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Rocking back and forth, she hugged her middle. “Oh.”
She was naive and innocent, unaware of how the real world worked.
This was business.
Nothing personal.
Despite my no-touching rule, I put my hand on her shoulder. “Let’s go. We have a lunch reservation. And I don’t like to be late.”
ChapterEleven
AVA
We left the casino area and headed to a trattoria called La Cucina della Mamma. It meant Mom’s Kitchen in Italian. I was dying to know if any of Dante’s mother’s recipes were on the menu.
A gorgeous blonde woman waited for us with a smile. “Good afternoon, Mr. Luciano.”
She opened the door for us.
He nodded as he entered the restaurant.
At least he was nasty with everyone, and it wasn’t just me. As a general rule, Dante seemed to hate everyone. It wouldn’t have killed him to smile or be nice once in a while. But he wanted his employees to fear him.
The place had a rustic vibe and smelled like a brick oven. I tipped my nose up at the scent of garlic and herbs, and my stomach rumbled.
Delicious.
I hadn’t gotten the chance to make breakfast because I was so afraid of being late for work. God forbid I kept Dante from one of his many rituals. That man had a time for everything.
I wondered if he made time for sex, then laughed on the inside. He was too uptight to have had sex lately. But, even if he had, I was willing to bet it was clinical and robotic. Just him going through the motions with some whore from one of their clubs.
The hostess led us to our booth at the back of the restaurant. It was impossible to see us back here with its high, rounded walls. All by design, I guessed.
Dante liked his privacy.
Before I could even think about what I wanted to drink, a brunette with too much makeup on her face appeared. She set Dante’s glass in front of him, then a Diet Coke for me.
I raised an eyebrow, surprised she knew my order. But when I looked over at Dante, he shrugged. Nico had told me a while back they knew everything about me.
They even knew my bra size.
Nothing got past my captors.
I sipped from the straw and glanced across the table at Dante, who readThe New York Timesthe waitress handed him. She didn’t speak as if she were used to being non-existent. They went through the motions with an odd familiarity.
A minute later, the waitress set a pizza on the table, sliced it, and put plates in front of us.
Dante kept his eyes on the newspaper. After she left the table, he dropped the paper on the leather bench beside him and lifted a slice of pizza off the metal tray.
I followed suit and bit into the Brooklyn-style brick oven pizza that tasted like heaven. It was hands-down the best pizza I’d ever had in my life. A soft moan slipped past my lips as I chewed my food.
Dante narrowed his eyes at me.
“This is amazing,” I said after I swallowed another bite.
He nodded, then went back to eating.
“Is this place named for your mom?”
