"Would you like me to blow it up?"
Marco laughed, and the sound rolled through me, soothing a bit of my irritation, which only made me despise him more.
"I do always enjoy a good explosion."
"Goodbye, Marco." I hung up.
I opened the file I'd started on him. There was barely any information. Marco "The Devil" Torrino was thirty-two, eleven years older than me, born to an Italian father and Hispanic mother. Both died in an unsolved car crash when he was eighteen.
From what I could find he'd been running their branches in the States and Italy flawlessly ever since. He was charming, had the logic to twist and use my own words against me, and was determined, observant, and ruthless.
I didn't want to go to dinner with him. I'd done so with mafia heads before only for them to try to get in my pants, or offer a 'deal' which would cost me my familia.
Unfortunately, Marco, thus far, was unlike anyone else I'd ever met. He never reacted the way I expected him to, and could guess my next move before I'd made it.
Our alliance might put us on common ground for now, but he was still, and would always be, my enemy. Which meant his ability to read me was incredibly dangerous.
But that wasn't the only reason I was afraid. While I wasn't under my father's thumb anymore, I was still scared of being seen, of my mask falling away and revealing just how weak I truly was.
The brick walls I'd built around myself kept me safe, and Marco's ability to view me through them was intrusive. Like he was breaking me down little by little, making his way inside, through vulnerabilities I didn't even know I had. And that made our little 'partnership' incredibly one sided.
I had to go to this dinner to learn about him, to understand the man underneath, and peer into him in the same way he did into me. Which meant I had to check my prejudices about men, abouthimat the door. That's the only way I'd learn who I was in bed with.
It would not be because I was curious about him, or because—as much as he annoyed me—I enjoyed our banter and how he kept me on my toes. It would not be because a part of me loved the attention, or that no matter how much I pushed him away, he always came back for more.
No, it wouldn't be for any of that at all.
The restaurant glowed softlyunder the streetlights. The evening air was crisp, and I was grateful for the chill. It helped calm my nerves.
Marco stood at the entrance, waiting for me. His black suit fit him perfectly, with the collar and first button undone.
My eyes fell to the little expanse of his chest, drawn in by the tattoos I could only see the tips of when his shirt was fully buttoned. A single strand of hair blew against his cheek and I had the strangest impulse to brush it away.
It's just the atmosphere. Nothing else.
Marco's smile softened his face. He looked pleased, as though he thought I might have stood him up. It made him seem younger, boyish almost, even with his neatly trimmed beard. It was an odd contrast to the infuriatingly confident man he'd showed me thus far, and it made me more amenable to him.
His hand came to my back as he reached beside me to open the door, and I tried to ignore how large it was, how his warmth seeped through my silk blouse.
The restaurant was just as beautiful as I imagined it would be with large arches, curved windows, and a glass ceiling that made the interior blend seamlessly into the outside world. Yet it was also intimate, decorated with tall white pillar candles, fresh flowers, and dim lighting coming from the chandeliers.
The hostess led us to a table and the entire time, Marco never moved his hand from my back, nor did he once fall out of step at my side.
It should have been awkward, but it felt strangely natural.
When we arrived at our table, Marco pulled out my chair.
"Thank you."
"You're welcome." He pushed in my seat as I sat, then took his own across from me.
"Would you like some wine?" Marco motioned to the list.
One glass technically couldn't hurt, and it would be out of my system by the time we left.
"All right."
His lip tipped at the corner, showing a hint of his dimples. "Do you prefer red or white?"
