Chapter 17 Domenico
Domenico
It's quiet in the restaurant, a kind of hush that falls over a room full of rich people.
They're dressed to kill, these Upper East Side types.
Slick suits and sparkling jewelry, wearing their importance like an extra layer of skin.
Besiana looks like she belongs here, straight-backed and poised.
I'm not used to seeing her outside of business meetings and family gatherings, always a buffer between us.
But here she is, sitting across the table, staring me down.
"So, we're doing this backward," I say. "Married first, now our first date."
Her mouth curves into a smile. It's small and precise, the way she does everything. "Would you have it any other way?"
Her dress is flawlessly tailored and simple.
It clings perfectly. A stark white against her dark features.
The neckline is low, the hemline flirtatious.
She sits with one leg crossed over the other, each heel like a weapon, lethal and elegant.
Besiana doesn’t just wear clothes; she weaponizes them.
My first impression is one of precision, but the longer I look at her, the more I see past the armor.
The hours she must have put into getting ready.
Our marriage might be a business move, but this—the dress, the dinner, the almost-smile—is something else entirely.
The restaurant is high-end, every detail immaculate.
Marble floors, white tablecloths, and chandeliers that cast a dim glow over everything.
We're surrounded by the city's elite—people who own skyscrapers and entire boroughs, all moving pieces on a chessboard they think they control.
Besiana's eyes meet mine, and for once, I don’t feel like I'm playing a game.
"It's a first for me," I say.
She lifts an eyebrow, amused. "Dating?"
"Doing anything out of order."
Our table is by the window, the lights of the city flickering just beyond the glass.
She's wearing a dark blue dress, sleek and elegant, clinging to her frame in all the right places.
It hits me how long I've been waiting for this—this moment, this woman, this space between us finally starting to shrink.
A server appears with menus, so quiet I barely notice. I let Besiana order first, and her voice is like velvet when she speaks to the man. She orders salmon and asparagus, the words slow and careful. Then she closes the menu with a snap.
"I'll have the same," I say, handing my menu over without looking.
Her eyes narrow a fraction. "Are you copying me, now?"
"Hard to improve on perfection."
The server slips away, leaving us alone again, surrounded by the murmur of moneyed conversations.
I remember what she asked me a few weeks back, a hint of curiosity that threw me off guard.
It’s the perfect opening, so I take it. "The chemist you were interested in," I start. "The one you wanted to meet."
I watch as her expression shutters, interest gone. "I don't want to know."
"That wasn’t what you said before."
She shifts in her chair, fingers tightening around her napkin. "I've changed my mind. Besides, I’ve already gone to the drugstore. I don’t need any chemist."
She's putting up a wall, and for once, I'm not in the mood to break it down.
"All right," I say, knowing when not to push.
But it leaves a bitter taste in my mouth, the lost opportunity to do something for her.
I glance out the window, giving her room to breathe.
People stroll down the sidewalk, their lives simple and untouched by our world.
A car horn blares, the city never quiet.
It reminds me of something else I'd planned, a gesture that's starting to feel clumsy now.
"I thought I'd learn a few words in Albanian for you," I say, turning back to her. "Carmela told me not to bother."
A flicker of emotion passes over her face, as quick as a flash of lightning. I recognize it as pain, but it’s gone so fast it makes me question if I imagined it. Besiana’s careful composure takes over like an editor rewriting a messy draft, correcting any sign of vulnerability.
"Carmela is very observant," she tells me smoothly.
Her voice is calm, but there's a tightness to it, a sign that she’s holding something inside.
"Why don't you like speaking it?"
Her hand reaches for the wineglass. She takes her time lifting it and holds it close to her lips. She doesn’t drink, doesn’t move, like she's frozen in a moment of indecision.
"It reminds me of anger and violence."
Her confession is so quiet I almost don’t catch it, yet the words hang in the air between us, heavier than they should be.
"Why? Because you learned it from your father?"
She nods, and there's a kind of finality to it. She sets the glass down without drinking.
"Yes."
Her voice is steady but stretched thin, like a tightrope she's walking across. Her fingers clench around the stem before she lets go.
"Everything in my life comes back to him," she says, bitterness creeping into her tone. "The way I speak, the way I think, the way I feel about languages." She tries to smile, but it doesn’t reach her eyes. "Especially languages."
I sense the door closing, her reluctance to revisit a past that's still too present for her. But something urges me to push a little further, to know her a little more.
