Apparently, shame is no match for Mario Conti’s hand on my spine.
“Come,” he says. “Dinner is ready.”
Dinner.
Oh God.
Like normal people.
I thought we were just coming back here to... well, fuck.
But dinner? I don't know if I can do this.
I let him lead me through the house.
The dining room is already set. Not formally, exactly, but beautifully. Two places at the end of a long table, candles lit between them, a bottle of red wine breathing beside the glasses. There is food arranged in covered dishes on a sideboard, steam curling up when Mario lifts one of the lids.
My stomach chooses that moment to remind me that I have not eaten since lunch.
Of course, he hears it.
His gaze shifts to me, and his mouth curves again, doing unspeakable things to my nerves. Damn it.
“Sit.”
I give him a look.
He gives me one back.
I sit.
Mostly because I am hungry.
Partly because the man is impossible.
He pours wine first, the deep red catching the candlelight as it fills my glass. Then he serves dinner as if it is the most ordinary thing in the world. Pasta in a rich sauce, roasted vegetables, tender slices of meat I do not ask too many questions about because I am too busy trying not to look overly impressed.
It is excellent.
Of course it is.
Everything about Mario’s life seems designed to make my standards impossible.
We eat.
At first, it is strange.
Not awkward exactly. Just unfamiliar. This is not my apartment with takeout containers and exhaustion blurring my mind too much to think about it. This is his house. His table. His space. A space that tells me pieces of him I am not sure he intended to reveal.
He asks about work, but not too much.
I tell him about Ainsley’s payroll findings, Benjamin’s vendor summaries, Lorenzo’s help with department escalation, and all the other little things that go into an audit like this.
Mario listens, occasionally asking questions that are too sharp and too useful.
Then the conversation shifts.
Florence. Naples. Chicago winters. My first office, which was so small I could reach the printer and the doorknob without leaving my chair. His first acquisition, which he describes with enough restraint that I know the real story probably involves a lot more than he's saying.
