“Elena.” He offers me his hand. His expression’s neutral and for a second I’m convinced I imagined all those dirty texts he sent, because this man is way too cold and serious to write something that hot.
“I—” My words stick in my throat. I’m supposed to be berating him for his text messages. I had a whole speech worked out, but now I can’t remember a single line of it. Those words have vanished into the cool breeze.
Surrendering—for now, because I’m curious as to what this is all about—I place my palm in his and allow him to lead me to my seat. He pours us champagne as the fire crackles, creating a cozy, almost ethereal atmosphere. I’m transported to a magical bubble right in the middle of the city. Another thing that’s in complete contrast to this man.Cozyand Maximo don’t go together at all.
“Thank you for coming.” He sips from his glass.
My attention locks onto him. He’s wearing another Armani suit, perfectly tailored, and he’s tamed his wavy black hair away from his forehead. It’s unfair that he’s this gorgeous. But his words manage to snap me out of my daze.
“I didn’t really have a choice, did I?” I cross my arms, a shield against him. “You do know that what you texted me was highly inappropriate, don’t you?”
He smirks.
I scoff. “That’s sexual harassment. I would never in a million years let you touch me like that. Not if you were the last man on earth and I was the last woman.”
At that, a frown pulls at his lips. “You don’t mean that.”
He glances away, brow furrowed like I’ve actually offended him. I swear I see hurt in his eyes, but I don’t understand why. He doesn’t seem like the kind of man who gets upset over being rejected by a woman. He probably has them lining up to do his bidding. Why does he care what I think?
“Anyway,” I continue, “don’t ever text me like that again. It’s disgusting.” The lie falls from my lips. Did I actually find it disgusting? No. But again, I need to set boundaries—any boundaries.
He glances up at me, looking much too boyish and vulnerable. My heartbeat stammers. Then that broody mask slides into place and he’s once again the frightful mafia man, foreboding and demanding.
“If you’re quite done chastising me, we have important business to discuss.” Setting his champagne aside, he pours himself a glass of cognac.
“We do?” I perk up. Maybe he’ll explain his intentions and let me know when he’ll allow me to go free. Leaving will be much easier if I don’t have to fight with him about it. Saying goodbye to my family is hard enough already. Though, the sooner I can get away from him, and go stay with my sister, the better.
“We should eat first.” He uncovers the tray in front of him and digs into his delicious smelling food.
I do the same with mine, but realize I’m too nervous to have much of an appetite. The tightness in my stomach just won’t let go. Which is too bad since this meal looks and smells divine. He must have ordered from a catering company since this is not something you can get with simple takeout.
Sautéed vegetables, garlic mashed potatoes with chives, and fresh baked bread nestle among the cooked to perfection filet mignon. On the cart beside the table sits a glass display cabinet housing six different decadent desserts. It’s like he brought an entire restaurant to his rooftop.
We eat in awkward silence. Well, he eats, while I mostly push the food around on my plate. I steal a glance at him, and he looks away, pretending like he wasn’t just staring at me. A few seconds later, I catch him doing it again. This time his eyes light with an unexpected softness that makes my stomach flip.
I remain quiet and polite. I’m more of a decoration than a dinner companion—just as Mama taught me to be. Don’t speak unless spoken to; a woman should never have an opinion of her own, much less voice it. Men wish to eat in peace, without inane chatter.
Which is probably why the heroine in my book is both snarky and opinionated, and doesn’t give a damn who she offends. Writing is so cathartic. Sometimes I’m surprised by how much ofmy troubling childhood I process through my story telling. The fact that other people like to read it still shocks me to the core. I’ve come to understand that I’m far from the only person who’s had challenging life experiences. Many others have as well. Which makes me feel not so alone.
Maximo sets down his silverware and leans casually back in his chair. He’s so very put together and well-mannered. A perfect mafia prince, just waiting for his princess. One of those brainwashed young women from Enzo’s party will make him the perfect wife. Probably Francesca.
My stomach sours at the thought and I scowl at my food.
“As you know, I’m now the don of the Pontrelli family—your family, our family. Though coming from Italy, and stepping into this role has not been an easy transition.” He leans forward, bracing his elbows on the table, hands folded. “In order to cement myself in this position, I need to better establish myself within the American branch of the family and in this country.”
I remain silent, listening to wherever he’s going with this speech.
“In short, I need to marry. Soon.”
I glance around at our inappropriately romantic setting and my stomach drops. The candle light, the flowers, the food…
Wait a minute… He’s not actually going to propose tome, is he? That would be ridiculous. We’re second cousins—though no one cares about that here or in Italy. But a ton of other women would kill to be his wife, just not me. We don’t even know each other that well.
To make light of the subject, I say, “Well, Francesca’s willing and ready. Why don’t you jump into one of your sports cars and go off to propose to her?”
Maximo frowns at me, his features tight. “This is a strategic business proposal, Elena. I need you to hear me out.”
All I can do is stare back at him. Horror grips my chest at his intense gaze. He’s serious. This can’t be happening.
