“Both. Always both, Amelia.”
He dipped his head and kissed me. It was sweet, gentle, and over too soon. “We should go. I don’t want to make Remo wait.”
He held out his hand, scarred palm upward. I put my hands in his, and together, we walked out. The steak house was on the ground floor, and on our way down, everyone we passed gawked at us. I couldn’t imagine that dressed-up people were such anovelty in Las Vegas, but maybe even in Sin City we stood out from others.
We passed the casino with its hum of excited voices on our way to the steakhouse. The moment we stepped inside, the scent of seared beef and truffle butter carried into my nose and made my stomach rumble. With the excitement of the day, I’d hardly eaten anything. A hostess dressed in a royal-blue cocktail dress greeted us and motioned us to follow her. The tables were draped in white linen, and golden rimmed wineglasses gleamed in the light of chandeliers dangling from the ceiling.
We were led to the very back of the restaurant, past guests who tried not to stare too openly at us—and failed. I kept my head high and focused on Nestore’s unimpressed expression. Remo and Nino sat at one of the few tables that weren’t at a window. They probably worried about someone shooting them. Their reign was still young, and like Nestore, their list of enemies was long.
The hostess gave me a small smile but avoided Nestore’s eyes. Remo and Nino stood. Neither tried to touch us, and only gave us brief nods, which I appreciated. Nestore and I sat across from them. Relief washed over me that Nino sat across from me. His gaze passed me by with utter disinterest while Remo regarded me like a ticking time bomb. Our server appeared at our table and took our drink order.
I scanned the menu in front of me. It didn’t have any prices, which confused me. “Why are there no prices?”
“Women don’t get the menu with prices,” Nino said.
“Oh.” My eyes caught on a wagyu ribeye. It sounded absolutely delicious. A bottle of red wine and one with San Pellegrino appeared on our table. The moment the server poured me wine, I took a sip, glad for the alcohol to soothe my nerves. If I were around Remo all the time, I’d probably have to figure out a new method to calm myself.
Remo raised his glass. “Someone’s thirsty.”
I flushed, but didn’t apologize. He was very aware of his nerve-wracking aura, and he enjoyed unsettling people, so he couldn’t blame me if I needed a little pick-me-up. I raised my glass, then took another sip. “It’s very good wine.”
“One would hope so, considering the bottle costs five hundred dollars,” Nino drawled.
My eyebrows shot up.
Remo chuckled. “We own the West.”
“Not too long ago, we had to do boxing matches in dingy Bratva bars to earn enough money for food and the clothes on our backs,” Nino said, turning the bottle around to read the label.
Remo nodded. “We’re still fighting, but more comfortably.”
“Our enemies are dying out,” Nestore said, putting the wine glass back down without taking a sip.
“Old enemies are dying out, and new ones are arising,” Remo said with a twisted smile. “The Outfit and Famiglia are paying close attention to what’s happening in the Camorra.”
“We’re too strong for either of them to take on,” Nestore said.
“Indeed, but maybe not if they unite again.”
“They’re at war because men thought obsessing over women was anything but idiocy,” Remo said, his cruel dark eyes slanting to me.
Nestore squeezed my leg under the table.
The server spared us a further discussion on the matter. “Have you decided what you’d like to order?”
Remo motioned to me.
“I’d like the wagyu ribeye with truffle fries and roasted brussels sprouts.”
The men ordered next, and I fumbled with my wineglass, then cast an inconspicuous look at the tattoo peeking out ofNino’s long sleeves. It was colorful, red and yellow. Maybe flames?
Another dash of color peeked out of his turtleneck. I supposed everyone has their own way of dealing with their past trauma.
I was relieved when the food arrived. My ribeye looked mouth-watering, and the scent of the truffle made my belly rumble appreciatively.
When I took the first bite, the conversation shifted toward tomorrow’s fights.
“Nino picked an interesting opponent for you. He used to work as a freelance enforcer for the Bratva. Now he’s indebted to us. They call him the Steamroller.”
