by Kyle, Regina
“Have you told Zoe about her?” Miguel asked gently.
Dante shook off his friend’s hand, snatched his empty glass off the table, and stalked over to the bar cart. “Why would I do that? She goes home in a few days. To San Francisco. Her life is there. Her family is there.”
Miguel joined Dante, plunked his glass down on the bar cart, and poured them both generous portions of Glenlivet, not even bothering to defile his with soda this time. “So?”
“It’s six thousand miles from here, which, in case you’ve forgotten, is my home.”
“You have your own private jet,” Xander said. “And enough money to gas it up and go at a moment’s notice.”
“Even if I were in love with Zoe—which I’m not—there’s no evidence she feels the same way.”
“Are you blind, man?” Xander leaned back in his chair and stretched out his legs. “With the amount of time she spent staring at you, I’m surprised she even knew what cards she had in her hand.”
Dante wanted to call bullshit. Zoe had taken them all to the cleaners, so clearly she was paying more attention to the game than to him.
But he knew these men. Had known them since they were barely out of boyhood. And he knew once they got hold of something, be it a multinational corporation or some far-fetched idea about his love life, they wouldn’t let go until they were good and ready, on their own damn terms.
So he pivoted the only way he could think of. The Italian way—with food.
“Anyone hungry?” he asked, setting his drink down and pulling his cell phone from his pocket. “I could call Luca and have him send over something from the restaurant.”
Xander patted his stomach. “I never say no to Luca’s food.”
“Me, either,” Miguel agreed. “But don’t think that means you’re off the hook. We’re not done interrogating you about Zoe.”
Dante didn’t doubt it. Although it would be harder for them to interrogate him with their mouths full of pasta.
Chapter Twelve
“Buonasera, Signore Sabbatini.” The hostess greeted them with a wide, genuine smile. “It’s good to see you again.”
“Thank you, Valentina.” She blushed, and Dante gave himself a mental pat on the back for getting her name right. He prided himself on remembering the names of his employees. Not an easy feat with the amount of turnover typical in the restaurant business. But it was little things, like calling people by name, that made the difference between a pleasant, productive workplace and one that was unbearable.
“We have your usual table ready for you,” Valentina said, motioning for them to follow her into the restaurant. “And your brother said he’ll be out to see you as soon as he can. They’re a bit busy in the kitchen right now.”
“Busy is good,” Zoe piped up beside him. “Right?”
“Very.”
They reached their table—his favorite, tucked away in a quiet corner, far from the usually noisy, bustling bar area—and he pulled out a chair for Zoe. He’d considered reserving the chef’s table—a counter, really, in front of the kitchen, where diners could witness Luca’s culinary wizardry firsthand—but he quickly rejected that idea. It was one of their last nights together—a fact he tried to bury deep in his subconscious but that kept resurfacing, like a recurring nightmare—and he wanted to spend it with Zoe. Alone. Not surrounded by the cacophony of a commercial kitchen, watching his brother show off at his Vulcan SX series range.
After assuring them their waiter would be with them shortly, Valentina disappeared, presumably returning to her station at the front of the house. Dante took a seat across from Zoe, admiring the way the flames from the candle in the center of the table danced across her face and picked up the silver fibers in the jacquard dress he’d picked out for her at Dolce & Gabbana.
It was fun spoiling her. She’d resisted at first, of course. But in the end, he’d won. She’d even let him throw in a matching purse and shoes.
He wasn’t sure where the need to pamper her came from. Maybe on some deep-seated level it was because he wished he could give her more of himself. But that was impossible. He’d given everything—body, mind, soul, and most importantly heart—to Nicole. Her death—due in part to his own carelessness—had shattered him. After a year, he was finally beginning to put the pieces back together. Letting himself love again was a risk he couldn’t take right now. Maybe not ever.
He forced that sobering thought from his head and leaned back in his chair. His remaining time with Zoe was short. He wasn’t going to let anything spoil it, especially his painful past. “So, what do you think?”
Her eyes sparkled, their shine making the flickering light of the candle pale in comparison. “I don’t know. I haven’t eaten anything yet. Although, if it’s anything like the food your brother sent over yesterday, I’m sure I’ll be well fed and happy in no time.”
“Not about the food. About the ambiance. You’ve designed commercial spaces, haven’t you?”
“Yes. I’ve even worked on a few restaurants.”
“Good.” He waved a hand around the dining room, encouraging her to take it all in. “I want an expert’s opinion.”
She bit her lip as her gaze slowly roamed the room, her brow creased in concentration. He liked that she took her time to form an opinion, rather than giving him some knee-jerk, overly complimentary response.
“It’s charming,” she said when she’d finished her thorough appraisal. “Cozy and intimate, but upscale, too. The rustic furniture and vintage lighting fixtures add a touch of warmth.”
“That’s exactly what we were going for when we redid this place a few years ago.”
“Then I’d say you succeeded.”
A waiter materialized seemingly out of thin air, set down two glasses, and proceeded to fill them with one of Dante’s favorite reds, a Sicilian Nero D’Avola. Then, as quickly and quietly as he appeared, he faded away. Dante made a mental note to tell the maître d’ to give the guy a raise. Waitstaff who understood how to be both attentive and unobtrusive were hard to come by.
Zoe looked across the table at Dante, down to her now full glass, then back to Dante again. “We didn’t order anything.”
Dante lifted his glass to his nose, swirled, sniffed, and sipped. “My staff knows what I like. If it’s not to your taste, let me know, and we can get something different.”
“I’m sure I’ll love it. I’m not picky when it comes to wine. We even drank the box crap in college.”
He shuddered. “That’s not wine. That’s fermented grape juice.”
“Well, it was all we could afford. And it got us just as wasted as the good stuff.”