“Why is that?” I ask.
"Even now, when I hear it, all I can think about is Baba."
She picks up her napkin, smoothing the edges. I wait, sensing there's more.
It takes a long moment before she speaks again.
"But it wasn't always like that," she says, and beneath her control, I can almost hear a crack.
"It may have been my parent's native tongue, but in our household, it was only spoken in anger." Besiana sets her glass down, looking past me. "Except when Mami was alive," she says softly. "I remember her singing to me in Albanian. A lullaby."
The intimacy of the moment hangs between us. It makes me want to reach across the table and pull her into the safety I've been building, brick by brick. But I don't move. Instead, I ask, "Did she sing often?"
"Every night," she says.
There's a tightness to her words now, like they're holding back more than they say.
"How did she die?"
"An illness," Besiana replies, but there's something off in her response.
It feels practiced, as if she's repeating a story she's not sure she believes. The air between us is heavy, and I feel it pressing in, the weight of what she isn't telling me. I realize then that I would do anything—say anything, be anything—to keep her from ever feeling that weight again.
Our food arrives, but I hardly notice. I can't believe I once thought of her as a business transaction, just a pawn in a strategic move. The thought of her hurting, of her being anything but protected, is like a vise around my chest. I cut into the salmon, my appetite gone.
A waiter stops by, asking if we need anything else. The service is excellent here, attentive without being overbearing. But then he turns to Besiana, addressing her with a slight edge to his voice. "Anything to drink besides wine?"
The tone, the way he looks at her, sends heat rising up my neck. He doesn't deserve his job. Hell, he doesn't deserve his hands. Before I know it, I’ve grabbed his wrist, stabbing a fork through his hand and into the table. He lets out a yelp, eyes wide with shock and pain.
"Dom!" Besiana's voice is sharp, cutting through the red haze of my temper.
I lean in, speaking so only the waiter can hear. "Get a towel. Finish your shift. Then find a new job."
He stumbles away, clutching his hand, leaving the fork behind. The room hums with surprise, the rich pretending they haven’t seen a thing. I turn back to Besiana, expecting her anger, her disappointment. Instead, gratitude flashes in her eyes. It flickers for a moment, then is gone.
"I can look after myself," she says, instead of the thank-you I’m sure she’s thinking.
Her words are confident, but there's a flicker of uncertainty in her eyes. She’s so used to standing on her own, a fortress of independence. I wonder if she can see through her own armor, see how weary she is of being untouchable.
I let the silence stretch, knowing it will get under her skin. Besiana doesn't like pausing; she’s all about precision.
Finally, I say, "You told me once that I’m allowed to bleed. Same goes for you. You're allowed to feel, and you're allowed to let me help."
She opens her mouth, closes it, her thoughts ticking.
Her fingers worry at the napkin, and her gaze drops to the table.
I can see her wrestling with herself, the idea so foreign she can barely hold onto it.
When she looks up, she shakes her head, a rueful smile playing on her lips.
"I should never have been so forthright. "
"Yes you fucking should."
It comes out more forceful than I intend, but I don't regret it.
I look at her, taking in the shape of her, the way her dress plunges into her neckline. I feel like a man drowning, and she's the only thing I want to pull me under.
The bill comes, and I throw a few hundreds on the table, not bothering to count. I watch Besiana stand, graceful as always, and my eyes linger on her legs, the curve of her hips. She's all elegance and control, and I want nothing more than to shatter both.
We walk outside, and the city hits me with its noise and light. People spill out of bars, laughing too loudly, living lives that seem foreign to me. My world narrows and sharpens until it's just the two of us. My hand finds hers, and I pull her toward me, into the shadow of the restaurant.
All I can think about is her lips. The one time I allowed her near me, the punishment that punished me more than her.
The memory of it burns, searing through every thought.
She wrapped those lips around my cock like it was an act of defiance, like she was claiming me even as I tried to claim her.
But now I want to give her more than that.
More than punishment. I want to give her pleasure.
I push her against the window. She doesn't resist, doesn't try to hold back. It's a shock to my system, her willingness. Her eyes meet mine, filled with fire that mirrors my own.
“You can be forthright with me, cara,” I say.
I take her mouth with mine, kissing her like I’m starved for it, for her. Her lips are soft and urgent, and I press into her, feeling the heat and the need and the promise of everything to come.