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I sighed, not even pretending to hide my distaste that he would have done such thorough research on me. "What's there to say? It's a blog. I post recipes and photos of my food; people try them and love them. I make money through advertising mostly, but also some affiliate programs and stuff like that. You know, I use so and so brand of spatula and get a kickback from it."
"Seems like a smart way to make more money. Is a food blog common?"
I tilted my head in thought. "They aren't uncommon, by any means. You can find them all over the internet, but not everyone makes a full-time income from them. It all depends on how determined you are and if having it be your job is something, you're even interested in to be honest." The waiter brought out caprese salad, not even once glancing in my direction.
I felt a growl threaten in my own chest, because it wasn't enough that Matteo acted like a wild animal, but apparently, I needed to as well. I picked up my fork and ignored Matteo's self-satisfied grin that he turned on the waiter. There was something so feral in it, I couldn't blame the poor guy when he scurried off in a hurry.
"Are you always so territorial over all your dates?" I asked, stabbing a piece of tomato and shoving it into my mouth without preamble. The light drizzle of balsamic over it burst on my tongue pleasantly.
"I don't date," he answered with an eyebrow raised. "I don't even bring women out in public, so it would be hard to be territorial. Aside from you, I can't think of a single woman that I would object to seeing her take another man to bed as soon as I finished with her." My mouth was only inches from my wine glass, but thankfully I hadn't taken that sip just yet.
I had a feeling I'd have spit it all over the table.
And my food. That would have been unforgivable.
"Well that's, um, interesting," I faltered. How did one respond to that kind of confession?
He chuckled at my discomfort, taking a sip of his own wine. Watching his throat work while he swallowed the liquid shouldn't have been an aphrodisiac. It appeared, that literally everything about Matteo screamed sex. It was most unfortunate. "I don't have any use for women in my life. I don't particularly enjoy conversing with them, and I most definitely don't enjoy the way they view me as a meal ticket."
"You just enjoy fucking them and then tossing them aside? I guess some things never change." I hissed the words, watching as Matteo's jaw clenched in fury.
"What I did to you is nothing like what I did to all the women who have filled the void in your absence. I know it will be difficult for you to believe, but I did what I had to do at the time. One day, perhaps you'll understand. But do not compare yourself to others. You're nothing like them."
I swallowed, running my tongue over my teeth after I set my fork down, having finished my caprese salad. "And how am I any different? Just because I was a virgin?"
"You're different because you mean something to me, because you meant everything to me." The waiter collected our plates, and I fixed my gaze on the glass of wine in front of me.
"If that were true—"
Matteo cut me off, grasping my hand in his. "Not tonight, Angel. Soon, but not tonight."
I nodded, drawing my hand back to my side of the table. Matteo allowed it, seeming no more interested in having a physical altercation than I was. It was unfortunate enough that the tenseness to our conversation wasn't missed by the people dining closest to us. "Donatello told me your father passed," I said to break the silence that started to spread. "I'm sorry."
"Don't be," he chuckled. "The world is better for my father being gone."
I swallowed, because that didn't bear good things for the kind of man Matteo had become, given that I knew even as a child he was groomed to take over his father's businesses. The Bellandi Corporation had been passed down through generations from what anyone could tell. "I'm kind of surprised you never ended up married to Shauna." I laughed, and a twisted sort of humor filled Matteo's face.
"What in the fuck would make you think I'd marry Shauna? She wasn't particularly the most pleasant to spend time with." He was right, even people who Shauna didn't torment knew she was catty and cruel—just as likely to stab you in the back as she was to smile to your face.
"She used to tell everyone you were engaged. That your families had arranged for the two of you to be married like we live in the dark ages. Uniting two proper Italian families," I cringed with a scoff.
Matteo swallowed, "Ah. Well that was true enough before you, but I refused and given Shauna's propensity for sleeping around it wasn't difficult to navigate my way out of it. Old Italian families like mine, things like that matter. There are unfortunately certain expectations for our women, and if those aren't met than negotiations become difficult." I stared at him, not completely comprehending. "Last I spoke to her father; she'd moved to New York to try and start fresh. I've no idea how that worked for her."
The waiter delivered our dinners, and I dug into my risotto with a slow, savoring bite. The creamy flavor practically melted on my tongue; the hint of cheese delectable. My eyes drifted closed on a moan. When they opened, it was to Matteo's darkened blue gaze on my face. I cleared my throat awkwardly, taking a sip of my wine to dispel some of the tension I felt. "The whole Italian thing is that important to your family? It just seems so...dated? People intermarry all the time."
"Not in families like mine. My father was unorthodox, taking my mother for a wife. I guess they felt like they needed to make up for that by ensuring I settled down with a good Italian woman." I cut through my stalk of asparagus, popping the bite into my mouth. It hurt to have it confirmed that he would always be destined for an Italian woman, because no matter what happened or didn't happen b
etween us, Italian I was not.
"Your mother wasn't Italian?" I asked to dispel the awkwardness of what his confession did to me. I knew we wouldn't ever really be together, obviously I knew better than to have expectations or even hopes where Matteo was concerned, but to hear it so blatantly spelled out struck something in me down. I shoved it away. I could feel the hurt later, but in front of Matteo, I was determined to make him believe me unaffected.
I didn't want him.
Couldn't want him.
He shook his head, slicing a bite off his steak. He held out his fork, offering me a bite of the meat in the same way he always had back then. Ever the foodie, I always needed to try everything at the table. At least if I'd never had it. I shook my head, the smile on my face horrified. He leaned across the small, intimate table for two, and the forkful hovered just in front of my mouth. Knowing it would be a bigger scene than I felt like causing to continue to deny him, I had no choice but to open my mouth and accept the beef in. Matteo slid the fork inside, eyes fixated on the motion as my lips sealed around it and plucked it off the fork. I hummed my approval as the intense flavor coated my tongue, and I chewed.
After a moment's delay, he sat back in his chair and resumed eating. "My mother is Norwegian," he admitted. "She and my father had a fling when she was in the city for college. Brief, sex motivated. She got pregnant with me, so they had no choice but to get married really. Given my family's conservative values, there was no way to avoid it even with her heritage." That explained how Matteo had lighter hair than Lino, and I imagined the rest of his Italian family. "They hated each other. Spent most of my childhood fighting, until my mother decided she just didn't care. As soon as my father died, my mother left town and never looked back."
