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It was silly—girlish, even—how acutely aware I was of him right then. The scent of him. The brush of his body against mine if either of us shifted, or the car made a sudden movement. I could feel the heat of his body through his clothes, and had the almost overwhelming urge to lean into him, to feel his arm go around my shoulders, and pull me close.
I couldn’t shake the thoughts the whole drive that was, objectively, not very long, but it seemed to take forever thanks to the thick traffic.
We probably could have gotten there in half the time with the subway, but Silvano likely thought the jostling of the subway car would be too much for me still.
Twelve Tables was a little cozy-looking restaurant wedged between one place offering sushi, and the other selling mystery books.
It had a black awning out front and warm lighting inside.
Silvano didn’t pay the driver, or say anything at all, as we moved onto the sidewalk, just sent the man a chin incline. And that was it.
I watched the car pull away, that same suspicion, buried for days, coming back to the forefront of mine.
About Silvano’s profession.
This man who was around twenty-four-seven. Who was never on his phone or laptop. Who clearly had money, but didn’t seem to do much to earn it.
Then the interaction with the driver.
Like maybe the guy worked for him or something like that?
Definitely some sort of criminal.
Maybe even some higher-up criminal, who had other people doing all the dirty work for him, while he sat back and counted his cash?
“You coming in or what?” Silvano asked, making my head snap in his direction, finding him holding the door open for me.
“Sorry. Got distracted,” I admitted, waving toward the city as a whole.
“Ever been here before?” he asked as we moved inside.
“No,” I admitted. “I’ve always lived in cities, but never one this big.”
“Costa,” Silvano told the hostess, pretty with her dark hair and tight red dress just this side of scandalous.
Still, Silvano barely even spared her a glance as she checked her book.
“Right, Mr. Costa,” she said, and her posture seemed to go rigid. Like his name meant something.
Totally, totally a criminal.
“Let me just make sure your table is cleared,” she said, offering him a big, but tight, smile before turning and walking away.
A party of five or six moved in behind us in the small entryway, making Silvano take a step forward, plastering his front to my back, his hand resting casually on my hip.
Sure.
Yeah.
Maybe he was some big shot criminal.
But my body went all melty when he was so close.
“Cold?” Silvano asked.
“No,” I said, but it wasn’t until after I spoke that I realized the little shudder that moved through me was a whole body one, not an internal one.
Which explained the little chuckle that moved through him as the hostess rushed back.
