "Shall we proceed inside? I wouldn't want to keep Mr. Castellani waiting."
Raffi is all business again immediately. "Sure, sure. But I'll need to pat you down before we—how'd you put it? Proceed inside." His expression is neutral, but I feel certain that somewhere inside himself, he is laughing at me.
I blink at him, my mouth going dry. "P-pat me down?" I squeak.
Behind Raffi, the other three guards shuffle, and one—I am sure—stifles a snicker. Raffi lowers his voice. "I'm real sorry for any discomfort, but it's standard protocol. We take security extremely seriously here at Redwood Manor." Before I can protest further, Raffi steps closer, his hands hovering near my shoulders. "May I?"
Swallowing hard, I give a jerky nod, bracing myself for the indignity of having this near-stranger's hands patting me down like some common criminal. To my surprise, however, Raffi is nothing but professional, his movements brisk and efficient as he lightly pats down my arms, torso, and legs.
"Just so you know, most of the guys around here are armed," he explains as he works, his voice low and matter-of-fact. "But it's purely for your protection, Mr. Thornfield-Hayes. Can't be too careful these days, and we wanna everyone here safe, you get me?"
I let out a shaky breath as Raffi steps back, feeling oddly vulnerable despite his clinical touch. "Why on earth would a film producer need armed guards?" I ask, voice pitching higher than I would have liked.
Raffi grins. I don't.
"Oh," he says after a pause. "Is that what Julian told you?"
A knot twists in my gut as I look between Raffi's face and the long, white, French chateau-style house looming behind him, stretching out to the left and right with scores of windows peering down at us. "It's what the Bellamy Grand advised me," I say slowly. "Is that…not the case?"
Raffi purses his lips, seeming to weigh his next words carefully. When he speaks, it's a low murmur, as though he doesn't want the other guards to overhear. "You know, you seem like a nice guy. Maybe this isn't the right job for you after all."
A flare of indignation rises in me, smothering my growing trepidation. "I'll decide for myself if the position suits me, Mr. DeLuca."
Raffi holds up his hands in a placating gesture. "Okay, okay," he says with a rueful smile. "You got a bit of fire in you, huh? Well, let's head inside. Mr. C's been looking forward to this all damn morning."
As I trail behind Raffi, the other men stand aside without a word, though I can still feel their eyes on me as we walk up the steps and through the grand entryway. The interior of the house is just as breathtaking as the exterior, with ornate furnishings, marble floors, and a grand staircase that sweeps from the foyer to the upper floor. I fight the urge to gape, but it is hard not to stare.
"Nice, right?" Raffi asks over his shoulder. "Okay. We're through here."
I can hear a piano, someone tinkling idly on the keys from the room Raffi is leading me to, straight ahead. There's a plaque over the open double doors: Grand Salon.
Raffi gestures for me to wait a moment at the doorway as he goes into the room. "Mr. Castellani?" I hear him say.
The piano stops. "Is he here?"
"Yep."
"Delightful. Send him in."
I steel myself. This is my chance to make a mark, and I'm determined not to let it slip through my fingers. When Raffi reappears, he smiles at me again, and I try not to stare at that slightly crooked grin, the dimples that appear in his cheeks.
I'm here for a job, not…whatever else might be on offer.
"Good luck," he murmurs, and then gestures me in.
With a deep breath, I step into t
Reassuring.
I take a moment to survey this grand salon and find it deserving of the name. It must run at least a third of the length of the whole house, strewn with antiques and objets d'art. The French windows look out over the back of the property, and the gardens stretch as far as I can see. But my attention is inevitably drawn back to the man seated at the grand piano at the far end of the room. He's strikingly attractive, his blond hair messily, artfully styled, his pale eyes fixed intently on me as he continues playing softly at the piano. Even from across the room, I can sense an underlying intensity that unnerves me.
And I recognize this man. Not just from the many photographs of him online at premieres and parties. I've seen him at the Bellamy Grand several times, visiting or dining, and in once case at least, staying overnight. I've seen him deep in discussion with the hotel manager who told me about the interview. They must, it occurs to me now, have been talking about me.
I'm not sure why that makes me uneasy. I should be flattered.
"Darian Thornfield-Hayes," the man says, his voice strangely cold in contrast to the smile on his face. "Good morning." He stops playing, stands, and walks over to me. "I'm Julian Castellani. Thank you so much for coming in."
I try hard to keep his gaze. It's intense. Direct. Unblinking. "Thank you for asking to interview me," I reply, offering my hand. I feel a tremor of anticipation as he clasps it.
"I must say, the Bellamy had nothing but glowing things to say about you. They tell me you're quite the perfectionist." He is still staring at me curiously, his eyes scanning now, taking in my suit, giving an unconscious little nod of approval.
"I take pride in my work, that's all."
Julian chuckles, but still his blue eyes stay cold. "And modest, too. How endearing." He gestures to the little couch to one side. "Please, have a seat. I'd like to hear more about you."
Tentatively, I lower myself onto the seat, perching on the edge as Julian settles into the chair opposite me. He's extremely good-looking and charming. But all the same, there is something not quite right about him.
