Paulo pulls away from the curb, and I force myself to focus on conversation instead of how much I want to pull her into my lap.
“So,” Elena says, turning to face me. “Tell me more about you. Not work stuff. Real stuff. What’s your favorite movie?”
“I don’t watch many movies.”
“Everyone has a favorite movie.”
“The Godfather.”
She bursts out laughing. “Of course it is. Of course. Let me guess, you can relate to Michael Corleone?”
More than she knows.
“It’s a well-made film,” I say defensively.
“It’s about the mafia, Alessandro. Murder, betrayal and family loyalty taken to criminal extremes.”
“It’s about a man trying to protect what’s his.”
She’s quiet for a moment, and when she speaks again, her voice is softer. “Is that what you’re doing? Protecting what’s yours?”
“Always.”
The word hangs between us, loaded with meaning I can’t quite articulate. She doesn’t press, just nods as though she understands something I haven’t said.
We make small talk the rest of the drive, she tells me about a difficult customer who wanted roses but only specific roses from a specific farm in Ecuador, I tell her about a shipment of wine that got held up in customs for three weeks. It’s easy, comfortable, and I find myself relaxing despite the oversized roses and the suit and the driver.
Maybe this will be okay. Maybe I can have one normal evening with her before everything inevitably falls apart.
Canlis is perched on a hill overlooking Lake Union, all glass and mid-century modern elegance. Paulo drops us at the entrance, and a valet immediately appears to open Elena’s door.
“I’ll be nearby,” Paulo says quietly to me. “If you need anything.”
What he means is: I’ll be watching for threats. I’ll be armed. I’ll be ready.
“Thank you,” I tell him.
Inside, the maître d’ greets us with perfect professional warmth. “Mr. De Luca, welcome. Your table is ready.”
He leads us through the dining room, all warm wood with soft lighting and floor-to-ceiling windows with views of the city lights reflected on the water. It’s beautiful. Romantic. Exactly what I wanted.
Our table is in the corner, slightly secluded. Private.
Elena’s eyes are wide as she takes it all in. “This is incredible.”
“I’m glad you like it.” I hold her chair out for her, and she sits with a small smile.
“Such a gentleman.”
“I try.”
The sommelier appears with a wine list that’s practically a novel. I order a bottle of Barolo without looking at the prices, and Elena raises an eyebrow but doesn’t comment.
“So,” she says once we’re alone again. “Do you do this often? The fancy restaurant, the driver, the full romantic treatment?”
“No. Never.”
“Never?”
