16. About the duck
MICHELA
16
Corrado’s growing interest in Tino troubles me. The reason why I avoid Tino is because I have a feeling if I tell him I won’t go out with him again, he’ll hurt me.
While I’m sure Corrado is a match for Tino, I would hate Corrado to have to fight or be caught doing something wrong because of me, even though I suspect Corrado’s done his fair share of wrongdoings way before he met me.
“Sir.” The hostess approaches Corrado and breaks the standoff between the men. “The table on the terrace is ready, unless you prefer to dine indoors.”
“Go on, baby.” Corrado nudges me toward the hostess, but he’s still engaged in a staring contest with the other man, and I have a feeling if I leave, Corrado will do something that’ll land him in a cell next to my brother. They’d get along, those two, I’m sure of it, and because of that, I remain standing.
“Michela,” he says. “The table.”
“I’d rather stay.”
Corrado breaks eye contact with the man and turns to me. “This time, you staying here will have far greater consequences for Domenico than if you follow the hostess.”
“Let him go, please. Forget Tino. They’re not worth the trouble and a life spent away from your family.” I tug harder. “Come on.”
Corrado reaches across the table for a single red daisy cut short and tucked neatly into a small vase. He plucks it and tucks it into my hair. I wish I could say I melt at the romantic gesture, but I can’t because Corrado’s demeanor is so cold, it makes me shiver. Next, he spills the water from the vase into Domenico’s lap, then slams the vase on the table.
He leans in and hisses something into Domenico’s ear, after which, Domenico’s demeanor changes. Gone is the cocky, funny guy, replaced by a scared old man who backpedals from his attitude. “Corrado, I meant no offense. It was a compliment to you when I looked at her. Tino? You want Tino? Take him. We can talk about this. We’ll work it out.”
“I’ve made my decision. The Head rests.” We walk toward the terrace.
The man comes after us, but Samuel and two other men appear, blocking his way. I keep trying to see what’s going on, but Corrado strides toward our table outside. The men’s raised voices start turning heads, but soon they quiet. I presume they escorted Domenico outside.
I put my hands on my hips. “That went well.”
Corrado answers me in French.
“Fine. Be that way, but you know that men look at women all the time. You can’t go around threatening people for looking at me.”
“I threatened nobody.”
“You clearly did something to that man.”
“He’s no innocent, I assure you, and he knew the consequences. I gave him ample time to apologize and resolve the matter, but he chose to test me. I dislike being tested.”
“What will the security guys do to him?”
“Nothing.”
“Please. Just let it go.”
“I will not touch him. I promise.” He tugs the end of my hair. “I’m done talking about him.”
The hostess is standing by the small table in the far corner of the room under a large plant I’ll spend the duration of the dinner trying to identify correctly. It’s one of those genetically engineered plants, so guessing the parents (one of them is a tropical plant) will distract me from wondering about what will happen between Tino, Domenico, and Corrado.
Corrado moves to the table and pulls out my chair. “I believe this is what you mean by botanical design.”
The terrace is full of artificially engineered plant life, designed to be overbearing and wild, almost as if someone was trying to recreate a jungle. At first, I find it out of place with the luxurious atmosphere of the hotel, but then I really look at Corrado, and the wildness starts to make sense. “That’s exactly what I mean.”
“Great,” he says. “I never paid attention to plants before, but then I remembered this terrace, so I decided to bring you here.”
I sit down. “Thank you.” He says all the right things.
“Welcome.” He props a fist on the table, bends, and hovers above me, his cologne and the proximity of his beautiful face fogging up my brain. His gaze roams my face, stopping occasionally at my mouth.
“Why do you look at me that way?” I murmur.
“The joy you find in the mundane reflects on your face.”
“This is hardly mundane.”
“I’m starting to think everything with you is more enjoyable.” He’s still hovering, apparently expecting an answer, but I’m stuck, speechless. I’m out of my league with this man. He speaks in ways I’m not used to. “I don’t know what to say to that.”
“I can tell you what to say. I can even tell you what to do.”
I bet he could. I bet I would like it. “I’m listening.”
“Spread your legs.”
My brain sucks up his command like a sponge, and my legs part.
“That’s a good girl.” He slides his hand between my thighs.
I gasp as my mind races with a million and one ideas of how his fingers will feel when he touches me down there. None are correct, because when he touches me, his fingers feel oddly cold and hard.
I frown when he picks up a roll of the silverware and opens the deep green cloth napkin.
