Chapter Violet
Nothing seems real. Not this restaurant, nor the food.
It's as if I've fallen asleep, dreaming the best dream of my life.
Things like this don't happen in real life.
In books and movies, yes. But not out in the world I live in.
Still, that's nothing compared to the presence of the man across from me.
The flickering light of a single candle, held inside an old-fashioned belly wine bottle covered with the wax of multiple candles that burned out long ago, dances shadows over Marcello's face, making him look sinister one moment and sexy as hell the next.
Over the past few weeks, I've done my research on him.
His family is rumored to be involved in extortion and loan sharking.
People go missing around them, some forever, some who later turn up in body bags.
Aside from the trial currently underway for his dad, there is no tangible evidence tying Marcello or the Orsi family to any of this, but there is no doubt in my mind that Marcello Orsi is a mob boss.
He's a bad man. Very bad. Being involved with a man like him is like signing up for a suicide mission, and yet, I cannot take my eyes off him, cannot stop thinking about his hard body on top of mine. Driving his cock into me.
I've touched his body countless times, sometimes in a non-professional way. I've moved his hair back when I didn't need to, caressed his cheek on the rare occasions Luciano would leave the room. Nothing was ever enough. I've wanted more from the moment they wheeled him into my station.
He wouldn't even have to say a word, one simple nod from him, and I would find myself in a shallow grave.
The worst part is that I don't care. All I care about is the way my body trembles when he looks at me.
The way desire coils low in my stomach just from the sound of his voice.
The way my nipples tightened the moment he started feeding me—bite after bite—like he was claiming me with food and fire and quiet control.
And somehow, that heat—that want—is louder than my mother's voice in my head.
The one that warned me to stay away. The one that told me he's dangerous. The one that said falling for a man like him could cost me everything.
But right now, I can't hear her.
All I hear is him and my body's desires.
"Like this," his voice brings me back from my reverie, and I remember asking him how he twirled his spaghetti so easily.
He holds up a large spoon for leverage and twirls his fork, curving spaghetti strands, longer than I've ever seen before, around until they are neatly bound.
His fork moves to my mouth, and I automatically open it, allowing him to feed me, which is a good thing, too, because I'm pretty sure my hands are shaking too badly to hold a fork or spoon right now.
True to his word, our table is piled high with dishes, from steaming fish and meat to lasagna, spaghetti, and risotto. He named a few: Ossobuco alla Milanese, Bistecca Fiorentina, and Bottarga, words I could never pronounce that flow like music from his lips.
Lips I can't take my eyes off of. No man should have such sensual lips. It should be illegal.
"I might have another proposition about that dream of yours later." He picks up our earlier conversation.
"Intriguing," I reply, hating how my voice grates, and I cough to disguise how deep it's getting, before taking another sip of the wine. Which, by the way, is the best wine I've ever had. I don't think I'll ever be able to call what I buy at the grocery store wine again.
As the plates are cleaned away, I stare at all the uneaten food. I didn't even get to sample all of them, and I'm stuffed to the gills.
"Ready for dessert?" He smirks.
I groan. "I don't think I can eat another bite."
"I have just the right cure for that." He waves the waiter over. "Due Sambuca," he orders.
"Really, I can't eat another bite."
He reaches over and takes my hands in his.
The gesture is so intimate, a flare shoots through me, heating my blood to levels that border on boiling, probably dissolving all my bones in the process.
I feel so weak, I can barely keep my head up.
I hope my trembles are internal, but my skin where our flesh meets creates little waves moving up higher on my arms of so much pleasure I can barely breathe.
I've never felt this supercharged in my life.
"Trust me?" he whispers.
God help me. I nod.
Moments later, the waiter returns with a tray holding two short glasses. On the bottom of each lies a single coffee bean, and it takes me a second to realize that the liquid inside is actually on fire.
"Oh," I giggle, and Marcello lets go of my hand to take the first glass and blow out the flames before handing it to me. Then he does the same with his, holding it up for us to clink together.
"Saluti," he says.
"Saluti," I echo and take a sip. "Hmm." It smells and tastes like licorice, yet it doesn't. It's strange. It warms my throat and insides, and at the same time, I can feel a buzz going to my head.
"It's strong," he warns as he takes another long sip.
"I can hold my liquor," I boast.
He raises an eyebrow in challenge and empties his glass. I follow his example, grinning at him. It's true. I can hold my liquor. I don't drink often, and I get drunk even less; it literally takes a gallon to make me even tipsy. It's like I'm either a seasoned alcoholic or immune.
Marcello raises his hand to summon the waiter. "Bring the bottle."
His grin dares me.
Challenge accepted.
We drink two more glasses, and he watches me carefully as I rise from my chair. I laugh. I imagine a straight line on the red-gold carpet and walk it, while alternatingly putting my hands up to my nose.
"You weren't kidding," he laughs.
"Impressed?"
"Either that or scared. The jury is still out on that one." He counters.
It's my turn to laugh. So, admittedly, I might be a bit tipsy. Just a smidgeon.
"It was a pleasure having you here, signorina, please come back any time." Thomaso appears.
"Thank you, Thomaso. Your food was… " I turn to Marcello, "How do you say delicious?"
"Delizioso," He says.
"Dellissioso," I tell Thomaso.
"Close enough," Marcello nods and pulls me out of the restaurant.
I notice several waiters following us, carrying stacks of white boxes.
"Our dessert," Marcello says when he opens the door of the large SUV that pulls up from out of nowhere.
I slide in and notice Alejandro at the wheel. "Good evening."
"Good evening, Violet. I hope you had a pleasant dinner?"
"The best," I agree.
The large hatch closes, and Marcello steps into the car, sliding next to me.
"Buckle up." He instructs.
"Yes, sir," I snicker, noticing a flicker of desire in his gray eyes.
He puts the cane on the floor and scoots right next to me. So close, our legs brush.
"Where to?" Alejandro asks.
"To the penthouse, we still have to eat the dessert." Marcello orders.
I'm about to protest that I truly can't eat another bite when I realize that maybe I can.
Whatever that Sambuca is, it has made room in my stomach and made my head a bit tipsy.
My body is so wonderfully relaxed—more than it's been in a long time.
It feels so good, letting go, giving up control, letting Marcello take the wheel.
His arm slides over my shoulder and pulls me closer to him. I can hear his deep breathing and the strong beat of his heart.
"You know you really shouldn't drink alcohol with all those pills." Some clear-headedness returns.
"It's a little bit late for that advice, isn't it, Nurse Violet?" He teases.
A blush creeps up on my face. He's right. "I should have—"
He interrupts me, "If it makes you feel any better, I haven't taken the pills in a few days."
My head jerks up, "What?"
"You heard me. I figured a week was long enough."
"You can't just stop the pills. You have to finish the antibiotics and the steroids, you—"
"Relax, babe," he gently pushes my head back against his chest. Did he just call me babe?