3. Sara #2
His familiar scent hits me from across the intimate table. Sandalwood and spices. Dark smoke and leather. Warm skin and the caramel chocolates he snacks on alone at night when no one can bear witness to his indulgence.
I’ve missed him so much. The urge to throw myself in his arms and kiss every inch of skin I can find almost strangles me.
After the way he dumped me, though, that would be truly pathetic. “So. About our breakup—”
His features harden. “Shh. Let’s not speak of such things right now.”
I stifle a gasp at the pure hatred gleaming in his eyes. “Dante…”
“What’s wrong?”
“You…you look…”
I blink, trailing off as his expression softens. “Never mind.”
Yep. The bartender poured those drinks with a heavier hand than I thought.
As I study his features, I note the small changes. The gray strands at his temple, hidden by the fall of his hair. The lines around his eyes and mouth that age him beyond his thirty years, as if he experienced things that would have broken anyone else during our time apart.
“How do you like working at Mount Dinaric?”
I give the question some thought. “It’s a lot nicer than the hospital on Staten Island.” I frown. “Wait, how did you know I was working there?”
“You must have mentioned it.”
Did I? When? I must be a lot tipsier than I believed.
A young man dressed in a dark suit and carrying a bag materializes out of nowhere. “Here you go, sir.”
“Thank you.”
When I read the writing, my heart skips a beat.
Enoteca Vittoria.
The hidden little Italian restaurant with aged brick walls and soft lighting where we went on our first date.
Clearing my throat, I struggle to form words. “What’s happening? Is this your attempt at some kind of fresh start?”
I lick my bottom lip, and Dante tracks the motion the way a shark tracks blood.
“You could say that, coniglietta.”
Coniglietta. Little rabbit. His little rabbit. In bed, it was either that, bella, or my favorite, tesoro. Treasure. His treasure. He’d often moan that particular endearment while buried deep inside me.
Hearing his sweet Italian again is the key that unlocks Pandora’s box.
The memories of endless nights of pleasure flood my brain like a tidal wave.
My hands clench on the edge of the table, and I squeeze my thighs together to alleviate the growing ache.
“I guess at least some things haven’t changed. ”
He arches a thick brow, an unreadable glint in his eyes. “Do I seem different to you?”
I shrug. “How could you not, cucciolo?” If he can throw around names like bullets, then I can too.
He stiffens in his seat, his jaw tightening while my bravado fizzles out.
I look away, my throat dry. Maybe I should leave the games to Dante. Between the two of us, he’s always been better at them. Especially with my head so fuzzy from the alcohol.
From inside the bag, Dante withdraws two pieces of triple chocolate cake, our favorite dessert from our old haunt. A bottle of wine follows, a 2001 Margaux du Chateau Margaux that probably costs more than my monthly rent. Dante pops the cork and reaches for my Bordeaux glass.
“Oh no, I don’t need any more alcohol. My head’s already wooz—”
“Just a little. For old time’s sake.”
He fills to the widest point and slides it toward me. He pours a smaller glass for himself.
I allow myself a sip as he dishes up the cake. “I really do think we should talk.”
He shakes his head. “Let’s just enjoy for now. Okay? We’ll have plenty of time to talk later.”
I temper the urge to protest, rolling my lips together as my eyes dart between his. I feel like I’m on a tightrope, teetering between participating in whatever game this is and demanding he explain himself.
I straighten my spine. If he doesn’t give me the answers I need soon, then I can always get up and leave.
In the meantime, I can savor this chocolate cake, which triggers a mini-orgasm in my mouth.
I devour half my piece and continue with tiny sips of wine while Dante steers the conversation back into neutral territory.
He assumes the role of charming host, asking thoughtful questions, cracking the occasional joke, and paying easy compliments.
Despite the cloud of lingering uncertainty and the anxious voice in the back of my head, I find myself leaning into this moment.
I swallow another bite. “This is amazing. Thank you.”
Dante tilts his head. “I’m glad you’re enjoying it.”
The atmosphere between us shifts. Cools. No, freezes. His expression becomes sinister. Malevolent. I’ve never witnessed this look on his handsome features before.
Alarm bells clang in my head, and the cake turns to ash on my tastebuds.
My fork clatters onto the plate.
“What’s the matter?” Mockery drips from his every word. “Eat up. This might be the last cake you ever have.”
Realization strangles me as I stare down the dangerous stranger sporting a designer watch and a sharp-toothed grin.
The worry flitting through my mind finally solidifies as I absorb the romantic place setting and the cake from our favorite restaurant. Both things that require advance notice to set up.
“Wait. How did you know I’d even be here tonight?”