At eight fifty, I decide I'm late enough to have made my point. If I delay any longer, Gianni will probably come up and drag me to dinner.
I make my way down to the dining room, where Damiano is standing by the window, his back to me. His body language radiates tension. He turns when I enter. As always, he looks incredible in a charcoal gray suit, white shirt and black tie. For once, he isn't wearing a vest. I sort of miss it.
He holds my gaze for a moment. "I saw what happened in the club."
"What do you mean?"
"Vittorio Bardi." His voice is too calm, as if he's making an effort to control himself. "He touched you. It won't happen again."
I go still. "You were watching?" Suspecting it was one thing, having it confirmed is another.
His eyes meet mine and a shudder goes through me. "Always."
He crosses the room, brushing past me, and pulls out a chair on the left side for me. He, of course, will sit at the head As I sit, he bends low to murmur in my ear.
"You look. beautiful, Violetta."
"Thank you." I study him as he takes his seat. "You look tired."
He doesn't deny it. "I've had a few busy days."
"How was Olivia's wedding?" I've been dying for details. "Did she go through with it?"
"Of course," he says as if it was a foregone conclusion. Given Olivia's obvious reluctance, I wouldn't have bet on it. I guess yielding to the demands of the men around them is what women do in this world. They push for autonomy but ultimately do as they're told. I balk at the thought of becoming like that.
"Was the wedding nice?" I ask as I settle in my seat.
"Definenice."
"Pretty flowers, good music, delicious food, pleasant company."
He nods. "In that case it was nice."
He pours us each a glass of wine without checking whether I want one. It's churlish of me to bristle at this since I'd have accepted if he asked. The Barolo is one of the more expensive vintages we sell at the club. It's not something I ever expected to try. I taste it immediately, loving the combination of rich cherry flavor and earthier tones.
"Was it a good flight from New York?" I ask when Damiano doesn't speak for a long time.
"Yes, but we didn't come from New York. We stopped in Paris for business first."
"Oh, I'd love to visit Paris."
"You've never been?" he asks as Lina brings in the antipasti, laying the plates in front of us.
It's figs wrapped in prosciutto with a drizzle of honey. In the short time I've been at Damiano's house, I've sampled some of the finest food I've ever tasted.
"Uh, no. I've never been to Paris." My mother couldn't afford holidays when I was growing up. "My friends and I went to Ibiza once."
Considering this man jets around the world at the drop of a hat, I realize how pathetic that sounds.
Damiano doesn't ask any follow-up questions. Obviously he doesn't feel the need to make polite conversation. Silence sits more easily with him than it does with me.
Ignoring the awkwardness in the room, I concentrate on eating, enjoying the interplay of sweet and salty in the dish.
When we're both finished, Lina comes and clears the plates, returning moments later with shallow bowls filled with Rigatoni all'Amatriciana. The sauce is rich and fragrant and when I take my first bite I realize just how hungry I am.
"Paolo isn't working at the club anymore." I attempt to make conversation again.
"No."
