It has been a week since the disaster at the Salvatore compound, and Dante has been wound tighter than a spring ever since. He moves through the house like a storm cloud, all sharp edges and barely controlled tension, snapping at phone calls and grinding his jaw through meetings with Frank Lucas that apparently are not going well. Even Gabriel has been giving him space, which tells me exactly how volatile Dante's mood is.
But tonight, sitting at the formal dining table with all three of them while some chef Dante hired makes an elaborate Italian dinner, Luca apparently decides that what Dante needs is not space.
What he needs is to be fucked with.
And judging by the wicked gleam in Luca's eyes, he has decided I am going to help.
"This is delicious," Luca says, taking a bite of whatever pasta course we are on—I have lost count. "Really incredible. Do you not think so, Rosalina?"
There is something in the way he says my full name, slow and deliberate, that makes me look up from my plate.
He is watching me with barely concealed amusement, and then his foot brushes against mine under the table.
Oh.
Oh, we are doing this.
I glance at Dante, who is sitting at the head of the table looking like he might put his fist through something, his jaw clenched so tight I can see the muscle jumping.
Then I look back at Luca and smile sweetly.
"It is good," I agree. "Though I think the sauce could use more garlic, don't you, Luca?"
"Definitely more garlic," Luca says seriously, his foot sliding higher along my calf. "Dante, you should tell the chef. Rosalina has very refined taste."
Dante's eyes narrow fractionally. "Does she?"
"Oh yes," Luca continues, and I can hear the laughter threatening in his voice. "Very particular about what she likes. She is not afraid to ask for exactly what she wants, are you, Lina?"
I press my lips together to keep from smiling. "I have learned that being direct gets better results."
"Direct," Dante repeats, his voice flat. "Right."
Gabriel, sitting to Dante's left, is watching this exchange with poorly concealed amusement, his eyes flicking between the three of us like he is watching a tennis match.
"Speaking of being direct," I say, reaching for my wine glass, "Luca, did you ever return that hoodie I borrowed?"
"You mean the one you stole?"
"Borrowed. Without asking. Temporarily."
"You have had it for three weeks, Fiorella."
"Exactly. Temporarily."
Dante sets down his fork with more force than necessary. "Are you two finished?"
"Finished with what?" Luca asks innocently.
"Whatever this is." Dante gestures between us with a wave of his hand.
"We are just having a conversation," I say, blinking at him with exaggerated innocence. "Is that not allowed at dinner?"
"You are trying to annoy me."
"Are we succeeding?" Luca asks.
Dante's eyes flash dangerously, and for a moment I think maybe we have pushed too far, maybe this was a terrible idea and Dante is about to actually lose his temper.
