Chapter 8 Daisy
DAISY
To-Do List: Impress a mafia boss. Don’t die.
Don Luciani is an older gentleman with the air of someone who has lived a long, tough life.
His shoulders are slightly hunched with age, but I get the sense that he was a tall man in his prime.
Dante sits next to him as we approach the table, but he lifts his head when he spies us and raises a hand in greeting.
Even though it was warm outside, the dining room of Madison Park is full of the icy waft of air conditioning.
My attention strays to the man standing to the side of the table where Don Luciani sits.
His back is straight and his expression placid, though I do note that his eyes hold a bit of haughty annoyance when he glances over me.
I’m thankful, now, that Giulio took me shopping before coming here.
Madison Park is a ritzy establishment. Even nicer than most of the places I’ve worked temp jobs at.
Thinking of my husband has me pulling my gaze away from the strange, dour-faced man standing behind the Don.
My eyes snag on the thick stretch of tan forearm revealed by the rolled-up sleeves of Giulio’s black button-down.
God, I am such a slut for masculine forearms. I feel like a Victorian man ready to scream “show me your ankles” at the top of my lungs as Giulio drops his suit coat on the back of one chair and moves to pull another out for me.
The muscles in his forearms contract, and his veins bulge against his skin with the action.
You’re drooling, Mean Daisy says as she steps out of the shadows of my head and hops up on a barstool that appears out of nowhere. Might want to mop that up.
Am I? As discreetly as I can manage, I reach up and brush the back of my hand against my lips as I circle the chair that Giulio has pulled out for me. When my skin comes away dry, I give her a baleful glare. Go away! I snap.
As I take my seat, I glance around, realizing that there’s no one else in the restaurant. Not counting the servers and ma?tre d’ moving casually about the table as they pour water and offer hot hand towels, we’re the only people here.
Where the fuck is everybody?
Maybe they’re giving you a last meal before they off you.
I repress the urge to roll my eyes and let loose a low, agonized groan. It’s a shame it’s not possible to bitch-slap myself—at least, not without looking a little nuts.
Giulio casually brushes a tendril of hair over my shoulder with one hand as he takes his seat next to me, his fingers grazing the skin of my shoulder and arm bared by the cut of the dress I’m now wearing.
Despite the inches that separate us, I swear to God above and Satan below that I can feel the heat of him all the way down to my bones.
The electric shock of his touch is enough to send those annoying butterflies in my lower belly fluttering.
Stop it, I order them. He’s still a bad man—even if he does have sexy forearms.
You know what they say about dating bad boys, Mean Daisy comments. They fuck you like they need a place to stay.
I don’t remind her that, according to the rock on my finger, we’re far past the dating stage, or that I suspect Giulio hasn’t needed to worry about where he stays in a long damn time.
Instead, I force the peanut gallery back into her cage and flip the lock.
It’s best-behavior time, and that means not letting myself get roped into a mental sparring match with someone who doesn’t exist.
I totally exist, bitch!
Nope. Shove it down, Daisy. Lock, meet key. I shove a tarp over the cage. Muffled screaming echoes throughout my head, but I paste on a smile and ignore the annoying sound as I reach for my menu as well.
“Love the dress, sweetheart,” Dante says, a grin on his face. “It’s from one of those boutiques downtown, isn’t it? Which one was it…”
Before I can thank him for the compliment, Giulio leans forward and growls, “Don’t start, Dante.”
Dante’s response is a low, vibrating chuckle.
If I wasn’t already dealing with Giulio’s sexy, masculine presence at my side, that sound might make my pussy clench.
Unfortunately for Dante, though, once my lady bits have set their sights on someone, they won’t be dissuaded by another pretty face until we’ve either managed to convince ourselves that we’re not interested or the man does something to ruin the attraction.
“Feeling a bit possessive of your new bride, G?” Dante asks as he reaches for a glass of water. “I was just giving her a compliment.”
“You know what you’re doing,” Giulio replies.
“That’s enough bickering, sons,” Don Luciani says, speaking for the first time. He turns to Giulio and arches one bushy, silver brow. “Now, introduce me to your bride, Giulio.”
Giulio sets his menu down immediately and straightens in his seat. The words on my own menu blur together, so there’s no point in my holding on to it, either. I glance between the two men, waiting as ice drips down my spine. Anxiety spirals in my head.
What if Don Luciani doesn’t like me? Did he want Giulio to marry his original bride? Or would any woman do? For that matter, why did Giulio have to get married in the first place?