And Raffi DeLuca's words echo in my head: Maybe this isn't the right job for you after all.
"Tell me about yourself," he says.
"Well, I've been with the Bellamy for the past three years," I begin, my voice steadier than I feel. "I started as a bellhop after I finished my degree, and worked my way up to become assistant manager of guest services." I pause, considering my words carefully. "As I'm sure you know, the Bellamy is a prestigious hotel, and I take great pride in ensuring that every guest feels welcome."
Julian nods, expression attentive. "And do you deal with complaints?"
"We don't often have complaints at the Bellamy—"
"Oh, of course not."
"—but if a guest is less than satisfied, I take action to not only satisfy them, but to exceed their expectations. We have many celebrities and people of influence, so…"
I go on. Once I start, I get into the flow of it. But I get the distinct impression that he's not really listening to me. That—despite how closely he seems to attend, how often he nods and asks me to go on—his questions and my answers aren't really what he's interested in.
At last he sits back in his seat, nodding thoughtfully. "The Bellamy recommended you as the staff member with the most potential," he says. "I think I have to agree."
I feel a flicker of pride at his words, my chest swelling slightly. "I'm honored that they think so highly of me. If I might ask, Mr. Castellani—what happened to the former employee in this role?"
Julian does not answer for a moment, still smiling that smile as he stares at me. "He died," he says at last. "Heart attack. But let's not dwell on that; let's look to the future. Your future, Darian Thornfield-Hayes. Have you given it much thought?"
All through the interview, whenever he'd said my name, he said the whole thing, just like that. And it's becoming unnerving, given that I added in the Thornfield myself.
Darian Hayes was too plain for the future I envisioned. The first day I moved to LA, I double-barreled myself, made my name sound just a little more chic than plain old Darian Hayes. Many people in LA change their names, vying to become the person they want to be when they visualize success.
So why shouldn't I?
"I have a five-year career plan," I tell Julian Castellani. And then, somehow, I find myself sharing exactly what it is—my dream to own my own establishment, and exactly how I plan to get there.
"Very good," Julian says at last. "I like ambitious people. But I must warn you," he adds, "we'll have to run some background checks. Would you be comfortable with that?"
For the first time, I hesitate, though not about the check itself. The Bellamy conducted similar background assessments when I began working for them. "Would…Mr. DeLuca be running them?"
"You object?" Julian asks with interest.
"Oh, no," I say hurriedly. "Of course not. I'd be delighted to provide my details. I just wondered if it would be…Mr. DeLuca personally…" I give up. That sentence is going nowhere good.
Julian tilts his head to one side. "I see," he says. And I feel, uncomfortably, that he does—that he sees much more than I want him to see, in fact. "As it happens, I've already had those checks run."
My eyebrows shoot up. "But how did you—"
"The Bellamy was very accommodating. And of course, we have access to all sorts of information here at Redwood. I was very satisfied with the results. I wouldn't have interviewed you otherwise."
"I'm glad they met with your approval?" I say, but it comes out sounding like a question.
Julian leans forward, his elbows resting on his knees as he studies me intently. "So what do you think, Darian Thornfield-Hayes?" he asks, his voice low and conspiratorial. "Do you believe you have what it takes to excel here at Redwood Manor?"
CHAPTER 2
RAFFI
I lean against the wall just outside the grand salon, trying to listen in as the interview goes on. My eyes are fixed on the closed, ornate double doors, as if I could see through them and into the room by sheer force of will.
But I can't see anything. Can't hear anything, either. They're talking too damn soft.
Darian Thornfield-Hayes. Intriguing guy. And fine. Honey-blond hair, lean build, elegant features… I've always had a soft spot for those smaller, slender types. The minute I looked into the car, my pulse picked up. The wide, frightened eyes…the way he accepted my reassurance straight away…and that timeless look that oozes sophistication. His suit hugged him perfectly, both classy and sexy as hell.
I wanted to peel it off him right there in the driveway, had to watch myself during the pat down. I made it as pro as possible. Didn't want him thinking I was just pawing at him for the sake of it. But those eyes of his watched every move I made as I checked him for weapons and wires, warm amber eyes that I could get lost in...
But I'm already worried about him.
He's pretty damn naive. Oblivious, even, to the nature of the Castellani Family. And hell, why wouldn't he be? To the outside world, the Castellanis have an impeccable front. Generous philanthropists, art connoisseurs, high society darlings—and yeah, some film industry involvement, like Darian thought.
As for the blood, bribes and broken kneecaps propping up their empire? Well, in LA, people look the other way.
But if Julian hasn't let on about things by the time the interview's done, I'll…well, I'll have to do something about it.
Footsteps approach and I straighten up, recognizing the distinct gait. Max Pedretti ambles down the long corridor from Sandro Castellani's study. I catch his gaze and hiss quietly, "Hey, Pedretti. You got a sec?"
He alters course and comes over to me, one salt-and-pepper brow lifting. "What is it, DeLuca?"
I jerk my head toward the grand salon. "That potential new butler, Darian, he's in there with Julian."
Pedretti's gaze flicks to the closed doors, then back to me. "What's the problem? Julian told me the background checks Jack ran were fine."
