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Although we were both silent, it wasn’t heavy or uncomfortable. In fact, his presence was almost comforting, like a warm blanket surrounding me. I shifted on the leather seat as Enzo sitting so close made me feel a little off-kilter. Was something wrong with me for feeling so intense about a man I’d just met?
I chanced a look in his direction, but his focus was trained on the road in easy concentration, the lights from the dashboard illuminating his strong features. I wouldn't consider him classically handsome, not a male I could ever envision walking down the runway modeling the next couture. There was something brutal and fierce about him. Something inherently dangerous about Enzo Santini.
A predator. That’s exactly what he was.
“I hope you enjoy authentic Italian,” he finally said, pulling me from my thoughts. “I know a great little Italian restaurant where I think you’ll enjoy the atmosphere.” He cut a glance to me, and his eyes held this smoldering quality.
My body had started to cool slightly, but at the look he gave me, the arousal that seemed to simmer in his presence rose up again with a vengeance. I focused on his words. Dinner. This is dinner only. I shifted on the seat slightly and nodded, then felt foolish because he was paying attention to the road and not me. “I love Italian. It’s one of my favorites.” He looked over at me again, and although his eyes had this hard quality to them, I saw something heated behind the dark depths.
He faced forward again, and the silence descended once more. “Alfonso.” He said my last name softly. “Portuguese?”
I felt a spear of shock that he’d guessed correctly. Or had he? If he truly was a professional criminal—in the mafia—I had no doubt he looked me up.
“Yes.” I smoothed my hands up and down my thighs. “Portuguese on my father’s side,” I responded, even though he hadn’t asked. I inhaled deeply and took in the strong, intoxicating scent that made Enzo… Enzo. His cologne was heady and spicy. Masculine.
“Have you ever been?”
I shook my head and then replied, “No, unfortunately. The closest I’ve gotten was when my parents took me to Little Portugal in New Jersey.” He made a sound of acknowledgment. “Have you been there? To either?”
He inclined his head. “Over the years, my business has required me to travel extensively.”
Ten minutes later, Enzo was smoothly pulling the car off the main road and into the little parking lot of the restaurant. A wooden sign outfitted with red, white, and green was backlit by lights.
Antonio’s.
The next thing I noticed was the lack of vehicles. The only ones I saw were a couple toward the back of the building. I pulled my brows low in confusion as Enzo took one of the many empty spots right in front of the restaurant and cut the engine.
I glanced at him questioningly before saying, “It doesn’t look like it’s open.” Although the exterior lights were on and I could see a glow coming from the front windows, we were quite literally one of the only cars here.
He looked over at me and grinned slowly, a flash of straight white teeth. “Come,” he said softly and got out of the car. Before I could even unbuckle my seatbelt, Enzo was pulling the passenger side door open and holding his hand out to me.
He helped me out of the car, shut the door softly behind me, and with his palm curled gently around mine, he led me to the front door, which opened on its own as soon as we got to it.
A young man in white and black wait staff attire gave Enzo a smile, respect clear on his face, before saying, “Good evening, Mr. Santini.”
Enzo inclined his head in acknowledgement but didn't say anything.
The young man looked at me but quickly averted his gaze. Enzo slid his hand from mine and placed the heavy, firm weight at the small of my back. I suppressed a shiver that small touch ignited in me.
I was led into the interior of the restaurant, where the scent of garlic and freshly baked bread, savory meat sauces, and something sweet lingered in the air. Soft Italian music played overhead, adding to the authentic atmosphere that surrounded me.
The restaurant most definitely wasn’t one of those cheesy, gimmicky ones where they dished out greasy pizza, flat fountain drinks, and the decor was red-and-white-checkered patterns with fake breadsticks in plastic baskets in the center of each table. Antonio’s was clearly not one of those flashy or expensive places either, not one that would require a black tie and jacket before allowing entry.
It seemed down to earth. A family-owned business.
An older man dressed in a dark navy suit came up to Enzo, a wide grin on his face, the wrinkles around his eyes and mouth creased against his dark olive skin tone. He stopped in front of Enzo, the light catching a gold-capped tooth on the side of his mouth. The two men reached out and clasped hands, and the older gentleman started speaking with Enzo, the two of them immediately starting to converse in fluent, beautiful Italian.
