Chapter 13 #2
The rest of my day passes in a blur of fucking tedium. Meetings where I have to listen to people I don’t care about doing the talking. Yawn. A quick visit to a warehouse to double-check it’s ready for an incoming shipment. Double yawn.
It’s all bullshit that keeps the family business running smoothly but doesn’t light my fire. All I can think about is dinner. About Raven in her assigned role, playing girlfriend to the monster. About whether she’ll break character or surprise me with how well she can lie.
By the time my driver pulls up to her apartment building at seven-fifty, anticipation burns low in my gut like a slow fuse.
She’s already waiting outside, which should please me. I hate waiting around. But since this is supposed to look like a date, it doesn’t fit.
“Good evening,” I say, opening the door, ready to get out and greet her.
Raven waves me off and slides into the back seat beside me. “Sup,” she says simply.
Fuck me, I could get used to her attitude. It’s intoxicating.
The gray dress she’s wearing matches my eye color exactly. Is that a coincidence, or is she making a statement? Maybe she’s trying to fuck with me. I wouldn’t be surprised if that’s her plan.
The halter top, paired with the kind of cut that shows more side-boob than any sane man can ignore, is already messing with my head.
When she turns to set her purse aside, the motion flashes smooth skin all the way down her back before the fabric tightens again around her hips. It’s elegant, I’ll give her that. And just like the woman herself, there’s not a modicum of modesty.
Raven knows exactly what that dress does to me, what it would do to any man.
“You look good enough to eat,” I grin, eyes tracking the tense line of her shoulders.
She flips her loose, wavy hair over her shoulders. “You sound surprised,” she quips, rolling her eyes. Then she gives me a once-over that lingers just a moment too long on my mouth. “I do know how to dress for an occasion.”
“Even when you don’t know what the occasion is.” I lean back, letting my knee brush against hers. She doesn’t pull away. Another good sign.
La Volta appears through the window, its exterior unassuming except for the two suited guards flanking the entrance. Russo owned, and one of the family’s only legitimate businesses. At least if you ignore what happens in the private rooms upstairs.
“This is your family’s,” she states, not asks, as the car stops.
“Excellent research skills,” I reply, stepping out and extending my hand to help her. She takes it, her skin cool against mine.
The ma?tre d’ spots us the moment we enter, his professional mask slipping briefly to reveal genuine deference. “Mr. Russo,” he greets with a half-bow. “Your usual table is ready.”
I place my hand on the small of Raven’s back, guiding her through the restaurant. The space parts for us like water—conversations dimming, eyes flicking our way before hastily averting. Power has a gravity all its own.
One man at a nearby table lets his gaze linger a second too long on the bare stretch of her back. A low sound rumbles in my chest before I catch it. Raven doesn’t notice—but he does. His eyes dart away, shoulders shrinking.
Our corner booth is shadowed, intimate. Candles flicker in glass holders, casting Raven’s face in amber light that makes the defiance in her eyes look like banked fire. Gorgeous.
“Let’s get some wine,” I state once we’re seated, already signaling the sommelier.
“Don’t I get a say?” she mutters as the man approaches.
I can’t help smirking. “No.”
A chuckle escapes me when she sputters a few choice words, her brown eyes looking like she’s trying to incinerate me. Good luck. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I’m not that easy to kill.
I order a nice red without looking at the list. Raven watches, her smile fixed but irritation simmering beneath the surface. She waits until the sommelier leaves before leaning forward.
“Is this how it’s going to be?” she asks quietly. “You making all the decisions?”
“Only the ones that matter,” I reply, tapping my fingers against the tablecloth. “Like why you’re here.”
The wine arrives, a ritual of presentation and pouring that I endure with practiced patience. Once we’re alone again, I lift my glass in a mock toast.
“To new partnerships,” I say, watching her over the rim.
She takes a sip, her lipstick leaving a crimson mark on the glass. “So what exactly is this favor I’m performing, Mr. Russo?”
“Matteo,” I correct her. “And I already told you.”
“Repeat it,” she demands. Then she raises her chin and bats her long, dark eyelashes. “Please, Mr. Russo.”
I snort. “You’re going to be my pretend girlfriend. And as such, you should use my first name.”
The antipasti, my usual order, arrives—olives, prosciutto, cheese. I watch as she selects an olive, popping it into her mouth with deliberate slowness.
“Your girlfriend,” she repeats, skepticism dripping from each syllable.
“Not just at business functions,” I say, selecting a piece of cheese with surgical precision. “All the time. Every day, every night. Until I say otherwise.”