“Wow, so specific,” I deadpan. “Should I also expect oxygen and gravity at this dinner?”
His laugh is unexpected, a low rumble that vibrates through the space between us. “You’ll see.”
Twenty minutes later, we’re in a part of Cleveland I’ve never visited—an older neighborhood with brick buildings and narrow streets that feel more like Boston or Philadelphia than Ohio.
The car stops in front of an unassuming storefront with no sign except small brass letters above the door spelling Emilio’s.
“What is this place?” I ask as the driver opens my door.
“Somewhere private,” Matteo answers, helping me out of the car.
His hand returns to the small of my back, warm through the thin fabric of my top as he guides me toward the door. A man appears out of nowhere to open it for us, nodding deferentially to Matteo without meeting his eye.
Inside, the restaurant is nothing like I expected. No flashy décor, no pretentious modern art, no hushed cathedral-like silence that screams overpriced and underwhelming. The space is intimate and warm, with only twelve tables arranged with enough space between them to ensure privacy.
The booths are upholstered in deep crimson leather, the lighting low but not dim, and soft jazz plays at a volume that enhances rather than competes with conversation.
An older looking man with silver hair and a genuine smile approaches. “Matteo,” he greets warmly, clasping Matteo’s hand and kissing both his cheeks. “It’s been too long, son. How are you?”
“Emilio,” Matteo returns, his voice warmer than I’ve ever heard it. “You’re looking well.”
“And you’ve brought a beautiful guest,” Emilio says, turning to me with a smile that crinkles the corners of his eyes. “Welcome to my place, Miss…?”
“Raven,” I supply, charmed despite myself.
“Miss Raven. A pleasure.” He gestures for us to follow him.
We weave through the restaurant to a corner booth partially concealed by a decorative screen. It’s the best seat in the house—private but with a clear view of the entire restaurant and both exits.
I slide into the booth, and Matteo sits across from me, his back to the wall, gaze briefly scanning the restaurant before settling on me.
Emilio hands me a leather-bound menu with fancy gold letters on the front. It’s so pretty and shiny. I sigh contentedly as I run my fingertips across the engraved lettering.
“Can I start you with something from the bar?” Emilio asks.
Matteo clears his throat. “Is Tony…” he lets the sentence hang unfinished.
Emilio frowns. “Not here yet, son. So once again, what do you want to drink?”
I can’t help giggling at the brusqueness of Emilio’s words, and before I can stop myself, I shoot him a well-deserved finger gun. “You tell him,” I say to the older man, who gives me an approving nod.
“The Barolo,” Matteo says without looking at the wine list. “And water for both of us.”
“Excellent choice.” Emilio nods and withdraws, leaving us alone in our secluded corner.
“So,” I say, unable to contain my curiosity, “not that I don’t appreciate being fed, but what are we doing here? Why are we taking the night off from the Leone Room?”
“We’ll go later,” he replies, his expression unreadable. “But I wanted to be alone with you and show you this place.”
I blink, thrown off balance by this unexpected… what? Date? “I… thank you.”
A server appears with water and wine, going through the ritual of presenting the bottle for Matteo’s approval before pouring. When he leaves, I take a sip of the ruby liquid, surprised by its complexity.
“This is good,” I admit, swirling it in the glass. “Really good.”
“They don’t serve shit wine here,” Matteo says simply, picking up his menu. “I mean, they do buy it. But Emilio refuses to serve it to anyone who’s been here more than once in their life.”
I hide my smile behind my glass, strangely pleased by this glimpse of a different Matteo—one who appreciates fine wine and knows intimate Italian restaurants hidden away in quiet neighborhoods.
