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“They have more customers than they can handle,” Salvatore says and takes the menus the waiter brought. “What do you want to drink?”
“Lemonade.”
“A lemonade and a mineral water,” he tells the waiter. “And tell Jonathan we’ll take a few dishes the chef already has prepared.”
The waiter nods and vanishes.
“Mineral water?” I raise an eyebrow.
“I don’t drink when I drive.” He leans over the table and reaches for my hand.
A pleasant shiver passes through me when he traces the lines on my skin in the same way as he did when we went for our “date.” And like before, I don’t remove my hand, even though I want to.
“So, if this place is usually packed, where is everyone?” I ask looking around.
“They left.”
“Left? Where to? Why would they...?” I snap my head back and gawk at him. “You shooed away a whole restaurant full of people?”
“You said you wouldn’t be comfortable with them staring at you.” He pulls my hand closer . “Now they won’t.”
My heartbeat skyrockets. That’s the most fucking romantic thing a man has ever done for me.
“So, a hundred or more people had to leave in the middle of their meal because of my shorts?”
“No. They had to leave because no one gets to make you feel uncomfortable.”
I lean onto my elbows, coming up to his face with only a few inches separating us. “I didn’t feel particularly comfortablewith my head dangling upside down while you so graciously carried me to the car as if I was a sack of potatoes. In fact, it was a rather uncomfortable experience, Salvatore.”
“Then let me rephrase my declaration. No one, except me.”
Ugh. I roll my eyes and sit back down in my chair.
“Tell me, do you really chop people up for fun?” I ask.
It’s been bugging me from the start. When Angelo told me that Salvatore sent Enzo’s body back in three bags, I assumed he was some super aggressive, violent guy who did that kind of stuff in a mad rage. That’s the absolute opposite of the extremely composed man who’s currently watching me from the other side of the table. I have the impression that he wouldn’t bat an eyelid if a fucking UFO landed in the middle of the restaurant.
“No,” Salvatore says and reaches for his water.
“I knew it.” I smirk. Of course he doesn’t. I’ve always been good in judging person’s character.
“I do it because nothing sends a stronger message than a severed head delivered to your doorstep, Milene.”
My jaw drops. I’ve been married off to a complete lunatic.
Salvatore cocks his head to the side and pins me with his gaze. “Are you scared of me now, cara?”
I take him in, his big body casually leaning back into the chair, those amber eyes boring into mine. After hearing that declaration, I should jump up from my chair and run away screaming. Only, I don’t. Something must be wrong with me, because for some unexplainable reason, I am not scared of him.
Two waiters approach the table, carrying huge oval platters in each hand, saving me from giving Salvatore my answer.As they place them on the table, I notice both are trying really hard not to meet Salvatore’s gaze. I guess that’s understandable. People tend to avoid eye contact with someone they think is crazy. But what puzzles me is that neither the waiters nor the manager who greeted us when we arrived ever glanced at me. Why would they avoid looking at me? I’m a nice person.
I shake my head, take a sip of my lemonade, and cough. How many lemons did they put in, a whole pound?
“Excuse me?” I call to the nearby waiter.
He stills while arranging the plates on the table, then turns his head to Salvatore. Why would he do that?
Salvatore gives him a nod.
