by Callie Hart
“A simple one.”
“How many of these people in here are murderers? How many of them are criminals?”
“Nearly all of them are criminals. I doubt there’s more than two or three actual murderers, though.”
It’s hard to see if she’s gone pale, but I’m getting the impression all the blood has rushed from her face, relocating itself somewhere in the region of those killer heels she’s wearing. “Don’t panic. No one’s going to murder you for eating dinner here.”
She closes her eyes, mumbling under her breath. “God, I can’t believe this is happening.”
“You’re making a big deal out of nothing. This is a restaurant. They serve good food. The owners are charming, so long as you don’t steal from them, and everyone gets along like a house on fire.” I neglect to tell her about the time the restaurant was actually set on fire. I don’t think that information will serve my cause very well.
“We could have gone anywhere. There are literally thousands of amazing places to eat in this city, and you bring me here. And…you gave your name at the door. That guy just let you in, like he knew exactly who you were. What the fuck was that about?”
“He knows who I am. He knows I work for the owners of this place every once in a while.”
Sasha goes quiet. She picks up her butter knife and spins it over and over in her hand, staring at the dull blade like it holds answers to questions she hasn’t even thought of yet.
“Ask me,” I tell her. She won’t look at me. “Ask me the question. Ask me what I do for them.”
“I don’t want to know.”
“Yes, you do.”
“I really don’t.”
“I steal cars. I sometimes drive a car from one point to another, and I don’t ask questions about the why, the who, or the where. Do I beat people up? No. Not for money. Do I kill people? No. Am I good at what I do? Yes, I most definitely am. How does this sideline of business affect the fact that I want to date you? It doesn’t. I’ll never involve you in anything illegal. I’ll never put you in a compromising position.”
“Apart from this one? Apart from this incredibly compromising position?”
“Dinner?” I take a look around. “These people are just enjoying their meals, Sasha. There are no underhanded deals taking place. You’re not meeting anyone to discuss state secrets. No one is being garroted at their table, God Father style.”
This is a lot to lay on her right now. I could do this another time, but it seems that showing my hand right now is for the best. To hide this from her, knowing how far I want to take this, would be dishonest, and dishonesty doesn’t feature amongst my many faults. At least not where the woman I want to forge a relationship with is concerned. The police, my family, most of my friends—they’re lied to on the regular.
“This is insane,” Sasha whispers. “I can’t believe this is happening.” She bows her head, gaze locked on the table, as if making eye contact with anyone else in the room could lead to fatalities. I suppose it might, but it’s highly unlikely.
“You want to go.”
She gives me a sideways scowl. “How would we be able to get up and walk out of here now, without eating our food? It will look suspicious. That would be worse than staying and eating.”
“You’re being ridiculous. However, if that’s the case and you want to stay, you should relax and enjoy the wine. It’s really fucking good.”
“You know a lot about wine do you?”
She’s in full spitfire mode right now. She cocks her head to one side, fixing me in a hostile stare. I can’t really blame her for being mad at me. She probably wants to chew me out for admitting to what I do to supplement my income, but she’s a smart woman. We’re in the viper’s den. Shouting at me for working for the Barbieri family would be supremely ill advised when sitting in the Barbieri family’s restaurant. So this is it: she’s going to rail against anything else I say to demonstrate how utterly pissed off she is with me. I sigh, putting down my glass.
“I know enough to know what tastes good and what doesn’t. Am I not supposed to know anything about wine because I’m just a kid?”
“You’re barely old enough to drink.”
“I’m nearly twenty-four, Sasha.”
Two waiters arrive, brandishing plates under cloches, white cloths folded over their arms. Our conversation grinds to a halt as they serve us our food and top up the wine. As soon as they’re gone, I plant my elbows on the table and lean closer to Sasha, talking in hushed tones.
