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Nicolo pulls up outside an unassuming building on the corner of Ashland Avenue and Walton Street. At first, I’m confused by it, as it almost looks like some kind of business office with odd, modern art designs in the window. Then I spot the small wooden sign behind the glass that names the place Temporis. My heart skips a beat as I recognize the name of the Michelin-star restaurant everyone at Rosehill has raved about. I’ve never tried it, seeing as, on average, dinner here costs almost the same as a month of rent at our apartment.
Parking the car right on the corner as though he owns the building, Nicolo kills the motor and gets out. Despite his bad mood, he thankfully walks around the car to help me stand as I open my door. I’m sure I would shred my skirt if I tried to get out on my own.
Without a word, Nicolo guides me through the front door into the restaurant and informs the formally dressed host of our reservation. The decor is simple and modern, with the patterned windows surrounding us, standing out as the centerpiece of the design. Dark wood tables and simple white-cloth chairs occupy the space, and our server leads us to the far end of the room, where he sits us at a quiet table.
“Ma’am,” the host says, his eyes combing over my outfit appreciatively as he pulls out my chair.
I blush, quickly sitting before Nicolo can catch him checking me out. But Nicolo seems distracted as he settles into his own chair and orders a bottle of their finest cabernet. The host gives a subtle bow and departs, leaving me to study Nicolo’s troubled face. Gripping the stem of his wine glass, Nicolo twirls it across the table, and the glass hums with the motion. He tips it so the dim lighting shines through the curved glass and reflects onto the table. But when I study his expression, Nicolo’s hazel eyes look miles away. From the way his lips press into a tight line, I’m confident his family emergency is still on his mind.
Pushing aside my reservations, I reach across the table to cover Nicolo’s hands with mine. His head snaps up as his eyes meet mine, mild surprise making his strong eyebrow quirk.
“Nicolo, what’s wrong?” I ask, trying to make my voice authoritative, though it comes out as barely more than a whisper.
Sighing, Nicolo sets the wine glass aside, removing his hands from mine in the same motion. “Someone tried to attack my sister today,” he rasps, and a hint of fear shines in his eye before anger takes over his face, hardening his expression as his jaw works to fight back his emotion. “Her bodyguards prevented it, but she was pretty shaken up.”
“What happened?” I ask, my eyes growing round. That he’s actually opening up is almost as shocking to me as the way he speaks about his sister being attacked. He sounds angry but not surprised, and it reminds me that his life must be so different from my own, surrounded by violence. My pulse quickens as he seems to contemplate telling me more.
Nicolo shrugs one shoulder as he glares down at his knife and fork. “Her guards say they were confronted unexpectedly outside the mall when they were getting in the car. Silvia was able to get in safely while they dealt with the problem. But I found a note in the car saying, ‘Revenge is coming.’” Looking up to meet my eyes, Nicolo’s expression is intense. “They went after my sister. She’s barely sixteen–a child.”
His tone is fiercely protective, and I’m disarmed by how much he seems to care about his sister’s safety. I didn’t even realize he had a sister, but as he speaks about her, I’m alarmed at his level of concern.
“Do you… think this has to do with your family business?” I ask tentatively, my heart racing.
“More than likely,” he agrees. Nicolo picks up his butter knife and rolls it between his fingers, fidgeting to try and cope with the emotion so visibly consuming him.
He really does look like he needs a distraction. Biting my lip, I take up the menu and ask, “So, what’s good here?”
Nicolo scoffs and pulls the menu from my hands, then closes it and sets it aside. “Whatever the chef is in the mood to make,” he states.
He must not be joking, as when the server arrives with a bottle of wine and offers to take our order, Nicolo tells him to have the chef decide. Sipping my wine, I rack my brain for something to talk about that might bring Nicolo out of his mood. But it quickly becomes apparent to me that I know little about Nicolo personally. Aside from that, he likes to torment me, and rough sex seems to be his main MO.
“I never properly thanked you for my jewelry,” I say finally. “I love it, so thank you.” It’s true. The simple diamond studs and matching bracelet are perhaps my favorite thing he bought me on our shopping day. As a dancer, I can’t wear big, flashy jewelry that could get caught on something or fly off as I move. Still, I’ve found myself wearing the earrings almost every day, and the bracelet is a nice addition that makes me feel dressier when I want to be.
Nicolo studies me, though his brows continue to press together in a frown. “You’re welcome,” he says, then we fall silent again.
Our server delivers a beautifully decorated plate a moment later, setting the appetizer between us. “This is canapés,” the server explains. “Wagyu, uni, and peach.” With another subtle bow, he departs once more, leaving us to enjoy our dish.
“It looks more like art than food,” I observe the way it’s laid out so perfectly in the center of the white plate. It mimics some form of modern abstract art as the colors overlap and collide wonderfully.
“Hmm,” Nicolo responds, gesturing that I should start.
I stare down at the plate, unsure of how I might deconstruct something so beautiful. “That’s okay. You start.”
Wordlessly, Nicolo reaches into the center of the table with his knife and fork and dissects the pretty dish into two even portions. Putting one serving onto my side plate, he then does the same to his plate with the other half.
“Eat,” he commands.
I do, intensely aware of how Nicolo seems to give orders without even thinking about it. I wonder if that might not have something to do with who he is and how he was raised. For the first time, I wonder what his home life must have been like growing up.Was his father kind to him? Domineering?
I think Lorenzo Marchetti must be as ruthless as his son, and I can’t imagine how that kind of violence might have impacted Nicolo’s childhood. Now that he’s mentioned having a younger sister, who he’s clearly protective of–and I know he has two younger brothers–I wonder if he might not be the oldest and feel some sense of responsibility to become the man of his family some day.
Our next dish arrives shortly after we finish our first, and it’s just as artistic as the last. Despite my best attempts to distract Nicolo from his thoughts, he only seems to sink further into his dark mood. When I ask him about his favorite thing to do, Nicolo shoves his plate away forcefully, making the dishes clink together.
“Fuck this,” he growls. “We’re leaving.” Nicolo tosses his napkin onto the table and rises.
Wide-eyed, I follow him up out of my chair, and he tosses a stack of bills onto the table, much like he did on our first night at dinner. My stomach tightens with nerves as I wonder if it’s not a sign of what’s to come. Nicolo presses his hand to the small of my back as he practically marches me from the restaurant and back out to his car.
“Get in,” he commands, yanking my door open before he stalks around to the driver’s side.
