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Pulling into a parking spot, I run through my favorites in my head.
Listen before speaking. Ask questions. Project power. Call them out when they try to scare you. Demonstrate your intentions. Give nothing unless it gets you something.
When I step out of the car, I frown. Odd. Our meetup spot is the exact same restaurant where the failure of a date over a week ago happened. Precisely where that annoyingly attractive, memorable egomaniac had ruined any future working relationship with Craig.
Or was his name Kurt? I can't remember. But I hope Eric is doing well, wherever that guy is.
Bracing myself as if entering a battlefield, I walk into the restaurant and cross the dance floor. They're currently playing high-tempo music, and several couples are salsa dancing. I stop in the middle of the tables set under soft, warm lighting, glancing around for signs of whether my sworn-nemesis-slash-new-business-associate is yet here.
I don’t see anyone wholookslike a traitorous leech that crawled out of the slimy underbelly of Chicago, but then the place is pretty empty right now. Before I can pick a place to sit and wait, the music changes into something slow, and someone clears their throat right behind me.
"I'd hate to tell a Russo what to do—least of allyou—but maybe we should sit."
Oh, God. I tense because that annoying asshole who humiliated me at the end of my date also had a memorably rich, teasing voice.
That's it, right behind me.
I realize three things immediately. First, he's absolutely a Giovanni, and I should have picked up on it that night when he was a complete tool. Second, he definitely picked this place to mess with me.
And third, we're all screwed if I have to work withhim.
Forcing myself to remain composed, I turn slowly to find that he's standing far too close and grinning far too devilishly for his own damn good. His warm brown eyes twinkle in the restaurant's light as he arches his eyebrows. He probably thinks I'll laugh, like this is a big joke.
Is it too soon to knee him in the balls again and storm out?
No. He's definitely looking for a reaction. I won't give him one. I'm here for my family and the mafia's future; he won't scare me off.
"Fine. Pick a table," I reply evenly, not looking away.
His grin only deepens, and he nods his chin at the corner table he and his companions—probably other Giovannis, gross—had sat in only days ago. But when he moves in that direction, I turn and plant myself in the same seat I'd endured that long, boring date in, tossing my hair and raising my eyebrows expectantly.
Project power. Check.
He has the gall to snicker before changing directions and sitting across from me, unbuttoning his suit coat and rolling up the sleeves as though he can't be bothered to dress formally for too long.
It's annoying how his skin glows in this lighting. But then, soft dinner lights do look good on most anyone, even a Giovanni. His dark hair is a tousled mess, and his lips quirk to one side between amusement and thoughtfulness as he looks me over.
Sitting just across a table from him like this, I can see a small scar through the end of one eyebrow, one on his chin, and another on the corner of his jaw. All markings of past fights. When I glance at his hand attached to the arm draped on the back of the chair beside him, I see scabs forming on his knuckles, already speckled with scars.
Brute.
"So. How's your week been? Any updates since I saw you last?" He grins. "Any more dates I should have been here to rescue you from, cutie?"
God. Amanda was right—hedidfind a way under my skin, just like an aggravating little splinter that pisses off an otherwise perfectly composed lioness.
I'm the lioness in this equation. So he better not keep calling mecutie.
"Introductions are in order," I inform him.
He shrugs. "I already know your name,Giulia Russo."
The way he says it feels like a playful caress as if he's been practicing drawing out each syllable to heat my skin.
"Congratulations. You get a gold star," I drone, opening my menu to have an excuse not to look at his smile as he snickers again.
"Go ahead. Guess my name. Or I could tell you, for a price."
My eyes snap to his. He needs to stop phrasing things like commands because I Don’t fucking take orders, least of all from him. "No," I tell him, looking back at my menu.