“You think the amount of days I’ve been alive on this planet has any real bearing on how well I can fuck you? You think the date on my driver’s license means I won’t be able to make you come? That I won’t be able to love you? That I won’t be able to make you happy? If that’s the case, then you are the child here, not me. You’re clinging to this age bullshit like it’s a life raft that’s saving you from drowning, Sasha, when it’s the only thing dragging you under. This moment, here, right now…this is the only time when our ages will ever really matter. You’re eleven years older than me. Accept it. Let it go. You’re fighting an unstoppable force, Sasha. I’m growing impatient…and I do very, very rash things when I grow impatient.”
“A very mature response.”
I take another sip of wine, enjoying the texture of the liquid in my mouth. “I’m going to take you across my knee and spank you soon. Is that what you want? In front of all these people?”
“You wouldn’t fucking dare.”
“Oh, I really fucking would. And no one here would mind watching, I assure you.”
She bristles like a scalded cat. “This bravado thing really is a little crazy. If you’re trying to impress me with how manly and domineering you are, it’s not working. I can see right through the charade.”
I smile. I smile like a man who knows something. I smile like a man who’s just been issued with a challenge. When I don’t say anything, Sasha fidgets in her seat, frowning. She picks up her fork and points it at me, stabbing it in my direction. “I’m not playing, Rooke.”
“Neither am I, Sasha. Neither am I.”
We eat in what some might call tense silence for the next fifteen minutes. I don’t find the break in conversation uncomfortable, though. I find it highly entertaining, especially since Sasha looks so goddamn hot with all of that blood flushing her cheeks. The way she stabs her steak onto her fork is admirable. I think she could probably defend herself reasonably well in a street brawl by virtue of sheer viciousness. I’m on the verge of speaking when another waiter approaches the table. Only when he reaches us, it’s not a waiter at all, but Roberto Barbieri, head of the Barbieri family himself. Overly thin and overly tall, the guy has always reminded me of a caricature—an exaggerated version of what an Italian mob boss might look like if he were a villain in a graphic novel. And yet here he is, in the flesh, larger than life. He gives me a toothy grin, folding his hands in front of his stomach as he looks down at our half-finished meals.
“Ah! The steak. Yes, we do a good steak. It’s wonderful to see you, Rooke. I was beginning to think you’d never bring anyone here to revel in our company. All of my other…friends…make good use of this place as often as they can. You, on the other hand…”
I return his tight-lipped smile. “Don’t take it personally. I just don’t have that many friends.”
“Come now. I don’t believe that for a second.”
“No, it’s true. It’s his grating personality,” Sasha says. “No one can tolerate being around him for more than five minutes at a time.”
I can’t help myself; I laugh out loud. She must know this guy is no joke. Who else would saunter up to a table and start talking to guests in a place like this? Especially in a place like this. And he knows my name… He can only be the boss.
Looks like Sasha Connor is angry enough at me to risk baiting me in front of the most dangerous of men after all. She’s a fucking keeper. Roberto smirks at her, nodding his head, amused by her tone. “But you’re
made of sterner stuff, I see. You’ve been sitting here with him for at least an hour. It can only be love.”
“This is our first date actually. It’s definitely not love.”
“And yet when you look at him, I see fire in your eyes.”
“It might look like fire, but I assure you it’s closer to hatred at this point.”
Roberto shrugs nonchalantly. “If it burns, mi’ amore…it burns.”
THIRTEEN
DISASTER
SASHA
Dessert is probably the most perfect panna cotta ever created and yet it tastes like sawdust in my mouth. I swallow down a few bites, and then I discard my spoon, pushing the ramekin away.
“That’s sacrilege,” Rooke says. He, of course, polished his dessert off in record time.
“I’m not hungry.”
“Hold out your hand.”
“Pardon me?”
“You heard me. Hold out your hand.” He places his own hand face up on the table, reaching for me. I stare at it for a moment. Why should I do what he’s asking me? Why should I play along with this game? It’s a reckless game, one that could get me incomprehensibly hurt. The very last thing I should do is give him my hand, but I’m tired and the alcohol in my veins is telling me to just give in for a second. It’s only a second. How much damage can be done in a second? And we’re in a room full of people, besides. It’s not as if holding his hand is going to lead to raw, animalistic sex on the table.
