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Mr. D’Angelo’s certainly a snarky sort, and I have a feeling he’s one to hold grudges.
Me: You don’t seem to mind being dragged into my lie right now. I want to know why.
Carlo: 2 p.m., Ms. Bianchi.
I huff out a breath at the elusive reply, then console myself with the knowledge that I’ll at least have answers to my questions when we meet up.
Carlo’s unsurprisingly punctual and I’m met with him already seated and looking impatient when I arrive at the café, ten minutes late.
“I’m a doctor,” I say when he continues to stare at me judgmentally. “Emergencies come up a lot in my line of work. I didn’t mean to arrive late.”
“Duly noted,” he says dryly. “Have a seat.”
My eyes travel to the peaked lapels of his black suit, sans tie, to the open collar of his crisp white shirt and the tanned skin peeking through. I quickly look away.
“Why are you dressed so formally?” I question, unable to stop myself.
I’m wearing scrubs but I realize I should’ve opted for a casual look and a white coat I could’ve simply removed before meeting with Carlo. He looks like he’s about to present a slideshow in front of a board of executives while looking dashingly handsome.
I hate that I noticed how handsome he is.
His eyes flicker to my face. “I work for the mafia, Ms. Bianchi. This is adequate attire for my job.”
I tense at the cavalier way with which he just admitted to his life of crime and start to question whether it’s a good idea to continue down this possibly destructive path. Then I notice Carlo’s eyes are still on me, watching intently. He’s waiting for a reaction.
I clear my throat, feigning calm and refusing to give him the satisfaction of one.
“Right,” I say. “Let’s just get this over with.”
“This isn’t something to be gotten over with, considering the delicacy of the situation. If we’re doing this, we need to do it right. Are we clear, Ms. Bianchi? No more throwing yourself at random strangers.”
I feel like a schoolgirl being scolded. Heat blossoms in my cheeks. “I did not throw myself at you. And stop calling me that!”
“What?”
“Ms. Bianchi. My name is Astoria. Everyone calls me Tori, though.”
“Tori, then. I’ll have to get familiar with it, considering you’re going to be my girlfriend. You can call me Carlo.”
“Oh, I’m so pleased to have your permission to call you by your legal first name which everyone calls you by. Such a privilege,” I say sarcastically.
He’s the picture of relaxed elegance as he leans back into his seat, his brown eyes sharp. “Explain to me again why you need a fake boyfriend.”
I’m not sure I want to spill all the dirty details of my situation to him, but something about the look in his eyes loosens my tongue and I find myself spilling the entire story.
“What’s so unappealing about Marino?” Carlo questions.
I shrug, “I couldn’t say. I don’t really know the man. But I’ve had a few run-ins with him and my instincts are telling me he’s someone I should stay away from. I always listen to my instincts.”
Carlo throws me a weighted glance. “And what are those instincts saying about me?”
“They’re not tingling as much as they do around Dante,” I admit.
Now, he looks amused.
“Interesting.” He doesn’t press the subject, instead moving along to other problems involving our situation. “We need a good story. How did we meet? Where? We need to figure out the little details that your parents or anyone else might ask about.”
I tuck a loose curl that’s fallen out back into my messy bun as I consider that. “I’m usually busy with work during the weekdays, so a Saturday? I had dinner with a friend at La Vie a month ago. We could claim to have met then.”
