Chapter Marcello
I thought she was beautiful in scrubs—smart, sharp, a vision of control in chaos—but this?
This is a goddamn knockout punch. That old-fashioned, flowing skirt hugs her hips like silk draped over temptation.
The belt cinches her tiny waist, drawing my eyes to the flare of her hips.
Hips that beg me to grab them with my hands, to own them.
Her curls tumble down her shoulders in soft golden waves, and the light touch of makeup turns those already hypnotic hazel eyes into something lethal.
I picked Thomasolo for tonight on purpose. It is elegant, private, and expensive—but not flashy. The owner, Thomaso, keeps the guest list tighter than the Vatican vault. He only allows twenty tables per service, placing each with the intention of maximizing privacy without sacrificing ambiance.
"Oh, that's so beautiful," Violet breathes when we enter. Satisfaction runs through me that she's already enchanted.
The entire place gives the illusion of sitting outside on a starlit patio in Sicily, complete with a warm breeze that faintly smells of the ocean. I have no idea how he does this, and he's declined to share his secret. I like his food too much to torture him out of it.
Four medium-sized fountains serve to put more distance between the tables. Soft opera music floats through the loudspeakers, subtly accompanied by the illusory sound of crashing waves, all adding to the fantasy of sitting on a private terrace overlooking the ocean.
Violet's eyes are sparkling as she stares at the large wall to the left.
The center is surrounded by wooden support beams and fronted by a short terracotta pony wall, filled with flower beds.
Above the bed and between the beams is a large screen displaying the Mediterranean Sea as it would appear from a terrace in a continuous loop.
The ma?tre de leads us to my usual table, right by the terracotta wall. Violet lifts her cute little button nose and sniffs deeply. "Does it really smell of salt and ocean?"
I nod. "Thomaso won't tell me how he does it."
Excited, she claps her little hands together. "This is so amazing. Thank you for bringing me here."
Her smile does something to me. Dangerous things. "My pleasure."
The ma?tre de places menus into our hands and a basket of steaming bread rolls, complete with butter cutouts in the shape of different seashells, on the table.
"Oh," Violet exclaims, with her lips slightly parted, and I vow that tonight, I will find out what they taste like.
Her eyes scan the menu while I order wine.
"See something you like?" I ask.
"Something? All of it looks so delicious. I have no idea what to choose. Will you do it for me?"
I waive the ma?tre de over and whisper in his ear, while I watch Violet take in the fake grapes hanging from support beams surrounded by twinkle lights, utterly unaware of how beautiful she looks bathed in this golden glow.
"Is this really how Italy looks?" She asks after the ma?tre de leaves with his orders.
"It's a very inventive duplicate, but nothing compares to Sicily," I say, watching her.
"Thomaso has created a very clever illusion, but the air in Sicily is heavier.
Filled with the scent of flowers and citrus fruit.
Around this time in the evening, you would hear the last noises of birds as they search for a place to rest for the night.
You'd also hear the wind whisper through the palm tree leaves.
The stars and moon would be brighter, and the sound of rushing waves would lure you in to go for a swim. "
She looks at me with wide eyes. "Wow, I had no idea you were such a romantic. You must miss Sicily."
"I used to," I look straight at her. Having mercy on her after her face flushes, I add, "Have you ever been to Italy?"
"Me?" she laughs, "Never."
She reaches for a bread roll and delicately breaks off a piece before buttering it. I'm holding my breath as I watch her chew it.
"Oh my… wow, this is the most delicious bread I've ever eaten."
I smile. "That's because you Americans befoul your flour. Thomaso imports everything from Italy, including the flour."
"Befoul our flour?" She asks, amused.
I nod and wave my hand, "Si, but let's not talk about unpleasant things like the obscenities Americans do to their food."
"Alright." The ma?tre de arrives with the wine, opens it in front of us, and pours a small amount into my glass for me to taste.
"I thought this only happened in movies," Violet watches me intently.
I wave the ma?tre de on, and he fills our glasses, first hers and then mine.
"To a wonderful dinner," I toast.
"To your recovery," she smiles.
I follow her example and take a roll, butter it, and bite in. She's right, they are heavenly. It's been a few months since I've been here, but Thomaso always keeps a table ready for me. I vow to start making it worth his while and come here a bit more often again.
"I've heard you came to honor me and brought the most bellissima signorina with you." His deep voice sounds out behind me, as if by thinking of him, I somehow conjured him up, like calling Beetlejuice three times.
"Thomaso," I turn, rising and resigning myself to take the bear hug he's going to give me.
"It's been too long, my friend. I was worried your table would get all dusty."
"It has," I agree, enduring two slobbery kisses to my cheeks and a squeeze against his massive frame that makes every single one of my healing injuries scream. "A mistake I promise I will rectify from now on."
He turns questioningly at Violet, and a jolt of possessiveness overcomes me when she smiles at him warmly.
"This is Violet. Violet, meet Thomaso, an old friend and the owner of this wonderful establishment."
"That wouldn't have been possible without your help," he reminds me, like he always does.
"It's my great honor and pleasure to meet you, signorina," Thomaso pulls out all the charm, takes Violet's hand, and kisses it.
I dig the tips of my fingers into my chair, willing myself not to jump up and link them around his round neck.
I'm unable to explain the urge. I have no fucking idea what's wrong with me.
I've introduced many women to this womanizer and have never felt like this before.
Violet giggles adoringly, "It's a pleasure to meet you, too. Your bread rolls are to die for."
"Wait until you try my spaghetti." He finally releases her hand to push his thumb and forefinger together and press them against his lips, letting out a loud smacking sound. "Then you'll think you died and went to heaven." He winks, and one of my nails breaks on the chair.
