Her head snaps up. “Say that again.”
I stare at her, and for the first time in my life, I follow the command of a civilian. “You look beautiful.”
Her lips pull wide, curling upward as she gives me quite possibly the brightest smile I’ve ever seen. Genuine and full of warmth, this girl is nothing like my original intended. Isabela Ariotti had been beautiful like an ice sculpture. She had known the score, understood what she could and could not expect from me.
Daisy Turner—now La Rosa—is beautiful in a way that melts all the ice inside my chest into water.
“You mean it,” she says, beaming. “I can tell.” Then, before I can say anything, she’s off again. “Okay, I’m getting this dress, then. Will you tell the sales lady if you see her that she can put the rest back?”
My jaw drops as Daisy bounces toward the back of the small boutique where the employee from earlier is still standing, hands latched on to the edge of the counter with a white-knuckled grip. It’s not the employee who captures my attention though. It’s my fucking wife. More importantly, it’s the back of her skirt that flies up to reveal more skin. Those fucking thighs are going to be the death of me.
8
DAISY
To-Do List:Impress a mafia boss. Don’t die.
Don Luciani is an older gentleman with the air of someone who has lived a long, tough life. His shoulders are slightly hunched with age, but I get the sense that he was a tall man in his prime. Dante sits next to him as we approach the table, but he lifts his head when he spies us and raises a hand in greeting.
Even though it was warm outside, the dining room of Madison Park is full of the icy waft of air conditioning. My attention strays to the man standing to the side of the table where Don Luciani sits. His back is straight and his expression placid, though I do note that his eyes hold a bit of haughty annoyance when he glances over me. I’m thankful, now, that Giulio took me shopping before coming here. Madison Park is a ritzy establishment. Even nicer than most of the places I’ve worked temp jobs at.
Thinking of my husband has me pulling my gaze away from the strange, dour-faced man standing behind the Don. My eyes snag on the thick stretch of tan forearm revealed by the rolled-up sleeves of Giulio’s black button-down. God, I amsucha slut for masculine forearms. I feel like a Victorian man ready to scream “show me your ankles” at the top of my lungs as Giulio drops his suit coat on the back of one chair and moves to pull another out for me. The muscles in his forearms contract, and his veins bulge against his skin with the action.
You’re drooling, Mean Daisy says as she steps out of the shadows of my head and hops up on a barstool that appears out of nowhere.Might want to mop that up.
Am I? As discreetly as I can manage, I reach up and brush the back of my hand against my lips as I circle the chair that Giulio has pulled out for me. When my skin comes away dry, I give her a baleful glare.Go away!I snap.
As I take my seat, I glance around, realizing that there’s no one else in the restaurant. Not counting the servers and maître d’ moving casually about the table as they pour water and offer hot hand towels, we’re the only people here.
Where the fuck is everybody?
Maybe they’re giving you a last meal before they off you.
I repress the urge to roll my eyes and let loose a low, agonized groan. It’s a shame it’s not possible to bitch-slap myself—at least, not without looking a little nuts.
Giulio casually brushes a tendril of hair over my shoulder with one hand as he takes his seat next to me, his fingers grazing the skin of my shoulder and arm bared by the cut of the dress I’m now wearing. Despite the inches that separate us, Iswear to God above and Satan below that I can feel the heat of him all the way down to my bones. The electric shock of his touch is enough to send those annoying butterflies in my lower belly fluttering.
Stop it, I order them.He’s still a bad man—even if he does have sexy forearms.
You know what they say about dating bad boys, Mean Daisy comments.They fuck you like they need a place to stay.
I don’t remind her that, according to the rock on my finger, we’re far past the dating stage, or that I suspect Giulio hasn’t needed to worry about where he stays in a long damn time. Instead, I force the peanut gallery back into her cage and flip the lock. It’s best-behavior time, and that means not letting myself get roped into a mental sparring match with someone who doesn’t exist.
I totally exist, bitch!
Nope. Shove it down, Daisy. Lock, meet key. I shove a tarp over the cage. Muffled screaming echoes throughout my head, but I paste on a smile and ignore the annoying sound as I reach for my menu as well.
“Love the dress, sweetheart,” Dante says, a grin on his face. “It’s from one of those boutiques downtown, isn’t it? Which one was it…”
Before I can thank him for the compliment, Giulio leans forward and growls, “Don’t start, Dante.”
Dante’s response is a low, vibrating chuckle. If I wasn’t already dealing with Giulio’s sexy, masculine presence at my side, that sound might make my pussy clench. Unfortunately for Dante, though, once my lady bits have set their sights onsomeone, they won’t be dissuaded by another pretty face until we’ve either managed to convince ourselves that we’re not interested or the man does something to ruin the attraction.
“Feeling a bit possessive of your new bride, G?” Dante asks as he reaches for a glass of water. “I was just giving her a compliment.”
“You know what you’re doing,” Giulio replies.
“That’s enough bickering, sons,” Don Luciani says, speaking for the first time. He turns to Giulio and arches one bushy, silver brow. “Now, introduce me to your bride, Giulio.”
