27. Serendipity #2
“Si,” he said, smirking at the horror on my face. He forced my arms through the sleeves, which were too long, then lifted the leather jacket onto my shoulders.
“What? Why? You have so many stunning cars. Can’t we take one of them?”
“You live in Rome, no?” he teased, and I glared at him.
“The roads are busy at this time of night, and the quickest route is too narrow for cars to get through. Plus, parking is always a bitch. Not with this baby, though.” He patted the leather seat of a stunning red superbike that looked like a ticket to the next life.
I’d seen him on that bike before, and it was fast. Very fast.
My head began to shake. “No. I’d really rather go by car and be late. Look at what I’m wearing, Sani.”
His face transformed into a devastating smile that made all the terror dissolve in an instant. I did not know why he was looking at me like that, but my God, he could right all the wrongs in the world with that smile.
“What?”
“You just called me Sani, and I wasn’t giving you an orgasm.”
That’s what was making him beam from ear to ear? Me calling him by his name? Gosh, this man and his quirks. I hadn’t even realised it had slipped out, but I refused to acknowledge what it might mean, or what he might think it meant.
“Can we take a car, please?” I batted my eyelashes and made praying hands because I really didn’t want to die tonight.
He stepped in front of me, helmet in hand, and held my gaze. “Are you scared, Bella Ribelle?”
“Of riding on the back of a death trap without a seatbelt, with a man obsessed with living life in the fast lane? Yes. I am terrified. I don’t want to be decapitated outside the Roman Forum.”
He chuckled as if I were being dramatic. For a second, I thought he might actually agree, but then he shoved the helmet onto my head and flipped the visor up so he could see my death stare.
“Come on,” he said. “You need to be pushed out of your comfort zone. I’m not going to let anything happen to you. You’ll love it.”
He swung his leg over the seat and shoved on his own helmet, balancing the powerful machine between his thighs.
He gave me a curt nod, even though I still hadn’t moved.
I rolled my eyes and stepped up to the bike, gripping his broad shoulders as I climbed on.
Thank God for the slit in my dress, which had ridden up far too high as I bracketed his hips and then grabbed the back of the bike for support.
“Hold on to me. Not the bike,” he commanded.
I exhaled, sliding my arms around his torso and gripping his shirt like a koala. I felt his solid abs contract under my touch, and heat spread through my body, pooling between my legs.
He placed a hand on my bare thigh and squeezed, his wordless praise and affection leaving me light-headed. Then he started the roaring engine, and we were moving.
I slammed my eyes shut, a small squeal escaping my lips, and hugged him tighter as he increased speed on the main road. I felt his body vibrate with a chuckle and cursed him in my head for revelling in my fear.
“Open your eyes, Ribelle,” he ordered, shouting over the deafening noise as we weaved through traffic.
“No.” I shook my head, and the helmet banged against his back. “I’d rather not see my death coming.”
“Such a drama queen tonight,” he laughed. “You’re missing out on all the fun.”
I slowly peeled one eye open at a time and realised what he meant.
With my eyes open, it felt far more thrilling than terrifying.
I smiled, enjoying the smooth way we glided down the roads, but every time we turned a corner and the bike leaned too close to the ground, my stomach somersaulted, and I squeezed him hard enough to break a rib.
That only seemed to amuse him more, and I swear he started doing it on purpose.
We parked outside the restaurant, and I climbed off first, my legs feeling like jelly and making me wobble slightly on my heels. Santino removed my helmet, then his own, smiling at me as I fixed my hair.
“So? Fun?”
“Oh, my God. I loved it,” I answered, returning his beaming smile. “The adrenaline, the rush. I get it. I think I want one.”
He laughed as he climbed off the bike, then held his arm out to the side with the two helmets in hand. A man stepped forward from the shadows, took them from him, and walked away. I frowned, realising his men had somehow followed us here and were appearing silently whenever he needed them.
“Slow down, Ribelle. Let’s get you a Vespa first.”
“That’s probably a sensible idea. Who knew you had those?”
He wrapped his arm possessively around my waist and hauled me against his body, groaning. “Trouble. See?”
My next breath caught as he bent down as if he were about to kiss me, then smirked and took my hand, lacing our fingers together.
He led us into the restaurant’s extravagant entrance hall, with black marble walls and a low-hanging gold chandelier.
