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“You have plenty of them on retainer. Ask one of them to marry you. I’m sure they would love to act out theirPretty Womanfantasy with you.”
Luca was no Richard Gere, that was for fucking sure.
I lifted the napkin from my lap and dropped it onto the table before I shot up from my chair. “Thanks for the heartwarming proposal, but I’m pretty fond of my fingers. I need them to paint. So if you’ll excuse me, I think we’re done here.”
The legs of his chair scraped across the marble floor. “Sit down, Drea.” His words burned with anger. “You can’t run away every time shit gets hard.”
He rarely called me Alex. I wasn’t sure if Drea was a term of endearment or another way for him to disrespect me.
“You’re the one who taught me to run,” I yelled, my cheeks flushed with heat. “I never wanted to leave someplace so badly until I met you.”
“You think I’m letting you go?” He crossed his arms over his chest and shook his head. “Nah, baby. You’re not going anywhere. Sit your pretty ass in that chair.” He pointed his finger, reminding me of my first day at Astor Prep when he forced me to my knees. “And take those fucking paintbrushes out of your hair.”
I crossed my arms under my breasts, pushing them out. “Nope.”
“Drea,” he warned.
I waggled my eyebrows to taunt him. “Come over here and make me.”
“Just take them the fuck out.”
“Why?”
“Because that’s how his mother wore her hair when she was painting,” Arlo interjected in a cool, calm tone.
None of the boys ever mentioned their mother. From what my grandfather had told me, Marcello and Luca used to paint with their mom. She wanted them to be more like her and less like their father. But after her death, Arlo forbid the boys to paint or even speak about their mother. He closed the doors to her studio and threw away the key.
With a sigh, I plucked the paintbrushes from my hair and dropped them onto the table. My wild curls spilled down past my shoulders.
“We’re about to serve the steak,” Arlo told me. “You don’t want to miss this cut of filet. I had it delivered for the special occasion.”
What’s special about this nightmare?
I took my seat and glanced at Arlo. “I’m done discussing marriage.”
He nodded.
Servers set plates in front of us, ending our conversation. I tilted my nose up and drank in the delicious scent of the ten-ounce filet mignon served with a baked potato, fresh asparagus, and a side of Bearnaise sauce. My mouth watered as I lifted my fork and knife from the table and cut into the steak.
No one spoke a word during dinner. And when Luca’s phone rang loudly in his pocket, his father scowled because he didn’t allow cell phones at his dinner table.
Luca ignored the call, then Marcello’s cell phone rang. One after the other, they checked their messages.
“Motherfuckers.” Luca crushed the phone in his hand. “I’m going to break their fucking skulls.”
Marcello stilled beside me, his eyes pointed down at the screen. He wasn’t the type to blowup, not like Luca. Composed and calm, I could see why Marcello handled the security for Salvatore Global.
I attempted a peek at his phone, and he shoved it under the table, out of my view. What the hell was up with them? Luca handed his phone to his father with an irritated look on his troubled face. Arlo read with clenched teeth.
We shoveled food into our mouths at record speed. Everyone refused dessert, which was a welcome relief because I could not wait to get away from the table.
On my way out of the dining room, Luca grabbed my shoulder, my back hitting the wall as he pressed his chest against mine.
I shook him off. “Don’t manhandle me, asshole.”
Marcello tapped him on the shoulder. “We have to go.”
A dark-haired guard appeared beside Marcello. He was a few inches shorter, dressed in a black suit. A gnarly scar ran down the side of his neck, dipping beneath his dress shirt. Head down, he whispered something to Marcello with his body angled away from me.
