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No.
He continues. "I was orphaned at fourteen. But I knew the streets by then. I knew how to take care of myself. And I knew my father had connections and friends and I could handle myself. Or so I thought."
He looks down, watching his hands as he slides them up to my waist. And I can almost see how he's filtering through his memories, as if trying to figure out which ones he can show me and which ones he can't.
“The Montavio brotherhood saw me for what I was—alone, destitute, desperate. They recruited me. It wasn't until I was sixteen years old that I became a full-fledged member of the Montavio brotherhood in Tuscany."
He says it as if he was so grown-up. He wasn't even old enough to drink, barely old enough to drive a car, and he was already inducted into an organized crime family. What does that do to somebody?
Behind me, staff wordlessly set the table and place large silver trays down. I’m not sure when they arrived or if they saw anything.
Even when we're alone again he doesn't release me and let me go get food. He looks in my eyes.
"What happened to you?"
It's a strange question.
"When?"
"Nobody goes to Bella Notte for the hell of it. People don't crave pain for the hell of it. What happened to you?"
I don't flush easily, but my cheeks feel hot right now. “Of course, they do.”
He waits patiently.
What happened to you?
"All you need to know for the sake of tonight’s gathering is that I am best friends with Eden, Sergio's wife. It's all we need to know for now.”
He holds my eyes for a few beats. "I'll get you to tell me eventually."
He doesn’t try to play the game where he tells me he confided in me therefore I must confide in him. I respect that. I don't answer because I have no intention of telling him my story. I haven’t even told a therapist my story, never mind a man I hardly know and barely trust. He already knows everything he needs to. I’m Eden’s friend, and I'm a masochist. And I'll also be loyal.
There's no way in hell I'm telling him I was raised by my poor grandparents, bullied in school, and spent most of my life hiding from people. I haven't told anybody my story in years, and it's been so long now, I've almost convinced myself that none of it ever happened. The confident, ballsy chick that struts her stuff at one of Boston's most notorious nightclubs takes pride in who she is.
Nothing will make me give that up.
"Let's eat."
My heart sinks when he releases me. I liked the feel of his hands on my waist. I liked the attention.
I have a role to play, though, and I need to step into that right now.
I've never met anyone who could make my moods swing so crazily. One minute, I want to slap him across the face for being rude, the next, I want to know what those full, sensual Italian lips of his taste like. Then I’m angry again, then I'm back to being turned on. I have fucking emotional whiplash.
We sit next to each other, even though the table is enormous. It feels odd, being so close to someone I hardly know, someone who I just took vows to.
In the back of my mind I wonder who's looking for me. I wonder who he killed. I wonder what kind of danger we’re in.
I wonder if he’ll actually protect me.
His staff brings out tray after tray as if it weren't just two of us here, but a dozen people. He picks up his fork in one hand and his knife in the other. He doesn't look at me as he starts serving himself. We have salad and pasta and chicken parmesan. The chicken is thin and crispy and delectable. The pasta is delicious and the marinara sauce melts in my mouth.
"Did Nonna send this food?”
He nods. I can even taste the basil that's fresh from her little herb garden. God, I love that woman.
"What's your favorite food?" I ask.
