“Oh.” A bit of the darkness seeps in. I’ve been enjoying being with Sandro so much, I haven’t wanted to think about my father.
“I told you about his stipulation about having a relationship with you. The thing is… he wants to be at the wedding.”
I sigh. “The wedding we’re having in three weeks. Not much time to decide.”
“I know.” He rubs my arm. “Do you think you could at least meet with him? See what your impression of him is?”
I frown. “You met him. What was your impression?”
“Honestly, besides being a cold-blooded killer, I don’t think he’s a bad guy.”
“Sandro!” I squeal and then begin to laugh, easing the tension in my body. I groan. “I just wish I knew what my mother would say. I feel like I’m betraying her.”
“If it makes you feel any better, he did tell me that he loved your mother.”
“Really?” I search his face. “And you believe him?”
“I do.”
I grin. “Say that again.”
Sandro puffs out a laugh and leans in to press his mouth to mine. “I do,” he whispers. He pulls me tighter to his body and deepens the kiss. He tastes like coffee and my future.
Peaches chirps in protest at the jostling and slides down the pillow to curl up at the bottom of the bed.
When we come up for air, and in my total mind-bending bliss I say, “Okay, fine. I’ll meet him. He has to come here, though.”
***
Three days later we’re having dinner with my father. Killian agreed to come to be a buffer. I decided Sully should come too, since he’ll be staying in Tampa and working with Sandro.
Rosalia’s is a five-star Bayfront Italian restaurant that’s been owned by Sandro’s family for fifty years. Tonight it’s closed, its tables empty, reserved for the meeting with my father.
Sandro and I arrive first. He holds my hand as we cross the polished, dark wood floors to the round table with lit candles.
A man approaches us, a waiter trailing behind him. “Buona sera,Don LaRocca.”
Sandro shakes his hand. “Speriamo che sia una bella serata.”Then he turns to me. “Chef Valenti, this is my fiancé Lennon Kelly.”
“Ah,congratulazioni,”he says to Sandro then bows dramatically to me. “Miss Lennon,it is an honor.”
I’m not sure how to handle someone bowing to me, so I just mumble an awkward, “thank you.”
Luckily he turns his attention back to Sandro and pointing to the waiter, he says, “Mario will bring out some appetizers when your guests arrive. Meanwhile, what can he get you to drink?”
Sandro slides out a chair for me. “Bring us a couple of bottles of theConterno Monfortinoto start.”
“Excellent choice.” He nods to the waiter, who scurries off.
I glance around the restaurant as Sandro takes a seat beside me. The whole place is decorated in dark wood and forest green paint. There are framed photos of people on the walls, and behind the bar are mounted wine bottle racks with hundreds of bottles. The lighting is a few sconces on the wall. It’s cozy and intimate and very old Italy.
“Are you nervous?” Sandro asks, watching me closely.
I check in. “More wary, I guess. And curious.”
He places a protective hand on my knee. “If it gets too uncomfortable and you want to leave, just say the word.”
Just then Big Tony opens the door and lets in Killian and Sully. They’re both wearing black slacks and black button-down shirts with the sleeves rolled up. Killian has added a white tie and Sully’s shirt is unbuttoned, a thick gold chain visible over a tattoo running up the side of his thick neck. They’re debating something, but it seems friendly as they approach the table and shake Sandro’s hand.
