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“Yeah, you can call it a con to my job. I’m the one always telling people they’ve done things wrong.”
I want to ask what the job is. The nice car, the nice clothes, the fancy restaurant, the money to blow on private rooms for hours on end—they all steer toward something expensive and high-powered or something devious.
But I don’t because questions like that are reciprocal. If I ask, he might ask how I got started at Jerzy Girls, andI’m paying off my father’s debts while I try to figure out how to take down one mafia family and earn my place in anotherisn’t really a great first-date conversation.
Is this a first date?
Janine brings our drinks before I can ask, clunking a thick glass filled with Coke in front of me then gently placing a glass with dark liquid and a single giant ice cube in front of Dante.
God, could this woman be any more obvious?
“What else can I get you?” she asks, her back to me.
“That’s all, Janine. We won’t be needing your help anymore tonight. Just bring the dishes out, yes?” Now her face turns to me as if to say,This is all your fault, but she nods, walking away.
“She seems like a pleasant person.” The doors to the kitchen swing angrily as she walks through them.
“She’s fine.”
“Is she an ex?” I ask, because apparently, the filter between my mouth and brain is no longer operating.
“No. Why, are you jealous?” He’s not annoyed by the question. Instead, he’s smiling.
Goddamit.
“No, not at all,” I say, straightening my shoulders and letting the woman I was just a few weeks ago seep into my veins again. Chin high, smile light, power on full blast. It’s like putting on your favorite sweatshirt—comfortable and familiar. Who cares if I look like a slob?
I am Delilah Antonia Turner.
Or Russo, depending on who you ask.
I am power.
I am fierce.
I am revenge.
I repeat my mantra in my head before speaking again.
“I just find it interesting that you would frequent a place where the waitress clearly wants you and then choose to bring a woman to that restaurant as your date.”
“Does Janine want me?” he asks, and I raise an eyebrow.
He smiles.
“You’re not a stupid man from what I can see, Dante Romano.”
“So what does a woman who wants me do? What does she act like? Does she fight me at every turn when I try to take her out? Does she notice if other women are interested in me?” I stare at him, irritated, as I realize where I went wrong. “Inquiring minds want to know, Delilah.”
That smile looks damned good on his face.
Even more, that smile looks good in better lighting, not hidden behind dim lights and shadows.
Thankfully, I’m saved from answering when the chef comes before us, dropping an intricate appetizer.
I smile at the man graciously, as I was trained to do, while he rattles off any number of ingredients in the salad, and I cringe internally.
The thing is, despite being raised with fine dining and frequenting five-star restaurants, there are few things that I hate eating more thanfine dining.
