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At any rate, Roberto was excited that I agreed, and that annoying little pull in my chest that I feel whenever I'm around him seemed thrilled, too. I tried to ignore it, but…well, here we are.
I'm dressed up, riding in a cab to a dance club where I'm going to meet with a man that I need to get close enough to work well with but not too close to, lest he unravels my entire life and leave me a needy, writhing mess of a girl. As the car passes more and more buildings, I can't help wringing my hands, half-expecting Russo-despising Giovannis to pop out of nowhere, stop the car, pull me out, and execute me on the spot.
It's not entirely unrealistic, either. Russos aren't welcome here, and I feel that down to the tips of my toes, despite trying not to be cowed by it. I much prefer being in my home court. Admittedly, Roberto was doing well in California without any nervous anxiety. I envy that.
Or maybe this nervous anxiety is because I'm about to see him again. The last few days have been irritatingly full of thinking about his smirk and warm eyes and how his muscles contract so fluidly and gracefully with every movement…
God. I really am nervous because of him, aren't I?
I check my reflection in my phone camera one more time. Red lipstick, glamorous makeup, simple, elegant jewelry. I kept the details of where I was going on my business trip from Mandi because I didn't want her flying off the handle with excitement about me seeing Roberto again. However, I did ask for her help picking out a tasteful dress for "clubbing"—which she still freaked out over anyway because…I never do that.
Ultimately, I wound up with this shimmery pink mini dress, which I feel comfortable enough in, even if I protested it strongly initially because of how low the neckline is and how not-me it is as a rule. But she was adamant that it was perfect, and now I'm glad I went with it. I feel good in it—almost ready-to-face-Roberto.
This time, I'm relying on one negotiation tactic: Figuringout how to be likable.
I don’t think I'm dislikable all the time. Hell, for my age and how successfully I can schmooze socialites and critical contacts in Chicago, I know I do just fine.
But I also want to do well here in Chicago, and everywhere where I'll need to work as a representative, so I figure I'll see how Roberto does it. He's charismatic, in a self-assured, cocky, prince of the Giovanni family sort of way.
I get out of the Uber and eye the long line trying to get into the dance club, debating stepping right back into the car and telling him to take me back to the hotel. I underestimated this place's popularity, so I'll be late meeting Roberto anyway. I could use that as an excuse to chicken out…
No. Russos face things head-on.
I take a deep breath, but before I can join the crowd of laughing, chattering people waiting to get in, Roberto speaks from behind me.
"Fuck, Giulia. Are you trying to kill me?"
I turn, and my mouth goes dry. Roberto has always been hot, but he cleans up unbelievably well. It's ridiculous how sexy he looked, wearing a dark button-up shirt with an unbuttoned top and rolled-up sleeves. His dark hair is styled ever so slightly but already mussed, and his hungry eyes travel over me intimately enough to make my skin heat all over.
I clear my throat and try to seem unaffected, but no flesh-and-blood woman who was even vaguely interested in men could pretend Roberto doesn't look damn hot.
"Not at the moment, no," I reply. "Why? Am I late?"
He half-laughs, half-groans, and runs a hand over his neck, shaking his head at me with a confusing set to his lips. His eyes dip down over what I'm wearing again before he looks away quickly.
"Nope, we'll get in just fine.Stickrightnext to me because I want as few guys looking at you as possible."
I snort and follow him to a VIP-looking line we get through relatively quickly. The dance club is crowded but very nice, with a long bar on one side of the room and various sitting and dining areas off the sides of a dance floor filled with moving bodies under flashing lights. Everything is modern and sleek, and the crowd is definitely younger.
And by younger…well, most of them are likely older than I am, but I certainlyfeelolder. I've never once had someone underestimate my age.
As we approach the dance floor with its blaring music, Roberto reaches back and offers me a hand. I accept it, expecting him to lead me onto the floor for the dancing he was so insistent on, but he grins brightly at me and lifts it to his mouth, kissing it sweetly.
Damn Giovanni. He needs to stop being so playful and charming, or someone will get hurt.
He pulls me closer to speak in my ear so I'll hear him over the music. He rests his hand on my lower back—some of which is exposed, and I shiver at the skin-on-skin contact. "Can I get you a drink, cutie?"
I make sure his ear is right beside my mouth before speaking. "Don’t call me cutie, Dickhead."
Then I bite his earlobe just hard enough that Roberto inhales sharply, his hand tightening automatically on my back to pull me against him. He chuckles raggedly and brushes his lips against my temple.
"I'd like you to keep biting me all you want,Bellisima,but first, let me know if I can get you a tequila shot or something."
"Pass. Drinking will impair my judgment. On principle, I never do that on dates."
He tips his head at me, mouth pulling up gradually on one side into a smug grin as he reaches out to wind one of my curls around a long finger. "So, can I call this a date, too?"
Damn, I guess I did imply that. I roll my eyes to brush it off.
