10. VIN
VIN
That half second was all it took. She fucking hollowed me out.
“Vin.” Ashlyn’s voice is low, her hand grazing my sleeve. “The menu seems incredible. Will you tell me what’s good?”
“It’s all good.” I don’t look at the menu. I keep my eye on the kitchen door.
Across the table, Siena stares at me with a deadly level of concentrated hostility. Matti sits beside her, jaw tight, pretending to study the wine list. Tommy is quiet as usual and Giovanna tries to make conversation with Ashlyn to ease the obvious tension.
I ignore all of them and wait for her.
The restaurant is extraordinary. I knew it would be. She made a lot of changes to my choices, and of course they’re all perfect. I’m so fucking proud of her. I knew she could do it. She deserves this restaurant. She deserves this crowd. She’s God damn amazing.
And she’s fucking hiding from me in the kitchen.
The waiter appears. He’s young, pristine in his black apron, with a name tag that says ‘Marco.’ He recites the specials with a friendly smile, and I don’t hear the only dish I’m ever going to order on the list.
Marco takes everyone’s order, getting to me last. “Sir?”
“I want the gnocchi, half bolognese, half pesto.” It’s the dinner that Sophie served to me the night she crawled under the table and sucked my cock until I came in her mouth while I was eating.
The night I told her I wanted her. The night I promised I would find a way to make it work if she would be patient with me.
It’s what I want tonight. It’s all I want.
He blinks, frowns down at his notepad then at me. “I’m sorry, sir, gnocchi is not available—”
“Find a way.” I hold his gaze until he decides to do what I fucking told him and retreats.
Siena leans across the table, her voice low and vicious. “Why are you even fucking here?” She glances at Ashlyn, engrossed in conversation with Giovanna, and back at me. “And you had to bring her?”
I keep my eyes on the kitchen door. “It’s appropriate.”
“Appropriate.” It sounds like she spit out the word. “You know what would have been appropriate? Not coming at all. It’s her opening night, Vin.”
“And she’s family. Which means I belong here.”
“You know that is not what I—”
“Siena.” Matti’s voice is quiet. She pulls back, but her eyes don’t leave me. The expression on her face is a promise this conversation isn’t over. She’s right. It isn’t.
The kitchen door swings open, and as far as I’m concerned the whole fucking restaurant comes to a standstill.
Sophie heads away from my table, weaving through dining room like each person eating is a guest in her home.
That dress she has on, the cleavage she’s showing, holy shit, and the way the fabric hangs on her beautiful ass.
I cannot stop staring, mesmerized as she stops and laughs at something someone says.
She keeps her gaze forward, stopping to chat with a guy sitting alone with a bottle of wine.
It takes me a second to realize who it is: fucking Gavin.
God damn it. That fucker is back? I feel a flash of pride remembering that her new year’s kiss was with me and not him, that I pulled her away from him and made her come screaming my name, but it immediately fades when I wonder if he’s erased those kisses from her, if he was the last man to put his hands on her body.
I watch her work the room. She stops at an older couple near the door and crouches down to their level.
Whatever she says makes the woman press a hand to her chest and squeeze Sophie’s arm.
She brings a small plate from the kitchen to another table, asks them to try it, and glows when they light up after taking a bite.
She touches the back of a chair here, straightens a tablecloth there.
Our waiter pulls her to the side and whispers in her ear. His gaze darts in my direction, but hers never does. After she responds, he nods and heads back to me.
“Sir, the chef says the dish you requested isn’t on the menu and we aren’t able to—”
Fuck it. I stand abruptly, ignoring everyone behind me and whoever puts a hand on my arm trying to pull me back into my seat.
She’s talking to a food critic with a press pass on his chest when I reach her, and she wraps up the conversation with a hand briefly on his and a promise to bring something from the kitchen. She can feel me behind her the whole time. I know she can.
When she turns to face me, her smile is perfectly professional. It doesn’t reach her eyes. The emptiness, the lack of care, the complete 180 from how she used to look at me—it’s the worst pain I’ve felt in my life.
“Chef.” I keep my voice even.
“Vincenzo.” Just as even. “Welcome to the Arsenal. Are you enjoying the evening?”
“Don’t.”
Her smile holds. “I’m sorry?”
“Don’t pretend to be fine, like we’re nothing more than acquaintances.”
“I’m not pretending.”
I scoff. “You’re saying you’re not angry? Bullshit.”
She tips her head slightly. “Should I be?”
