I brush my lips over his as I demand huskily, “Then take me on a date.”
He relents easily. “Okay.”
One of the perks of being married to a Made Man whose Famiglia reigns the east coast is that reservations are not required. Not even by the most critically acclaimed chef in the country.
The waiting list for this restaurant has been backed for over six months. As soon as Rico said his name a table became available instantly.
I can only imagine the manager frantically rushing a couple out of their seats and apologizing profusely as fear chokes her.
I would almost feel sorry for said couple but I’m dying for a night of normalcy.
And Rico deserves a night not thinking of the famiglia.
For the past two weeks he’s been working tirelessly on finding a solution to end the Russians and the Irish Mob. So much so he’s forgotten to eat, sleep and neglect his routine.
I understand it’s his position. He’s the consigliere after all. The sharp brain and analyst behind Constantine’s mass success.But he’s also my husband. And while I know this hyper-fixation of his will be short lived once the issue at hand is resolved this is only a gentle reminder to him there are other priorities at hand.
His hand is splayed on my lower back. I chose a daring open back dress with a halter neckline. Its rich plum color makes my hair vibrant. And it’s a complimenting contrast to my paler complexion.
Rico is as dashing as always. Regal in his three piece suit and bow tie. In another life he would’ve made a believable Prince.
He leads me to a table in a quieter setting. The overhead lighting is a warm glow of yellow and on the table it’s lit by candlelight. Ever the gentlemen he pulls the chair out for me and tucks me in. Unbuttoning his suit jacket he joins me on the opposite side. He lays his hand out on the table and I slip mine in his. His muscles immediately relax.
“This place is beautiful,” I gush in awe.
His eyes stay on me. “Very beautiful.”
I can feel my cheeks heat. I smile shyly at him. “Have you eaten here before?” I open the menu and quickly scan over it. Everything seems delicious.
“No. Never had the reason to fine dine.”
“Not even with a business associate?”
“Most of my business associates are comprised, for lack of a better word.”
Right. The Grim Reaper. Collecting souls.
“Well,” I say as I set down the menu, “I’m glad to be your first.”
His mouth twitches as mirth lights his eyes. “And I’m glad to be your first.”
My eyes narrow. “I’ve done fine dining before.”
He leans in and I meet him halfway. The candlelight stops us from closing the distance. “To fuck you with one of my associates compromised.”
If I was red before I’m burning up now. I still can’t believe I did that. More so I can’t believe I don’t feel ashamed of it. “Rico,” I gasp. He winks before settling back in his seat.
The waiter arrives then all prim and proper. Rico orders a bottle of wine and some appetizers. With a brow raised he asks me, “Have you decided?”
“I’ll take the chicken florentine pasta.”
“Excellent choice,” the waiter comments. “And you, Mr. Maroni?”
“I’ll do the same, thank you.”
The waiter collects our menus and promises food will be out shortly.
I sip my glass of water enjoying the view of my husband. “Did you not want to try something else? I would’ve been more than happy to share.”
