“I feel better about this now. Yep, if I get into the Leone Room, it might be worth it,” I babble on.
He laughs, deep and rough. “Want permanent VIP access?”
I pause, fork midair. “Don’t tease me, Russo.”
“Wouldn’t dream of it, Carter,” he shoots back, amused.
As we finish eating, I find myself talking more than I planned—telling him about all the times I tried to get into the club. Each attempt, each failed plan. I even wave my hands like an idiot, gesturing too much, but he just watches me like I’m entertaining.
“P-I mean, one of my friends has been there,” I say finally, “and I almost asked her to get me on the list.”
“Why didn’t you?” he asks, curiosity genuine.
“Because I don’t like handouts,” I reply, shrugging. “I prefer to get myself the things I want.”
He smirks, voice dripping with mockery as he says, “Whether or not they belong to someone else, right?”
I smirk, refusing to give him the satisfaction of cowering. What’s done is done, and I’m here, reaping the consequences of my shitty life decisions. I twirl a lock of hair around my finger instead.
The candlelight flickers against the glass, painting his face in golds and shadows. His gaze drags down my dress, lingering toolong on the curve of my breasts, the side cut that shows just enough skin to make men stupid.
“That dress should come with a warning,” he growls. “If another man looks at you for longer than two seconds, he leaves without his eyes.”
Even though that’s terrifying and absolutely not funny, I laugh. “Possessive much?”
“Observant,” he counters. “I’ve been hard since I picked you up. And every time I get my dick under control, you’re flashing me your breasts.”
I use my hand to fan myself. “Whew, are you flirting with me?” I ask, batting my eyelashes. When he just arches an eyebrow, I roll my eyes. “You make it sound like fashion is a crime.”
“Tonight it is,” he retorts, and the way he looks at me tells me I’m in trouble for liking that answer as much as I do.
By the time dessert arrives, I’m still pretending not to be affected, but my pulse keeps betraying me. The panna cotta smells divine. My stomach flips between hunger and adrenaline as I study him over the rim of my glass.
“If I’m playing the part, I need details,” I say, trying to sound casual. “Tell me, what did little Matteo want to be when he grew up—before becoming whoever you are now?”
His brow lifts slightly, and for a second, something vulnerable flashes in his gaze. “A firefighter,” he says, irony curling through the words. “Guess that didn’t pan out.”
My gaze drifts to the burns along his jaw before I can stop it, but I don’t comment. Instead, I grin. “Do you have any pets? Please tell me you have a tiny dog that you carry around in a designer bag when no one’s looking.”
His mouth twitches. “No pets. I’m not a dog person. Or a cat person. Or any animal person.”
“So you’re completely dead inside,” I gasp, taking another sip of wine. “Good to know.”
The silence that settles between us isn’t awkward. Just… heavy. Charged. I cut a piece of the dessert and lift it toward him, smirking when he reaches for the fork. I slap his hand away.
“Let me feed you,dearest,” I coo, turning the teasing into a performance. I raise the fork to his lips, keeping my smile sweet. “Here you go.”
He looks at me like he can see straight through the act.
“That nickname really doesn’t work,” I say absentmindedly as I feed him another piece of the dessert. Mentally, I run through the list of options.
Baby sounds… not right. An idea hits me, and I can’t hide the smile that follows.
“You got yourself a deal,Matty,” I purr, acting like I’ve been deciding even though we both know I don’t have a damn choice.
I slide around the curved booth until I’m beside him, resting my hand on his arm in the perfect picture of affection. Anyone watching would think I’m smitten.
Only he feels the press of my nails digging through the fabric of his jacket.