I place my hand in his. As soon as our skin makes contact, I realize my mistake. Even in my slightly drunken, numbed state, I can feel the electricity zipping between us. The connection is undeniable. His fingers thread with mine, entangling themselves, and I can feel my resistance faltering. Even after what he’s told me this evening, I’m softening toward him, losing myself a little. Without really thinking, I close my own fingers around his, returning the pressure.
“We fit well together,” Rooke observes. “I think the rest of us will fit well together, too.”
“Rooke, I’m not sleeping with you…”
“Why not? Don’t you like fun?”
“I like fun. I love fun. Sex isn’t just fun to me, though. It’s a commitment you make. With your body.”
“Are you super religious?”
“No. I’m just not careless with my body. It has value. If I went around, giving it to everybody, it would mean less and less each time.”
He strokes his thumb up and down my curled index finger, and a rush of adrenaline surges through me. It’s really crazy how he makes my head spin. “Okay, then. I can understand why you’d feel like that, even though I don’t agree with you. But I am willing to propose a solution to this problem.”
“Which is?”
“A proposal.”
“I get that. But what is it?”
“The normal kind,” he answers. “A proposal of marriage.”
“Marr—” I can’t even finish the word. He can’t be fucking serious. He cannot be serious. Can he? He looks like he is. I try to scoot my way out of the circular booth, going the long way to avoid him, but he still has hold of my hand and he won’t let go.
“Where are you going?” he asks calmly.
“Away from you. You’re a madman.”
“All right, all right. Slow the fuck down. I was joking.”
I don’t slow down though. I rip myself free of him and I throw my napkin down on the table. I make an entirely graceless exit from the booth, leaving Rooke behind to pay for the meal. He’s the one who brought me to this godforsaken place to begin with, so I don’t feel in the slightest bit bad about making him fork over the cash for dinner.
I leave the dining area, exiting through the same doorway we came in through, and I find myself back in the darkened corridor. I’m not paying attention to where I’m going. I hurry blindly toward the exit, pushing through a doorway marked by a glowing blue neon cross…
…and I come to a grinding halt.
My mistake is instantly obvious.
Bodies…
There are bodies everywhere, naked, clothes scattered on the floor. The room is filled with a wash of white-blue light that highlights the curve of bare breast here, the arch of a strong, muscular back there. The scene before me is like nothing I have ever witnessed before. I stand frozen, my heart a clenched fist, risen up into my throat. A man turns around and faces me, and I do my best to meet his eyes. It’s hard, though… his dick is hard, and he’s pointing it right at me.
“If you’re coming in, bella, close the door behind you.”
“Uh—I—I’m not—”
“She’s not coming in, I’m afraid. She can’t have sex until she’s married.” A hand circles around the top of my arm, and I’m pulled sharply backwards. I almost stumble, but Rooke catches hold of me, balancing me so I can rush out of the room under my own steam. He pulls the door closed behind us, smirking savagely.
“And here I was thinking you were a prude, Ms. Connor.”
“Jesus. There are about a hundred sanitation codes being broken in there.”
“Probably more. I don’t think the Barbieris need to worry about impromptu visits from the health inspector though, do you?”
A kind of hysteria rises up inside me, gathering me up until I can’t even think straight anymore. This is the weirdest date I’ve ever been on, with the strangest man. I clap my hand over my mouth, trying to stem the laughter that’s threatening to burst free from me but it’s no good. It escapes me anyway.
“I think someone’s drunk too much,” Rooke says, leaning his back against the wall, sliding his hands into his pockets.
“Not true. I had just the right amount of wine to get me through this bizarre night.”
Rooke shakes his head. “If you say so. But I think you’re a little impaired, Sasha.”
“I’m not.”
“I can prove you are.”
“How?”
