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Nice. That’s actually a very accurate assessment. This restaurant isnice. It’s not super fancy and it’s not shabby either. It has a cozy atmosphere with all the dark wood and the candles. The food is good. It’s a perfectly nice place.
But it’s not where I really wanted to go.
An unexpected pang hits my chest.
All of my favorite restaurants, the proper Italian restaurants that serve real Italian food and not the Americanized version of it, are within driving distance of both the Hunters’ residence and Blackwater University. And yet, I haven’t been to any of them in six years.
I haven’t been to any of my favorite places, done any of the things I used to do all the time, since the night my parents were killed. Because Enrico Morelli died that night too. So I can’t go anywhere where people might recognize me. I had to create a new life. A life for Rico Hunter. One that almost fits me but not entirely. Like a shoe that’s just one size too small and in a design that I don’t really like but one I can still survive being seen in.
It was just supposed to be for a short time. Until we caught the people who did it.
But it has been six years now.
Six years.
“I mean, it’s great,” Isabella says in an almost apologetic voice.
Snapping out of my gloomy thoughts, I realize that I’ve been silent too long and that she probably took that to mean that I was displeased with her answer.
I clear my throat. “Yeah.”
Thankfully, a waiter arrives with a pair of menus before I can make a complete fool of myself. I use that time to push aside the uncomfortable feelings that had started to twist inside my chest like strangling vines. Giving myself a mental slap, I force my head back in the game.
I’m on a mission. I need to have my wits about me if I’m going to succeed in getting Isabella to trust me while I also sneakily interrogate her.
Once my mind is clear and back on track, I lower the menu and look over at Isabella. “What do you want?”
She glances up at me, looking oddly startled.
So I clarify, “To eat?”
A composed expression slides back onto her features, and she gives me a small smile. “What would you recommend?”
“Depends on what kind of food you like.”
She just looks back at me for a few seconds, her mouth opening slightly but no sound making it out.
“Meat? Fish? Salad?” With a slight frown on my face, I shake my head in confusion. “Soup? Pasta? What kind of food do you prefer?”
She laughs. It sounds slightly forced. “Oh, I enjoy most kinds of food.”
I almost narrow my eyes at her. Is she… nervous? I’ve had her pinned to a wall with a hand around her neck, multiple times, and yet she didn’t look nearly as nervous then as she does now. Why would ordering food make her this disproportionately flustered? Or maybe it’s just the situation in itself. Having dinner with me like this. It has to be.
“Would you like me to order for the both of us?” I ask.
“Yeah, sure,” she replies casually, but I swear I can see a hint of relief flicker briefly in her eyes.
When the waiter comes back, I order the salmon and white wine risotto for both of us, along with a glass of wine each. Isabella swirls the wine gently in her glass before taking a sip. I study her.
Candlelight glitters in her eyes, adding sparkles to those blue-gray depths. She’s wearing a little make-up. Only enough to enhance her features but once again not enough to make her stand out too much. Her brown hair is smooth and straight, and it brushes her shoulders when she moves.
Appearance wise, there is nothing particularly remarkable about her. She’s pretty in a normal kind of way, but nothing extraordinary.
And yet, to me, she’s like a gravitational pull. The moment she walks into a room, she commands all of my attention. It’s as if her entire being just calls to mine, her soul vibrating at a frequency that only the two of us can hear.
It has only been two weeks since she came to Blackwater, but I still somehow feel like I have known her for years. It’s absolutely insane. And it scares the shit out of me.
“So, do you come here a lot?” she asks.
