One who might possibly be taking me on an actual date.
The thought makes my pulse quicken in a way that has everything to do with the way the light catches the angles of his face, softening the scars and highlighting the intensity of his gaze when it lands on me.
Wait a minute. Am I excited about a date with Matteo Russo? The same man who’s making me dance like a puppet on a string just because I temporarilyborrowedhis lighter?
Pin that thought. Pin it deep.
“See anything you like?” Matteo asks, and I realize I’ve been staring at him instead of my menu.
“I haven’t decided yet,” I answer, the words carrying more weight than I intended.
The server materializes the second I decide, and I can’t help snorting at the way it seems like he reads my thoughts. Wouldn’t that be something.
After we’ve ordered, he takes our pretty menus, and for a few beats, we’re left with nothing but the clink of glassware andthe quiet hum of jazz. I trace the rim of my wineglass with a fingertip.
This shouldn’t feel easy. It should feel like a trap—another test, another reminder that every freedom I have is on loan from him. But Matteo’s attention isn’t the sharp, dissecting kind right now. It’s steady, watchful, the kind that warms instead of cuts.
Out of nowhere, his words from this morning slither into my mind.“I love you.”Is that why we’re here? Why he’s taking me on a date? Wait… holy shit. Are we already in arealrelationship and I was too slow at picking up on the clues?
Matteo asking me about previous jobs pulls me out of my thoughts, and I almost drop my guard completely at the normalcy of it.
“You know,” I say, tapping my fingers against the table. “I miss my French dog food client.”
“Oh, yeah?” he asks, arching an eyebrow.
“Yep,” I confirm, popping the P.
I tell him about my old client who was very adamant there are millions to be made by rebranding a dog food company as a luxury lifestyle. And when I pull my phone out to show Matteo pictures of the product mockups, he laughs—reallylaughs—and something in my chest loosens.
The conversation drifts from work to travel, somewhere, Emilio returns with two slices of steaming pizza on a wooden board. The smell of basil and roasted tomatoes fills the space between us.
I take a slice, biting into it just to prove I can. The cheese stretches, molten and perfect, and I almost moan when the plentiful flavors all hit my tongue simultaneously.
“You can admit it,” Matteo says smugly while picking up his own slice. “It’s the best pizza you’ve ever had, right?”
I take my time chewing and wash the slice down with more of that heavenly wine. “It’s alright,” I reply coyly. “For a pizza with pineapple on it, it is surprisingly good.”
He scoffs. “Fucking hell, don’t tell me you’re one ofthosepeople.”
While we get into a heated debate about whether pineapple belongs on pizza or not, our plates get cleared and the main course served.
“No, absolutely not,” I declare, pointing my fork at Matteo like a weapon. “You cannot possibly think pineapple belongs on pizza. That’s grounds for immediate relationship termination, fake or otherwise.” The words tumble out easily.
His gray eye crinkles at the corner, and I realize with a jolt that I’m actually enjoying myself—enjoying him—in a way that has nothing to do with our arrangement and everything to do with the man across the table.
“It’s fruit and cheese,” Matteo counters, cutting into his veal with surgical precision. “People eat that together all the time.”
“On charcuterie boards, not on perfectly innocent pizzas that never hurt anyone.” I take a bite of my pasta, closing my eyes at the explosion of flavor. “God, this is incredible.”
“Told you.” There’s something almost smug in his tone, like he’s personally responsible for the perfection of my tagliatelle.
I twirl another forkful, watching him through my lashes. “Let me guess, you own this place too?”
“No,” he says, surprising me. “But Emilio was a friend of my father’s. I’ve been coming here since I was a kid.”
The image of tiny Matteo sitting in this same booth, feet dangling above the floor, is so incongruous with the dangerous man before me that it makes me pause mid-bite.
It’s easy to forget he wasn’t born with a knife in his hand and blood on his knuckles. That somewhere in his past is a child who hadn’t yet learned to kill.
