The jacket swallows me, but it smells like him—leather and sandalwood and something uniquely him—so I don't mind.
"We taking your bike?" I ask, remembering my earlier ride with Cruel. Even though I was initially nervous, I loved the freedom of it, the wind in my hair, the power of the machine beneath me.
"Nah, taking the car tonight." Santiago pulls keys from his pocket, leading me to a sleek black BMW in the parking lot. "Harder to run from trouble on a bike."
The casual way he mentions potential danger sends a chill through me. "You expecting trouble?"
"Always." He opens the passenger door for me. "But especially when I've got something worth protecting."
The possessive tone in his voice should bother me. After Derek, after all the controlling assholes I've dated, I should berunning screaming in the other direction from a man who so casually claims me as his.
Instead, I find myself sliding into the leather seat, a warmness already pulling between my legs.
He gets in on the driver's side, starting the engine with a low purr. "You like Italian?"
"I love Italian."
"Good." He pulls out of the lot, one hand on the wheel, the other finding mine again. "I know a place."
The restaurant is small and intimate, tucked away in a side street downtown. The maître d' greets Santiago by name, leading us to a corner booth with a good view of the entrance. I notice Santiago taking in the room as we're seated, noting exits, scanning faces.
"Come here often?" I ask once we're settled.
"Often enough they know how I like my steak." He smiles, but his eyes continue their subtle surveillance. "It's quiet, food's good, and they don't ask questions."
"About?"
His gaze returns to me. "About why I'm always armed, or why I insist on sitting where I can see the door."
I process what he's telling me. "Are you armed right now?"
Instead of answering, he reaches for the wine list. "What do you want tonight? Red or white?"
"White." I decide not to push. "And you didn't answer my question."
He sets down the list, leaning forward slightly. "Yes, I'm armed. I'm always armed when I leave the clubhouse or my apartment. It's part of who I am, part of the life. The only place I can't be armed is the courthouse. If that's a problem for you, I need to know now."
His directness catches me off guard, but I appreciate it. "It's not a problem. I just... I'm trying to understand your world."
"My world is complicated," he says after a moment. "The club, the law practice—they don't always mesh well. But they're both part of me."
"Which came first?" I ask, genuinely curious. "The club or law school?"
"The club," he answers immediately. "My dad was a member, back in the day. Died when I was fifteen. The brothers looked out for me, for Ash, for our mom. Put me through college when she couldn't afford it."
This is news to me. I've known Ashley for years, but she rarely talked about her father or her family's financial struggles.
"I didn't know that," I admit.
"Not many do. Ash doesn't like to talk about it. She was too young when he died to really remember him." Santiago flags down a waiter and orders a bottle of white without consulting the list. Once the waiter leaves, he continues, "I went to law school to help the club. Turns out I was good at it, built a name for myself. Now I take other cases, too, but the brothers always come first."
"That's... admirable," I say, and I mean it. His loyalty, his sense of family—it's appealing in a way I didn't expect.
"It's just life." He shrugs, but I can tell my approval means something to him. "Now tell me about this fashion magazine job of yours. Ash mentioned you're doing well there."
I'm surprised he's heard about my job. "I am. I manage all the social media content for Season magazine. It's a lot of work, but I love it."
"Season, huh? That's Victorio Ramirez's, isn't it?"
