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“Tony,” I say out loud, reading his name off the shiny silver name tag pinned to his white button-down shirt. “And what is it you think I drink?”
His elbows rest on the counter, tensing the muscles in his forearms. “Something sweet.”
The corner of my mouth lifts into a smile as he places the glass in front of me. The glass is a lot larger than I normally drink from, but the more the merrier.
It tastes bitter, burning my throat.
The drink leaves my grasp.
Giovanni is standing inches from me.
His eyes pierce mine.
His jaw hardens, and the glass tips slowly as he dumps the wine over my pure white dress.
I gasped, the sound of my own intake of air sending a shock through my body. I look down at my dress, red wine coating my stomach.
The emotion washes off my face as I look back up at Giovanni. He is giving Tony the darkest look I have ever seen.
What the hell is happening? Is he upset at me for flirting with Tony?I was hardly even flirting. It was something a schoolgirl would say in an attempt to get a man’s attention.
He looks composed, completely unfazed by this turn of events.
Giovanni slowly places the glass back down, his fingers clutching the rim, turning white, almost shattering it.
The cold continues to fall down the front of my dress.
Giovanni looks pleased by his actions. There’s a smile on his lips as he looks me up and down.
“You look good in red.” His voice is coated with anger.
I shake my head as I rush to the restroom, not paying any mind to how many people saw what just happened.
* * *
The bathroom looks like I’m trying to clean up a murder. There are paper towels all over the floor.
The paper towel dispenser runs out, so I wave my hand under the sensor.
What the fuck?
Giovanni had no right to do that. God knows he’s probably out there right now cutting Tony’s finger off just for talking to me.
I don’t know why he felt threated by a man who works for my father. Hardly even works for him; he only works for the restaurant.
I look at myself in the mirror as I realize how ridiculous this is.
This entire situation, Giovanni, taking my papa’s phone—everything.
What’s the point of all of this?
Why is Giovanni messing with me? Messing with my emotions?
My fingers run through my hair, attempting to fix the mess I created when I was trying to clean up the wine on my dress.
I’ll never get it out. This will only stain.
What an I am idiot for even thinking hand soap and water would work.