“I could come over there and kiss you. Sober Sasha would never allow that to happen, right?”
“Damn straight she wouldn’t.”
He pushes away from the wall, his face growing very, very serious. Oh, god, he’s serious. He’s actually going to try and kiss me. My laughter dies on my lips. “Don’t, Rooke.”
He’s two feet away from me. One foot.
“Rooke, I mean it. Do not try and kiss me.”
Less than a foot now. I press myself back against the wall, trying to melt into the brickwork, but it doesn’t happen. Suddenly his chest is pressed up against mine, and his hands are on me, gripping my hips, pulling me toward him. His dark eyes are unblinking, locked and loaded, fixed onto me with a passion that makes me want to look away. I don’t understand the way he’s looking at me right now. It’s as though he’s been holding back before. As if every other time he’s looked at me with that playful, wild grin on his face, that he’s only been showing a part of himself to me. Here and now, he looks as if he’s unveiling himself, showing me how fierce and dangerous he truly is.
“Rooke…” I sound breathless, completely unlike myself. I hold a hand up, planting it in the center of his chest, pushing a little to keep him at bay, but my strength is nothing compared to his. I feel weak and vulnerable, dwarfed by him as he leans over me, his head bowed, forehead only a few inches away from mine.
“We’re only going to do this once,” he says. “So really think for a second, Sasha. I’m going to kiss you. If you don’t want my mouth on yours, my body against yours, then say so now and I will never call you again. But if you do want this, if the prospect of my hands in your hair and my tongue in your mouth makes your heart beat a little faster, then all this other bullshit has got to stop. Do you hear me? Do you understand?” He sounds angry. I stare up at him. My hand is still trapped between our bodies, pressed up against his chest, and I can feel the steady, determined tattoo of his heart thumping in his ribcage. I feel like I have a hummingbird trapped inside my chest, and it’s frantically batting at its cage, trying to get out.
&
nbsp; “Yes,” I whisper. “I understand.”
Rooke bends into me, pulling me closer to him. He leans down, his forehead resting against mine, and I’m paralyzed. Should I stop him? Should I tell him to let me go? It’s not until the very last second that I make up my mind. I don’t want him to let me go. I want his mouth on mine, and his hands in my hair. I want more than that. God forgive me but I do.
I’m too scared to close my eyes. Rooke’s remain open, too. We stare at each other as his lips meet mine. A long moment passes, and neither of us moves. Slowly, Rooke exhales down his nose. His breathing is labored, shaky. I can tell by the sound of it that he’s struggling to retain his composure. He digs his fingers into my skin through my dress, and that’s it. It’s been exhausting trying to keep my distance from this guy. He’s taken a lot of shit from me in a very short space of time. Not only that but he’s repeatedly come back for more. So I kiss him. I close my eyes, and I melt into him. Winding my arms around his neck, I reach up on my tiptoes and I commit.
He groans into my mouth as I open up for him. He tastes sweet, all the sugar from dessert cut with the tannin of the wine we were drinking. He breathes hard into my mouth as he kisses me, his tongue tasting and exploring my mouth, too, and my head spins out of control. It seems impossible that I should be feeling this swept away. It’s been years since I’ve thought about the magic of a first kiss. This is light years beyond magical, though. It’s sublime. It’s incendiary. It’s apocalyptic. It feels like the world is ending. The sky is falling down. I’m lost to the frantic thrum of my heart, and the feeling of my breasts crushed up against his chest.
I want him.
Damn him, and damn me, too.
This is going to be a disaster.
FOURTEEN
THE TIGHTROPE
SASHA
I fumble, dropping my keys, and Rooke stoops down to get them. I don’t feel like my body is my own at this specific moment in time. I’d love to blame the alcohol—it would be easy enough to do—but I don’t even feel drunk. I just feel like I’m outside of my body somehow, witness to what’s happening but not really participating. Rooke glances through the keys and looks at the lock, then selects the correct key, using it to open the front door.