My mind ping-pongs around, more and more questions pouring through my head at lightning speed. I’m so absorbed in them that I don’t even hear the first half of Giulio’s introduction until he settles a hand on my back and looks at me. I jerk my gaze to his, realizing he’s frowning.
Shit. What did he say? Am I supposed to say something now?
My eyes return to Don Luciani. Despite the wrinkles on his face and the spots on his hands and neck, he still has a full, thick head of dark gray and silver hair.
His soft brown eyes are similar to Dante’s, and they’re zeroed in. Right. On. Me.
The urge to start word vomiting rises from the depths. No! Don’t you fucking dare, I warn myself. My anxiety skyrockets. You’re fine. Just remain calm.
Unfortunately, my sweat glands don’t seem to get the message because despite the air conditioning rolling over the back of my neck and down my arms, I swear it feels like I’ve entered a million-degree sauna.
Fear? Check.
Anxiety? Check.
Nausea? Fucking Check.
A mafia boss is just like everyone else, I tell myself.
Except he’ll probably cut your voice box out and feed it to his dogs if you piss him off. The tarp flaps again.
I don’t need your negativity right now. I should’ve gagged her before I threw her into the cage.
Unable to stop from reaching out, my hand grazes Giulio’s strong, muscled thigh.
Holy shit! He must work out because his thigh is just as defined beneath the black slacks he’s wearing as the muscles of his forearms. No, damn it, focus, Daisy!
Out of the corner of my mouth, I hiss a question at the man next to me. “What am I supposed to fucking do?”
Giulio looks down at me, brow furrowing. “Say hello.”
“That’s it?” I squeak. “No curtsy?”
His head swivels, and the burn of his stare sears into the side of my face, but come on, it’s a valid question. There aren’t exactly manuals or how-to guides for how to meet a mafia boss. Even if there are, it’s too late now—we’re here.
Giulio inhales, his hand firming against my back and smoothing upward.
Oh, I really wish he’d stop that—my insides are having a rave over his touch, and I don’t need to be turned on while meeting a man who could order my death in a heartbeat.
“Papá,” Giulio says, nodding to Don Luciani with the deference due to a man who is well respected. “This is my wife, Daisy.”
The moment of truth is here. My eyes meet Don Luciani’s; his expression is unreadable.
Should I thank him for not killing me? Should I offer my hand? Was I right about the curtsy? Should I stand? Do you curtsy to a mafia boss like you would to the queen of England? Or king now, I guess. Whatever.
Hundreds of thousands of thoughts spin through my head in a matter of no more than fifteen seconds, yet the question remains: What’s the most appropriate way to greet a mafia boss?
“Daisy?” Giulio’s voice yanks me back to the present, and without stopping to think any harder about what’s already promising to explode my brain, I just go with my gut.
I stand up and walk around the table toward Don Luciani.
Giulio hand falls away from my back, but both his and Dante’s eyes follow my every movement. Haughty Man scowls as I approach.
“Hello, Mr. Luciani,” I say, forcing a bright smile onto my face as I step forward. “I’m Daisy.” I lean down and throw my arms around the seated older man. “It’s so nice to meet you!”
For a moment, there’s no response. You could hear a pin drop in the silence that follows my sudden movement. No one speaks, and Don Luciani doesn’t move under my embrace.
You know, if there’s ever a zombie apocalypse, I think you’ll be just fine, says a voice that is annoyingly similar to my own. ’Cause they eat brains and you obviously don’t have any.
Two words, I snap. Ball. Gag.
Ballgag is one word.
No, it isn’t! I could scream. Is it really one word?
“Daisy?”
I close my eyes at Giulio’s shocked voice. They’re definitely going to kill me now. Stupid, Daisy. I should have gone with the curtsy. You can never go wrong with a curtsy. Not that I know how to perform one, but it can’t be that hard, can it? Too late now, I suppose.
Slowly, I slip my hands back, only to stop as Don Luciani’s own arms finally come up to clasp me to him. A low rumble I recognize as a chuckle reverberates from his chest into mine, and relief swamps me. Oh, thank fuck. He’s not mad.
“It’s good to meet you as well, Daisy,” he says as he releases me a moment later. “You may call me Papá Stefano.”
Holy shit, a mafia boss is letting me call him by his first name? Does this mean I’m officially in the mob? No, scratch that, does this mean the mob and I are besties?