Chapter 20
Chapter Twenty
RICCI
I’m surprised at myself.
She’s pulling something out of me I didn’t even know was there.
In the space of one single evening, I’ve spoken more words to her than I have in the last five years combined with full sentences, questions, and explanations.
Normally this kind of talking would have me itching to tell them to fuck off.
Every word feels like handing over ammunition.
But tonight?
Tonight, I feel… alive. Brimming with something dazzling and restless.
Maybe it’s just the sheer adrenaline of finally making her mine.
Maybe that’s all it is. But deep down I know better.
She’s better, much better than I imagined she would be.
She’s outdone my best fantasies. Nothing—nothing—I dreamed can compare to the living, breathing her.
And she’s cracking open a door inside me I thought was welded shut years ago.
Neon signs streak across the glass in flashes of crimson and electric blue—Broadway marquees, hotel awnings, the glow of Times Square bleeding into the night like spilled paint.
Her scent fills the air. It’s subtle, but it’s everywhere, sinking into my skin, my lungs, my blood.
She sits quietly beside me, my handkerchief clutched in her lap like she’s afraid to let it go.
I can feel her watching me even though she is pretending she’s not.
Her cat-like eyes flicking sideways, studying me in the passing lights.
And every time our gazes meet, my pulse kicks harder.
We pull up to The Terrace at The NoMad. The uniformed doorman’s face is professionally blank.
He steps forward and opens her door before I can round the car.
I toss my key fob to the valet, then circle back and offer her my hand.
Her fingers are small and cool against my palm.
My thumb brushes the delicate skin inside her wrist, and her pulse jumps under the pad of my finger—quick and unsteady.
I feel it like a victory.
Inside, the hostess recognizes me instantly.
No name, no fuss—just a respectful dip of her chin, and a murmured: “This way, please, Mr. Santori.” She leads us through the main dining room, past velvet banquettes and low marble tables filled with customers.
We pass through a set of French doors onto the private terrace tucked at the back, elevated above the street noise, and screened by climbing ivy and potted olive trees.
It’s perfect.
Soft amber light spills from antique chandeliers wrapped in living ivy, the vines trailing down like green waterfalls, catching the glow and turning it golden.
Fresh white roses and eucalyptus spill from heavy crystal vases on every table, their fragrance mingling with the faint metallic promise of rain on the breeze drifting in through the open railing.
Beyond the railing the Manhattan skyline stretches out forever.
A waiter materializes behind us and pulls out the chair for Viola.
She sits, smoothing the satin of her dress over her thighs.
The fabric whispers against her skin—soft, intimate, maddening.
I take the seat across from her. Our knees almost brush under the crisp white tablecloth.
The candle between us flickers, throwing warm shadows across her face, catching the faint flush still lingering on her cheeks.
The manager, a balding, round, short man, bustles over to our table.
“Congratulations to the happy couple,” he cries, beaming at us both. “I will get the Chef to prepare something special for you. On the house, of course. All on the house.”
I nod and smile benevolently.
“Thank you,” Viola acknowledges shyly.
As the little round man backs away, his face wreathed in effusive smiles, another waiter arrives with a bottle of champagne and pops it open with a quiet hiss. Our glasses are filled. I raise mine.
“What should we drink to?” Viola asks.
“To new beginnings.”
“To new beginnings,” she echoes and takes a small sip, and sets the glass down carefully. Her cheeks are flushed pink. “Mmm… this is lovely.”
“Yes. It’s a good champagne.”
A waitress appears with menus. “I’ll have the usual.”
“Go mad,” I say, sliding the heavy cream menu across the table at her. “It’s been a hellish week.”
She looks up, eyes wide. “That’s putting it lightly.”
She opens the menu and scans it like it’s written in code. I see it in the tiny crease between her brows, the way she bites the inside of her lip, the slight hunch of her shoulders like she’s bracing for judgment.
“Do you like lamb?”
She nods quickly, almost in relief.
“How about the herb-crusted rack of lamb with roasted root vegetables, and lemon polenta?”
“Yes, that sounds good.”
The waitress nods courteously and disappears.
They know what I like here. Someone comes over with an open bottle of Gaja Barolo. At that moment our eyes meet across the table. She looks down quickly, lashes brushing her cheeks, then turns her face toward the skyline like she can hide the blush creeping up her neck.
I don’t look away.
I can’t.