He taps his index finger twice, his hand looking thicker than I remember, veins stretching on the back of his hand and disappearing under the rolled cuff of his shirt.
I try to look away, but he’s right in front of me, his presence seizing my entire attention. His black slacks contrast against the white drape as he taps his fingers on the table again, right in front of my plate of unfinished gnocchi.
“Why, hello, stranger. Long time no see.”
I stab my fork into the gnocchi but don’t bring anything to my mouth as I crane my head back to look at him.
His face definitely looks older now, having lost all the boyish traits that still lingered in his features four years ago. He looks positively menacing.
Not to me, but in general.
Yulian used to have a quiet type of beauty, even if his presence was loud as hell. Now, even his looks are striking.
In an extremely uncomfortable way.
His lips curl into a grin as soon as our eyes meet. “There you are. I thought you’d act like you didn’t see me.”
“And you are…?” I tilt my head to the side, pretending I’m trying to remember him.
His grin falters but doesn’t drop as he lifts his hand to my face. The moment his fingers graze my ear, I shove him away and jerk back, sending my chair flying.
A clatter sounds as my plate falls to the floor, the gnocchi splashing all over the tiles.
The incident stuns the whole restaurant into pressing silence.
A waiter and Donatelli rush in our direction. My chair is straightened, and the plate is scooped up in an unsettling gloom, the patrons barely moving, their utensils frozen in place.
I catch my breath, my hand flexing in the direction of my gun, but I can tell everyone’s uneasy. The crime families in NYC know of the feud between us and the Chicago mafia.
The two heirs fighting it out during a restaurant opening is about the worst thing that could happen tonight.
That’s probably why Donatelli’s sweating, his lips thin and pale as he asks with a hint of an Italian accent that apparently slips through when he’s nervous, “Gentlemen, is there a problem?”
“None at all.” Yulian’s grinning wider now as he throws an arm around my shoulders so that our sides are flush. “We’re catching up as old friends.”
My body locks in, trapped in a fight-or-flight response, and I want to punch Yulian in the face, but I don’t, because I’m not here to ruin my parents’ reputation.
I elbow him, though, and he groans and subtly releases me as Donatelli nods and asks a waiter to hurry and clean up the mess.
As the staff and Donatelli retreat, Yulian and I continue the glaring game—or I do, because the harder I glare, the wider he grins.
I flop back into my seat, and he takes Danika’s, sitting in that nonchalant way, his arm flung over the back of the chair, his legs so extended that his shoes touch mine.
Subtly, I slide my feet back.
“What on earth do you think you’re doing?” I speak low so the other tables don’t hear. “Leave, Yulian.”
“So you do remember my name. I was so wounded, I was going to cry.”
“Go. Away.”
“Wow, rude. Is this the type of welcome you New Yorkers offer?”
“I asked you to go.”
“I didn’t come all the way here just to go.”
“Then why are you here?”