I tried to ignore how good it felt to have my hand nestled in his much larger one.
“Santino Buccini. Dinner with Mayor Caruso,” Sani said to the Il ma?tre. I watched as the waiter’s eyes widened with recognition.
“Signor Buccini. Delighted to have you dining with us this evening. Your table is ready, and the mayor is already seated. May I take your coat, Signorina?” He glanced past Santino and looked at me.
I realised I was still wearing the oversized leather biker jacket.
Sani took it off my shoulders and handed it to him.
“It’s Signora Buccini. My wife. Not a date.”
The waiter’s cheeks burned with embarrassment, and he quickly stammered an apology.
He led us through the packed restaurant, and I felt everyone’s eyes on us.
Or, more precisely, on Santino. He didn’t acknowledge the awe or shock that followed his every move.
Nor did he react to the women who stopped what they were doing to gawk at him.
But I noticed a subtle change in his demeanour since we were alone.
He seemed harsher, exuding a sense of superiority, and a mask of sharp indifference was firmly set on his face.
It was a little jarring to see how others reacted in his presence, as if he were a living god they worshipped yet feared getting too close to.
I was seeing him as the man he portrayed to the outside world.
It probably should have scared me, but I felt strangely comforted by it.
He was softer with me. Playful. Not this man.
Or was the version he was around me the act? Which was the real him?
When the new thought occurred to me, I stumbled on my heels, nearly twisting my ankle. He caught me by the waist before I made a fool of myself and fell to the polished floor. My hand slammed against his chest, and I stared into his cold, dark gaze, watching it soften instantly.
“You okay?” he asked, real concern sparking in his features. He couldn’t be that good of an actor, could he?
Someone cleared their throat before us, and our gazes snapped to my father, standing at the table.
His disapproving gaze drifted from Santino’s arm around my lower back to my hand on his chest, then to my face.
I straightened, nodding for Santino to release me, and stepped towards my father, feeling like a naughty teenager caught with a boy for the first time.
“Papi,” I greeted, kissing him on both cheeks as he stood frozen, still glaring at Santino behind me. “How are you?”
“Fine,” he replied curtly, his gaze snapping back to me.
He didn’t look fine. He looked awful. Dark circles and puffiness curved beneath his eyes, and he looked less put-together than usual.
His tie was crooked, and his usually well-styled hair was out of place.
“Actually, I’m lying. I’m not fine, Aria. I’m worried sick about you.”
So much guilt coiled in my stomach. I stepped back and sat in the chair Santino had pulled out for me. Then he lifted his hand towards my father, and I held my breath.
“Good to see you, Piero,” he said calmly, waiting for him to take it. I glanced around the restaurant and saw we were already attracting a lot of attention. No one seemed able to find anything more interesting.
Cautiously, my father shook it. I exhaled as they both sat down.
Santino glanced at me and gave me a small, reassuring smile, as if he thought I needed it.
I did. The fact he’d noticed was another surprise.
It was as if my brain was taking stock of all the little things he did that a man who didn’t truly care, who was only using me to hurt my father, wouldn’t.
But as soon as one came, another voice would tell me not to be na?ve.
It was exhausting. Why was I even searching for signs that he cared?
I wanted out of this marriage, didn’t I?
And if what Callum said was true, I would be by the end of tonight.
I grabbed the napkin from the table and twisted it in my lap. We all sat in silence as the server poured the wine, the tension mounting. Fortunately, with nothing eventful happening, most people had returned to their own conversations and weren’t looking our way.
“Good choice, Piero. This is one of my favourite restaurants in the city. The scallops are exquisite,” Santino said, tapping his fingers on the table. My eyes darted to my father, who was glaring with such hatred that I had no idea how Santino could be smiling.
“It was one of the few you don’t seem to own,” Papi snapped back, lifting his wine. “And it has an impressive wine list.”
“It does.”
“I ordered the Vermentino.”
Santino lifted the glass to his lips and tasted it. He nodded, appreciating the flavour with a lick of his lips. “Very nice. A subtle blend of apricot and citrus. It will go well with the scallops.”
My eyes flicked between them, lips parted. Were they seriously discussing wine? This felt surreal. But I couldn’t think of a safe topic to bring up, so I guess wine it was.