“New Year’s Eve—”
“New Year’s Eve was nothing.” The smile stays in place because people are watching and she knows it. She’s better at this than I am. “What hurt was how you ended things over a year ago. With no real explanation. Without saying goodbye.” She pauses. “At least not a respectful goodbye.”
“I’m trying to explain now.”
“Are you?” She glances toward the door, watching the hostess seat new guests next to Valentina’s table—even Valentina’s here? “Vin. It’s genuinely lovely that you came tonight, but now really isn’t the time.”
“You don’t have feelings about it? About me?”
“Of course I do.” She says it simply.
“Then tell me.”
“I don’t care to discuss it with you.”
I grip her arm, stopping her. “Don’t walk away from me. Answer the question.”
A flash of anger, brief and contained, crosses her face as she pries my hand from her arm.
I pull a breath in and change tactics. Anything to keep her here. “My gnocchi. Why isn’t it on the menu?”
She holds my gaze. She knows exactly what I’m asking for. “The last time I served it,” she says carefully, “it was prepared and served in a very specific way. That level of service is not available to just anyone.”
The air between us changes.
“I loved that preparation, that… level of service.” My voice drops, and I can’t help but almost smile. “If you were willing to serve it again, I promise you the reviews would be stellar.”
For just a moment, the sparkle in her eye matches her smile. “Stellar reviews, huh? That’s very tempting. But we have a bit of an audience, I think.” Her eyes sweep the packed restaurant. “I didn’t think you were into that.”
“I’m not. But I will empty this restaurant in three minutes if that’s the only thing stopping you. Just say the word.”
She laughs and starts to turn, and I don’t think. I grab her shoulders, step in closer to her, lower my voice so only she can hear.
“I’ll do it, Soph. I’ll do anything.” The words come out raspy and harsh. “I’ll do anything you want. I fucking need you. I need you, Sophia. Please.”
She goes still. I watch her look past me to the table where I’m sure Matti, Tommy, all of them are watching. Then she looks back at me.
“Vincenzo.” She’s so sincere it fucking kills me. “I love being used by you. But it’s no longer enough.”
“No. That’s not— Sophie, I’m not talking about that. I’m not just talking about fucking you. I don’t know exactly how this would work but I know for a fucking fact that you are mine.”
“I know.” She looks at me like she does know, like she’s always known. But also like that’s exactly the problem.
“You know?” Relief floods through me, and I pull her in closer to me. I almost have her in my arms. “Then—”
She raises her hand and presses it to my cheek and it’s like the whole fucking world evaporates leaving just her and me. I turn my face into her palm, and for a half second I close my eyes, feeling nothing but her touch.
“Vincenzo.” Her thumb traces the line of my cheekbone. “Cuore mio.”
My heart.
She’s never called me that before. My breath shuts off completely.
“I love you with every breath in my body.” She says it like it’s a given, like it’s something that’s always been true.
I feel like I can’t function. She fucking loves me.
“I’ve loved you since I first laid eyes on you, maybe longer.
Our love began with our ancestors and took generations to create.
” Her hand is still on my cheek. I’m immobilized.
“There was a time I would have done anything you asked, including sabotage my own restaurant on opening night just to cook for you. But we are not together. You forced me to let go of the idea that we ever could be.”
Her eyes are steady and dark. “Now you have to let me go.”
I don’t know how long I stand there. Long enough that when she gently steps away, I don’t realize it’s happening.
I’m processing her words in slow motion, on half speed, until time races to catch up and zips me back to the present.
I reach for her hand, barely snagging it before she moves out of reach. “Are you saying we’re done, regina mia? For good?” Just the thought of it, of not touching her again, of not being with her, has me fucking ruined.
Her smile softens now revealing a glimpse of something like grief underneath.
“My answer to you is always yes.”
Then she’s gone. I stand where she left me and do not move for a long time.
My answer to you is always yes.
Yes to everything except the one thing I need. Yes, she loves me. Yes, she means it. Yes.
But yes, we’re done.
I find my way back to the table somehow. Someone puts a glass in my hand, and I drink without tasting it. Ashlyn is talking to Giovanna about something; I have no idea what. Siena is watching me with an expression that has shifted from fury to pity.
Matti leans in slightly. “You okay?”
“Fine.”
The waiter materializes at my elbow. “Sir, the chef sends her apologies that your dish request could not be filled, but hopes you’ll enjoy the tagliatelle instead. It’s a house specialty.”
He sets a bowl down in front of me. Tagliatelle with half bolognese, half pesto. I stare at it for a long time, then pick up a fork. The first bite is exactly what I knew it would be: fucking amazing. Like her.
This is not over. No fucking way it’s over. Sophia Bellamorte is mine.