It's a small thing, but I file it away. Ronan always opens doors for Leila, his wife. So did our father for our mother, when she was alive, and our father was a cold, unemotional kind of man. It's the kind of old-fashioned courtesy that's ingrained in the men in our world, and its absence feels… notable.
But Desmond is already sliding back into the driver's seat, and I don't want to make a big deal out of it. Maybe he's just nervous, or maybe he’s trying to impress me with how forward-thinking he is. I settle into the passenger seat, the leather buttery soft and expensive beneath me, and buckle my seatbelt as he starts the engine.
"I hope you're hungry," he says, pulling out of my driveway. I can see Leon and four other guards getting into the black SUV that will follow us, and I try not to think about how there’s no privacy for me, ever. Not even on a date. "I made us a reservation at Mistral."
My eyebrows rise. Mistral is one of the most exclusive restaurants in Boston, the kind of place where you need to book weeks in advance. "How did you manage that on such short notice?"
He glances over at me with a smug smile. "I have my ways. The Connelly name opens doors."
There's something in his tone that rubs me the wrong way, a kind of arrogance that feels different from the confidence I'm used to in the men in my family. It reminds me of my father, a little, if I’m being honest—a man that I would never want a romantic partner to emulate. But I push the feeling aside. Maybe I'm being too critical. After all, he's not wrong—names like oursdo open doors. And he's clearly gone to a lot of trouble to impress me.
"That's very thoughtful," I say instead, and his smile widens.
"Only the best for you, Annie. I've been looking forward to this since we first decided on the date."
The drive to the restaurant is filled with easy conversation. Desmond asks about my work with the family business, and I find myself relaxing as we talk. He's intelligent and well-informed, asking thoughtful questions about the financial side of things that most people wouldn't think to ask. He seems genuinely interested in what I do, which is refreshing.
"I have to admit," he says as we pull up to the restaurant, "I've always been impressed by how involved you are in the business side of things. Most women in our world are kept away from all that."
I bristle slightly at the phrasing. "Most women in our world aren't given the choice," I correct. "I was lucky that my father believed in education and recognized my mind, and that Ronan trusts my abilities."
"Of course," Desmond says quickly, but there's something in his tone that suggests he doesn't entirely agree. "I just meant that it's unusual. Admirable, but unusual."
The valet takes the car, and Desmond finally comes around to my side, offering me his arm as we walk toward the restaurant entrance. I can see Leon and the other guards taking up positions nearby, watching as we enter. At some point, they’ll filter into the restaurant, keeping an eye out and making rounds throughout our meal here—discreetly, but thoroughly. Desmond doesn't seem bothered by their presence, which I appreciate.
He’s used to this. His own security is likely nearby as well, though I haven’t noticed them. He’ll never be put off by the amount of eyes that I have to have watching me at all times, which is a plus for dating someone from this world. It’s just apart of our lives, but men outside of it tend to be off-put by the lack of privacy.
Mistral is everything I expected—dimly lit, elegant, tastefully expensive. Desmond did well with his choice; this is definitely the kind of restaurant I would choose for an expensive night out, and he clearly remembered that I rattled off French as one of my favorite cuisines during a conversation. The maître d' recognizes Desmond immediately—which does make me wonder how many other women he’s brought here—and leads us to a prime table near the window. The service is impeccable, and I have to admit that Desmond has excellent taste.
“Red or white?” he asks as we sit down, and I glance at the wine list that’s been placed in front of us.
“Red.” I scan the list. “A pinot noir, I think. Something French, definitely. Or Georgian, or Argentinean. The best wines I’ve had have been from one of those regions.”
“You know your wine,” Desmond remarks appreciatively, a small smile on his lips. “I imagine your parents had you learn that early on. It’s an important thing for a wife to know. What wines to order for dinner parties, what each important guest prefers, and so on.”
Something bristles at the back of my neck. “I learned about wine because I enjoy it,” I remark coolly. “When I was much younger, maybe my father thought I would need a wife’s education. But once I was in high school, it was clear that I was bright enough when it came to math to be a different kind of boon to the family.”
“Like I said.” Desmond shrugs slightly. “Unusual. That’s all. Usually a beautiful woman like you would be a means to get more money, more power for a family. It’s certainly how my father used Siobhan.”
There’s something tight in his voice when he says it, but I’m too irritated to let it sink in. “We had enough money andinfluence. What my father needed was someone he could trust to handle the finances. Someone who would never report him or purposefully screw him over or try to blackmail him. He could trust me absolutely, and I was capable. More than capable?—”
“I know, Annie.” His voice is slightly soothing, as if he’s trying to calm a fractious horse, and I try to wrestle my reaction under control. I’m too sensitive about this, I tell myself. Itisunusual. He’s not saying anything wrong. He’s not saying I should be married by now, only that my father’s choice was one that most other mafia fathers don’t make. And he’s right about that. “I’m glad you’re not married yet,” he adds with a chuckle. “If your father had made a different choice, we wouldn’t be here now. And what a shame that would be.”
The waiter comes by a moment later, saving me from having to come up with an answer, and Desmond orders a bottle of French red. I glance over the appetizer menu, and we decide on the beef carpaccio with truffle sauce and a Caesar salad to share.
"So," he says once we've ordered the wine and appetizers, "tell me more about yourself, Annie. I feel like I know you through Siobhan's stories, but we’ve really only spent time together in person a few times.”
Primarily Siobhan’s wedding to my brother, and then her funeral.The mention of his sister sends an awkward pall settling over the table. Siobhan was… complicated. Beautiful, certainly, but volatile and demanding. Her marriage to Ronan had been turbulent at best, cold at worst, and her death left my brother with a complicated mix of grief and guilt that I know, deep down, he’s still working through.
“That’s true, we really haven’t seen much of each other, even though there was such a close connection between our families. A few dinner parties and galas.” I pause, toying with my fork. “A lot has changed since… what happened.”
"I'm sure it has." His green eyes are intent on my face, and there's something in his gaze that makes me feel exposed. Like he’s looking at me more intimately than he should. "You've grown into a beautiful woman, Annie. I always thought you would."
I take a sip of wine, using the moment to collect my thoughts. "How are you doing? With everything that happened, I mean. I know it's been difficult."
His expression darkens slightly. "It has been. Losing Siobhan was… devastating. And the way it happened…" He trails off, shaking his head. "I'm sorry. I don't want to bring down the mood."
"You don't have to apologize," I say softly. "I can't imagine how hard it's been."
