“I can’t,” I whisper.
His control shatters.
He crushes his mouth to mine, and he isn’t soft or tentative or sweet. His fingers tangle in my hair, dislodging pins. My carefully constructed armor falls away strand by strand. He hasme exactly where he wants me. I gasp and he takes advantage, his tongue sliding past my lips.
I fist my hands in his shirt and pull him closer.
I should be afraid. He’s a killer holding me close in a darkened booth, kissing me like he owns me. Heat floods through me, wild and reckless.
My teeth catch his lower lip, hard enough to sting. He groans, and the sound travels swiftly through me. His hand slides to my waist, dragging me across his thighs. I’m in his lap now, pressed against him, and I can feel every hard plane of his body through the thin fabric of my dress.
“Christ,” he breathes against my mouth. “What are you doing to me?”
My lips ache to be pressed against his, and so I kiss him again. The metal lattice barely hides us, but I don’t care. Let them see. Let Damiano report back to his father what his sister’s best friend is doing in public. Let the whole restaurant watch. Nothing exists except Vincenzo’s mouth on mine and his hands gripping me like I might disappear if he lets go.
Two broken people clinging to each other in the wreckage of an engagement that was shattered before it could begin.
“Ahem.”
We spring apart like guilty teenagers.
The waiter stands beside our table, polite smile fixed in place, pretending he didn’t just see us making out.
“Are you ready to order?”
I can feel my face burning. My hair is half down, pins scattered across the table. We’re both breathing hard. Vincenzo’s eyes are wild, unfocused, and my lipstick is smeared across his mouth. Marking him.
We look thoroughly debauched.
“Yes,” Vincenzo says smoothly, helping me off his lap. “We’ll have…”
He glances at the menu he hasn’t looked at once since we sat down.
“The pasta,” I blurt out. “And whatever else you recommend.”
The waiter nods, professional to his core, and retreats.
The moment he’s gone, awkward silence descends.
I move back to my side of the booth, trying to restore some semblance of dignity. My hands shake as I attempt to fix my hair, shoving pins back in at random.
Vincenzo watches me, his expression unreadable as he dabs at the lipstick on his mouth.
We don’t speak. I scramble for something to say to break the tension, but words fail me.
The waiter changes our tablecloth and brings me a fresh glass of wine. Our food arrives, pasta with some kind of sauce. It could be sawdust for all I taste. I pick at it mechanically, stealing glances at Vincenzo across the table. He does the same, our eyes meeting and skittering away again.
My clutch sits beside me. The poison is still there.
But Vincenzo just apologized to me. He held me while I fell apart, and kissed me like I’m precious instead of disposable.
How am I supposed to kill a man who treats me like I’m worth something?
I don’t know which version of him is real, the monster who ripped apart my photograph and wants me dead, or the man who apologized for hurting me and kissed me like I’m someone to be cherished.
I stab at my pasta and avoid his eyes.
Vincenzo’s kiss burns on my lips.
