Raven knows exactly what that dress does to me, what it would do to any man.
“You look good enough to eat,” I grin, eyes tracking the tense line of her shoulders.
She flips her loose, wavy hair over her shoulders. “You sound surprised,” she quips, rolling her eyes. Then she gives me a once-over that lingers just a moment too long on my mouth. “I do know how to dress for an occasion.”
“Even when you don’t know what the occasion is.” I lean back, letting my knee brush against hers. She doesn’t pull away. Another good sign.
La Volta appears through the window, its exterior unassuming except for the two suited guards flanking the entrance. Russo owned, and one of the family’s only legitimate businesses. At least if you ignore what happens in the private rooms upstairs.
“This is your family’s,” she states, not asks, as the car stops.
“Excellent research skills,” I reply, stepping out and extending my hand to help her. She takes it, her skin cool against mine.
The maître d’ spots us the moment we enter, his professional mask slipping briefly to reveal genuine deference. “Mr. Russo,” he greets with a half-bow. “Your usual table is ready.”
I place my hand on the small of Raven’s back, guiding her through the restaurant. The space parts for us like water—conversations dimming, eyes flicking our way before hastily averting. Power has a gravity all its own.
One man at a nearby table lets his gaze linger a second too long on the bare stretch of her back. A low sound rumbles in my chest before I catch it. Raven doesn’t notice—but he does. His eyes dart away, shoulders shrinking.
Our corner booth is shadowed, intimate. Candles flicker in glass holders, casting Raven’s face in amber light that makes the defiance in her eyes look like banked fire. Gorgeous.
“Let’s get some wine,” I state once we’re seated, already signaling the sommelier.
“Don’t I get a say?” she mutters as the man approaches.
I can’t help smirking. “No.”
A chuckle escapes me when she sputters a few choice words, her brown eyes looking like she’s trying to incinerate me. Good luck. If there’s one thing I’ve learned, it’s that I’m not that easy to kill.
I order a nice red without looking at the list. Raven watches, her smile fixed but irritation simmering beneath the surface. She waits until the sommelier leaves before leaning forward.
“Is this how it’s going to be?” she asks quietly. “You making all the decisions?”
“Only the ones that matter,” I reply, tapping my fingers against the tablecloth. “Like why you’re here.”
The wine arrives, a ritual of presentation and pouring that I endure with practiced patience. Once we’re alone again, I lift my glass in a mock toast.
“To new partnerships,” I say, watching her over the rim.
She takes a sip, her lipstick leaving a crimson mark on the glass. “So what exactly is this favor I’m performing, Mr. Russo?”
“Matteo,” I correct her. “And I already told you.”
“Repeat it,” she demands. Then she raises her chin and bats her long, dark eyelashes. “Please,Mr. Russo.”
I snort. “You’re going to be my pretend girlfriend. And as such, you should use my first name.”
The antipasti, my usual order, arrives—olives, prosciutto, cheese. I watch as she selects an olive, popping it into her mouth with deliberate slowness.
“Your girlfriend,” she repeats, skepticism dripping from each syllable.
“Not just at business functions,” I say, selecting a piece of cheese with surgical precision. “All the time. Every day, every night. Until I say otherwise.”
Chapter 14
Raven
My laugh comes out sharp, brittle. “So I’m arm candy for a Mafia enforcer? How original.” I hear the slight tremor in my voice, and it pisses me off.
