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Nico’s brows rose. “You brought me here so we could play bocce?”

“No. I brought you here so you could play bocce. Come on.”

Now Nico was even more confused. He had a thousand things to do today, calls and emails to return. In addition to regular family business, he needed to follow up on the stadium deal, to see if their blackmail had worked yet. Not to mention that the man who drugged Sofia was still breathing easy, somewhere in Toronto.

“Verreault—”

“No arguing.” Bennett grabbed Nico’s arm and tugged him through the door. “I think you’ll like this.”

The inside was nothing fancy. Three small bocce courts, a bar, and a few tables scattered around. It hadn’t been updated in forever, if the peeling yellow paint and scratched linoleum flooring was anything to go by. A sign for an Italian beer that was no longer produced hung on one wall. It smelled like mildew, stale cigars, and ancient history.

But the place was packed with old men. And when the words began reaching Nico’s ears, he realized they were old Italian men.

“You brought me to play bocce with old men,” he said, stating the obvious.

“Well, yeah.” Bennett shoved his hands into the pockets of his jeans, his gaze not meeting Nico’s. “You talked about your grandfather and I thought you might like a reminder of home.”

His grandfather? Home?

Nico couldn’t speak. He didn’t like surprises, but this was . . . sweet. And he didn’t know what to do with sweet. The skating lesson had been impromptu, a way to try something new. This was not that. So, was it a date? Or a gesture of some kind? His mind began spinning with ramifications and reasons why this was a bad idea. There were too many to contemplate.

A sex dungeon would’ve been much easier to understand.

“Stop thinking,” Bennett said. “I’ve already told them about you, Mr. Mancuso.”

Nico’s head shot up. “Mancuso?”

Bennett shrugged adorably, hands remaining firmly in pockets. “I thought you might want to be incognito while you’re here.”

So thoughtful. So handsome. The unfairness of it almost made Nico angry.

While he was trying to think of what to say, a deep voice threaded with hints of a Roman accent sounded behind him. “Ciao, Signore Mancuso.” Turning, Nico watched as an elderly man limped toward them, his hand outstretched. “Mi chiamo Francesco. Benvenuto nel nostro club.” Welcome to our club.

“It is nice to meet you, Francesco. Thank you for having me,” he returned in their language as they shook hands. “I am honored.”

“The honor is mutual. We love having new players, especially those under the age of sixty.”

Nico nodded, unable to keep his lips from curling. The room was full of octogenarians, so no doubt this was true.

“Do you know how to play?” Francesco asked, in English this time for Verreault’s benefit.

“Sì, certo. My nonno taught all of us. But it’s been many years for me.” Maybe twenty-five years or so.

Francesco squeezed Nico’s shoulder. “I will help remind you. Andiamo. Will your friend play, too?”

“No,” Bennett said quickly. “I’m here just to watch.”

Nico frowned slightly over his shoulder as he walked with Francesco to one of the courts. “You will not play?”

“I wouldn’t want to show you up,” he said with a sly grin. “Professional athlete, you know?”

This wasn’t the time for a comeback to put the hockey captain in his place, but Nico would prove to Bennett how athletic he could be later.

You’re already thinking about later? This is supposed to be over between you two.

Nico shoved his thoughts away and went to meet the other players, Giuseppe and Vittorio. They were playing two-on-two, with Francesco and Nico partnered up on one team. “We normally play one-on-one,” Vittorio said, his speech layered with a Genoese accent. “Because all our members keep dying.”

“That is too bad,” Nico said. “Where are your sons, your family members?”