"I can't wait," she beams up at him, totally oblivious to my seething temper. My ass partially lifts out of the seat.
As if sensing my displeasure, Thomaso turns to me, putting a hand on my shoulder, pushing me back down, grinning from ear to ear. "This man here is a keeper, Signorina Violet. You better not let him escape. Did you know that he financed my restaurant?"
She shakes her head. "I had no idea."
"He did. When nobody believed in me, he was the one to help me get my dream going." Thomaso's eyes fill with tears, the sentimental bastard. Lucky bastard. Can't hit a guy when he gets all sobby.
I wave my hand, "You really didn't leave me a choice. It was either that or never eat your pasta diabolo again."
Violet looks at me as if I rescued a baby from a burning building. A look that, to my surprise, I kind of enjoy. It feels good to be seen as a hero instead of the villain for once.
"I knew you were a good man," she praises me. And fuck me, I like that even more.
"Don't let him fool you. He's the devil," Thomaso warns her, "but he does have a heart of gold."
"Yours will be filled with lead if you don't go back to cooking our dinner," I threaten, and Thomaso makes a hasty retreat.
"He seems nice." Violet's eyes follow his massive form as he waddles back into the kitchen.
"He knows how to cook," I agree.
Her eyes turn to me. "You like him."
I shift in my seat. Being accused of liking someone isn't exactly good for business. It complicates things. Makes people talk. But thankfully, I'm spared from answering when the servers glide in like ghosts, laying out a spread of appetizers that makes Violet's eyes widen in disbelief.
"What did you order?" Violet stares at the six plates put in front of us and two smaller, empty ones to eat from.
"You said you had a hard time deciding," I smirk, leaning back in my chair like I do every night. I love the way she looks at me when I surprise her.
"So you ordered every appetizer on the menu?"
"And every main course and dessert, so you better pace yourself." With her sinful mouth parted in surprise, she looks even sexier. My dick swells at the thought of being surrounded by those full lips. She would look spectacular.
"We'll never eat all this."
"That's the good thing about Thomaso; his food is still good heated up the next day." I wave her off, even though I'm talking out of my ass here. I have no idea. I've not taken leftovers home since my first year in Sicily. But she strikes me as the kind of girl who would.
She lightly tips her fork against a marinated artichoke heart. "What is this?"
I spear one and bring it to her mouth. "Close your eyes."
She hesitates—but she does it. Her lashes lower, and fuck me, the sight of her—relaxed, trusting, lips parted—is a goddamn religious experience.
"Now open your mouth." I have to clear my throat halfway through. My cock's already straining in my pants, and her obedience is making it worse. She opens slowly. Her tongue peeks out. My grip on the fork tightens, and a sound escapes me. Something low and primal.
I feed the piece of artichoke to her, watch her lips close around the fork like she was made for it, hear a soft moan escape her, and I see red. I drain my wineglass before I say something I can't take back. Before I climb across the table and fuck her in front of all these people.
"Hmm," she moans again as she carefully chews the artichoke.
"Good?" I empty the wineglass a second time to get my vocal cords working correctly again.
"Delicious." She agrees.
"Try this," I spear a beef-stuffed grape leaf and feed it to her. This time, she keeps her eyes open and on me, and if possible, the torture is even worse.
"Which one is your favorite?" she asks.
"I like them all, but if I have to choose, it's this." I take a small piece of bruschetta and hand it to her. Gently, her fingers push my hand toward me.
"Your turn," she murmurs. Her voice is as hoarse as mine now. Fuck me.
I grab another bruschetta, holding it up for her at the same time I take the one she offered. It's clumsy, intimate, and almost absurdly sensual. She bites down. "So good," she says, her tone half praise and half invitation.
I don't think we're going to make it through the appetizers.
Only one thought keeps me rooted to my spot.
When I fuck her for the first time, I want it to be in my bed, not in a public restaurant or bathroom— though this evening, both options have crossed my mind.
I want her in my world under my control.
I don't taste a damn thing. It could've been cardboard for all I know. All I can think about is the way her lips wrap around that bite, and how much I want them somewhere else.
Somehow, we make it through the appetizers without me snapping and carrying her to the nearest dark corner. I search for a topic that will distract me from my throbbing dick and the sight of the mounds of her breasts poking through the material of her blouse.
"Do you still want to be a nurse?" I ask, swirling my wine, "Or is it just a stepping stone until the real dream kicks in?"
Her eyes flash, playful, knowing. She's fully aware I'm changing the subject. She just doesn't mind letting me squirm a little.
"I'm not sure," she says with that subtle smirk of hers. "I might use the absurd amount of money you're paying me to finally buy a fixer-upper. You know… live out my HGTV fantasy."
I raise a brow, pleased by her sass. "Absurd, huh?"
"I would've taken the job for less," she teases, sipping her wine. "But I wasn't about to correct you."
Her tongue flicks across her bottom lip, and I fight the urge to groan. Then she tilts her head, all innocent mischief and glowing confidence. "And you? Are you still happy being a mafia boss?"
I choke. Literally. The olive I just tossed in my mouth goes halfway down the wrong pipe. I cough, clearing my throat, narrowing my eyes at her while she blinks at me, pure sugar and sin.
Is she serious? Or is she challenging me? Her gaze holds mine, unafraid. Curious, but with the smallest trace of heat lurking beneath it.
She's baiting me. I can feel it.
I lean in, just a little, and let my voice drop low. "That's a dangerous question, tesoro."
"And yet you're still answering it." She sips again, cool as ice.
I chuckle—dark and slow. "Being a boss has its perks."
"Oh, I don't doubt that," she murmurs. "But does it make you happy?"
Christ.
She's going to make me feel something, isn't she?