Page 59 of How Not to Mess with a Millionaire

But he knew these men. Had known them since they were barely out of boyhood. And he knew once they got hold of something, be it a multinational corporation or some far-fetched idea about his love life, they wouldn’t let go until they were good and ready, on their own damn terms.

So he pivoted the only way he could think of. The Italian way—with food.

“Anyone hungry?” he asked, setting his drink down and pulling his cell phone from his pocket. “I could call Luca and have him send over something from the restaurant.”

Xander patted his stomach. “I never say no to Luca’s food.”

“Me, either,” Miguel agreed. “But don’t think that means you’re off the hook. We’re not done interrogating you about Zoe.”

Dante didn’t doubt it. Although it would be harder for them to interrogate him with their mouths full of pasta.

Chapter Twelve

“Buonasera, SignoreSabbatini.” The hostess greeted them with a wide, genuine smile. “It’s good to see you again.”

“Thank you, Valentina.” She blushed, and Dante gave himself a mental pat on the back for getting her name right. He prided himself on remembering the names of his employees. Not an easy feat with the amount of turnover typical in the restaurant business. But it was little things, like calling people by name, that made the difference between a pleasant, productive workplace and one that was unbearable.

“We have your usual table ready for you,” Valentina said, motioning for them to follow her into the restaurant. “And your brother said he’ll be out to see you as soon as he can. They’re a bit busy in the kitchen right now.”

“Busy is good,” Zoe piped up beside him. “Right?”

“Very.”

They reached their table—his favorite, tucked away in a quiet corner, far from the usually noisy, bustling bar area—and he pulled out a chair for Zoe. He’d considered reserving the chef’s table—a counter, really, in front of the kitchen, where diners could witness Luca’s culinary wizardry firsthand—but he quickly rejected that idea. It was one of their last nights together—a fact he tried to bury deep in his subconscious but that kept resurfacing, like a recurring nightmare—and he wanted to spend it with Zoe. Alone. Not surrounded by the cacophony of a commercial kitchen, watching his brother show off at his Vulcan SX series range.

After assuring them their waiter would be with them shortly, Valentina disappeared, presumably returning to her station at the front of the house. Dante took a seat across from Zoe, admiring the way the flames from the candle in the center of the table danced across her face and picked up the silver fibers in the jacquard dress he’d picked out for her at Dolce & Gabbana.

It was fun spoiling her. She’d resisted at first, of course. But in the end, he’d won. She’d even let him throw in a matching purse and shoes.

He wasn’t sure where the need to pamper her came from. Maybe on some deep-seated level it was because he wished he could give her more of himself. But that was impossible. He’d given everything—body, mind, soul, and most importantly heart—to Nicole. Her death—due in part to his own carelessness—had shattered him. After a year, he was finally beginning to put the pieces back together. Letting himself love again was a risk he couldn’t take right now. Maybe not ever.

He forced that sobering thought from his head and leaned back in his chair. His remaining time with Zoe was short. He wasn’t going to let anything spoil it, especially his painful past. “So, what do you think?”

Her eyes sparkled, their shine making the flickering light of the candle pale in comparison. “I don’t know. I haven’t eaten anything yet. Although, if it’s anything like the food your brother sent over yesterday, I’m sure I’ll be well fed and happy in no time.”

“Not about the food. About the ambiance. You’ve designed commercial spaces, haven’t you?”

“Yes. I’ve even worked on a few restaurants.”

“Good.” He waved a hand around the dining room, encouraging her to take it all in. “I want an expert’s opinion.”

She bit her lip as her gaze slowly roamed the room, her brow creased in concentration. He liked that she took her time to form an opinion, rather than giving him some knee-jerk, overly complimentary response.

“It’s charming,” she said when she’d finished her thorough appraisal. “Cozy and intimate, but upscale, too. The rustic furniture and vintage lighting fixtures add a touch of warmth.”

“That’s exactly what we were going for when we redid this place a few years ago.”

“Then I’d say you succeeded.”

A waiter materialized seemingly out of thin air, set down two glasses, and proceeded to fill them with one of Dante’s favorite reds, a Sicilian Nero D’Avola. Then, as quickly and quietly as he appeared, he faded away. Dante made a mental note to tell the maître d’ to give the guy a raise. Waitstaff who understood how to be both attentive and unobtrusive were hard to come by.

Zoe looked across the table at Dante, down to her now full glass, then back to Dante again. “We didn’t order anything.”

Dante lifted his glass to his nose, swirled, sniffed, and sipped. “My staff knows what I like. If it’s not to your taste, let me know, and we can get something different.”

“I’m sure I’ll love it. I’m not picky when it comes to wine. We even drank the box crap in college.”

He shuddered. “That’s not wine. That’s fermented grape juice.”