Between my legs is his little gold box, which is what I felt that was cold and hard.
“And now I’ll tell you what to say. You say yes.”
I shake my head and reach for the box, but he drops a napkin over it. “Leave it there.”
Corrado takes his seat. He rolls his shoulders, the gesture reminding me of how my brother would roll his shoulders when he was trying to shake off something that bothered him. It helped adjust his attitude, let things roll off his back, in a manner of speaking.
The server arrives at the table and breaks the tension between us. The man wears his brown hair slicked back, revealing prominent large ears and a mustache. He wears rings on every finger and greets us with a stutter.
“Mmm… Mister Man…Man… Mancini.”
Corrado replies in Italian and orders what I think are drinks.
“What did you order for me?” I ask.
“Fresh-squeezed lemonade.”
“Thank you.” Since he handed the server the menus, I ask, “And what did you order for me for dinner?”
“Nothing yet. What kind of meat are you in the mood for? Red?”
“I would like to order dinner for myself.”
Corrado lifts a hand. The pair of waiters standing at the terrace entrance rushes toward our table.
“A menu,” Corrado says. Within moments, one of them delivers it.
I start reading. The menu is in Italian, not a single word of English. “You’d think a restaurant in New York would have a menu in English.”
“You would think that, but the people who come here enjoy ordering in Italian.”
I try pronouncing some words, then give up and hand him the menu. “Go ahead.”
“I could read, then translate,” he offers as he takes the menu from my hand. Corrado reads Italian like he was born there, and perhaps he was, but I can’t tell because he has no English accent either. Italian is a beautiful language, and coming from Corrado, it’s even more beautiful. Lethally attractive, in fact.
Corrado lifts his gaze, then does a double take. He folds the leather-bound menu and flings it like a frisbee. The server fumbles, but catches it, then pumps his fist for doing so while Corrado remains staring at me, his gaze more intense, heated as if he knows I liked listening to him roll Italian words over his tongue.
“You’re looking at me like you want to crawl under the table,” he says. “Do you?”
Caught off guard by his question, I gape. “Wha…”
“Don’t bother denying it. Next time I catch you looking at me like that, you’ll dine on my cum. Is that clear?”
The trouble with that is now that he’s brought it up, the visual of me sucking him off takes up residence in my brain and makes me face my attraction to this man. Cue the heat crawling up my face that must make me look like I’m raising my red freak flag. He must never catch me admiring anything about him ever again.
He makes that hissing noise and looks out over the terrace, then tucks a hand under the table and presumably adjusts himself the way he did in the car. In the car, I didn’t miss the outline of his growing erection. Corrado is thick and long.
At the thought of his cock, heat crawls up my cheeks at the same time that Corrado slides me a gaze. “Last warning, Michela.”
I lean in. “To be fair, you took away the menu, and now I don’t even have anything to fan myself with.”
At first, his eyes widen, but then Corrado laughs and pushes the drink toward me. “The lemonade will cool you off.”
I drink my lemonade. Deliciously fresh. “How many languages do you speak?”
“Five.” He shows me a hand. “English. French. Italian. German. And Romani.”
“Romani?”
“Mmhm.”
“I dabbled in French in high school,” I say.
“Why did you only dabble?”
“Those were trying teenage years.”
“As they often are,” he says.
We chat about my teenage years, most of which I spent with my nose in a book. I find he did the same, but of course, Corrado went to a private school somewhere in Britain. Or was it boarding school? I make a note to ask sometime when he’s not asking me hundreds of questions about my life. I’m happy to talk until the waiter brings our meals.
Corrado ordered me an Italian sausage. Clever, perverted man. Before I cut the sausage, I make a gesture of stabbing it with my fork. Corrado chuckles, and it’s a little unnerving that we can communicate without talking. I could only do that with my twin. They say one can do that with souls that are somehow matched or destined for each other.
Then again, these kinds of romantic thoughts live only in my head. No such things as soulmates anyway.
“Is that chicken?” I ask, puzzled by the meat on his plate.
“It’s duck.”
I recall the conversation from the car. “You are enjoying this, aren’t you?” I shove half the sausage into my mouth and make a grand mockery of chowing it down.
Corrado laughs. “Very much so. You?”
“Mmhm.” I mumble because the sausage in my mouth might choke me if I speak.
Corrado’s ruthless charm is winning me over.
Also, he’s a predator who eats ducks.