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“Why do you care anyway?” I run my fingers along the button of my fleece sweater. “You had another woman sucking you off.”
Benny scoffs. “Jealous it wasn’t you, my little unwanted wife?”
“Possibly, butonlybecause I’d have had the opportunity to bite your dick off.”
“I’d bet my entire kingdom you’d never have the balls to do that, so stop wasting both of our time, attempting to prove you’re somebadass.” He jerks his head toward the back seat. “I still have handcuffs back there that I have no problem using again.”
I cross my arms, a bitter taste forming in my mouth. “If you’re kidnapping me, at least feed me lunch. I’m starving.”
My stomach rumbles at the mention of food.
I planned to ask Isabella and my mother if they wanted to go out for tacos and margaritas.
Benny suddenly makes a U-turn, and I grip the door handle to stop myself from whacking my head against the window. Instead of questioning where he’s taking me, I relax in the seat and watch him drive.
He uses only one hand. His knuckles are busted, but his nails are well-groomed. His black button-up sleeves are rolled up to the elbows, exposing the tattoos stretching down his arm to his hand. His other arm is bare, a blank canvas, as if he were waiting for the next chapter of his life before painting it onto his skin. I wish I could lean in closer, take a magnifying glass, and examine every inch of the tattoos.
I’m dragged away from my thoughts when Benny enters the private parking lot of L’ultima Cena. My stomach rumbles again, but it’s more in excitement this time. This is the best Italian restaurant in the city.
It’s also the most favored for Costa Nostra families. The restaurant requires all employees to sign NDAs and to provide three references from those withinour community.
Benny swerves into an open spot, and I hurriedly slip on my boots before jumping out of the SUV. We walk side by side to the back entrance. Entering this way isn’t new to me. My father never uses the main entrance to the restaurant, nor have we ever dined in the public dining area. Everything is kept private.
He rings a bell, and the door swings open seconds later.
“Benny! Neomi!” Argentino, the head chef, greets like he was expecting us.
“Table for two,” Benny tells him. “Magnolia room, if it’s open.”
Argentino nods, waves us inside, and says, “Everyone is thrilled about you two finally tying the knot,” as we follow him down the hall.
Argentino’s uncle owns the restaurant. He and my father go way back. He attended my christening, caters my birthday parties, and sends us pignoli cookies every Christmas.
L’ultima Cena considers itself neutral ground, but that doesn’t mean it doesn’t house plenty of secrets and deaths. It’s why people say the name fits the restaurant so well. It translates to thelast supper.
Light opera music plays in the background as Argentino leads us into a small, low-lit room. A hurricane of candles is spread over the white-clothed table. The windows are covered with burgundy curtains. The entire restaurant has a Tuscan feel. Classic Italy.
Argentino draws out the chair for me, and I sit across from Benny. Luigi, one of the servers, enters the room. The smell of sweet garlic and fresh tomatoes lingers on his clothes.
“Good afternoon, Mr. Marchetti and Miss Cavallaro. I’m so happy you are dining with us today,” Luigi greets, handing us menus. “What can I interest you in drinking?”
“I’m actually ready to order my meal as well,” I tell him.
The faster we eat, the quicker we can get out of here.
Which means less Benny and Neomi time.
Luigi peeks at Benny, as if asking for his permission, and I grimace.
Benny leans back in his chair and makes ago aheadgesture.
“I’ll just have a water to drink and the linguine all’astice,” I say without bothering to glance at the menu. It’s what my father orders on special occasions.
Now, I’m not a big lobster fan.
And my father taught us it’s bad-mannered to order the most expensive item on the menu if you’re not footing the bill.
While lobster isn’t my favorite, being bad-mannered to Benny Marchetti is.