“I hope you’re as laid-back about food as you are about alcohol. My brother is preparing a tasting menu for us, and I have no idea what he’ll come up with. He likes to experiment on my sensitive palate.”
She took a sip of her wine, licked her lips, and smiled at him over the rim of her glass. “Remember Capri?”
His dick did, that was for sure. It hardened at the memory. “Which part? The first time I made you come? The second? Or maybe you mean the third time, when I—”
“I was talking about dinner. I devoured everything you put in front of me.”
He leaned in and dropped his voice even lower, making sure that even in this secluded corner of the restaurant no one could overhear him. “And then you devoured my cock.”
The waiter reappeared with their first course, tiny tortellini in a rich chicken broth, just in time to see her pretty face go from to pale pink to ruby red. They got through two more courses—maccheroni in tomato basil sauce and more tortellini, this time with brown butter and sage—before Luca was able to break free from the kitchen.
“My pezzo forte,” he said, placing a dish of ribbon-like pasta in front of each of them. “The star of this meal. Tagliolini with a Modena-style ragu. Similar to Bol
ognese, but instead of pancetta, veal, and beef, I used prosciutto, mortadella, and pork, with parmigiano rinds for the braise and just a small touch of tomato.”
Dante refilled Zoe’s wineglass, then his. “If you haven’t guessed, this showoff is my brother, Luca.”
“The family resemblance is hard to miss,” Zoe said, looking from one brother to the other.
“It’s easy to tell us apart.” Luca pulled a chair up to the end of the table and plunked his arrogant ass down. “He’s two minutes older, and I’m twice as attractive.”
Zoe’s lips curled into a teasing grin. “Like your brother, you clearly have no problem in the ego department.”
“I prefer to think of it as healthy self-esteem.” Luca’s smile matched hers. “You must be Zoe. I’m glad to see my brother has met someone who can stand up to him. He can be a bear sometimes.”
“I don’t remember inviting you to join us.” Dante pouted. Not a good look on a grown-ass man, but he couldn’t stop his lower lip from jutting out. He was grateful to his brother for the amazing meal he’d prepared for them. And he wanted to catch up with him. It had been months since they sat down together and talked about anything other than their restaurants. At the same time, he didn’t want to waste one second of the handful of days he had left with Zoe.
Rock, meet hard place.
“Do I need an invitation?” Luca signaled a waiter for a glass and poured himself some Nero D’Avolo.
“Of course not.” Zoe gave Dante a look that said he was being unreasonable. Which he was. He and his brother always gave each other shit. A friendly twin rivalry, underscored with love. This was no different than their normal, lighthearted banter.
Or was it?
“This is delicious,” Zoe continued, savoring a forkful of tagliolini. “Just like everything else you’ve served us this evening.”
“Wait until you’ve had dessert. I have something special planned.”
“Should you be drinking?” Dante asked. “Don’t you have a kitchen to supervise?”
“The dinner rush is almost over, and Aurora’s running the kitchen.”
Right. The new sous-chef Luca hired right before Dante left for Bella Vista. “How is she working out?”
“Excellent. She’s smart, talented, and puts up with my temper tantrums.” Luca chuckled. “But I didn’t come out here to talk business. I wanted to meet the first woman to break through my brother’s crusty exterior since—”
“Has anyone ever told you you talk too much?” Dante chugged the rest of his wine, which was a shame because Nero D’Avolo was meant to be sipped, not slugged.
Fortunately, his brother got the hint and backed off. For the rest of their conversation, he steered clear of any mention of Nicole, sticking to good-natured attempts to annoy Dante with embarrassing childhood stories.
They chatted for about half an hour until Luca excused himself to prepare their dessert. A waiter appeared a few minutes later with two plates, each one bearing a piece of three-layer sponge cake topped with whipped cream frosting and garnished with slivered almonds.
Dante’s jaw tightened. “Is that rum cake?”
“Si, signore. With Luca’s signature chocolate and vanilla pasticciera.”
“Take it away.”
“But—” the waiter started.
“I said take it away,” Dante barked. What the hell was his brother thinking? Of all the desserts he could have chosen for them, Luca knew better than to serve him that one.
“What’s wrong?” Zoe asked as the waiter scuttled off, plates still in hand and a confused, stunned expression on his face. “You scared the hell out of that poor waiter.”
She was right. He was shooting the messenger instead of directing his anger where it belonged. At his brother. He threw his napkin down, pushed his chair back from the table so violently his fortunately empty wineglass tipped over, and stood, ready to do battle. He had only gone a few steps when the door to the kitchen swung open and the object of his ire burst out and strode toward him.
“I told that stupid boy table four, not fourteen.” Luca’s face was as ashen as the restaurant’s white linen napkins. “I’m sorry, Dante. I’ll have him fired immediately. I would never—”
“I know,” Dante said, cutting him off. One look at Luca’s face made Dante’s anger fade as quickly as it flared up. He should have known it was a simple mix-up. Luca would never hurt him so deeply, not intentionally. But when it came to anything that touched his memories of Nicole, Dante’s feelings often trumped reason. And that applied in triplicate when those memories were of her death.
Dante shook his head. “Don’t fire him, not on my account. It was an honest mistake.”
“One that never should have happened.” Luca clenched his fist, looking like he wanted to slam the nearest wall. “Fuck. When I think of how it must have made you feel. Seeing that damn cake. Remembering how Nicole—”
“Is everything all right?”
Zoe’s voice, more hesitant and unsure than usual, mercifully stopped Luca from finishing his sentence.
Dante turned his head to see her standing next to him. He didn’t know how long she’d been there or what she heard, but he knew their meal was over. He didn’t have an appetite for dessert anymore, and he doubted she did, either. “We should be going. We don’t want to miss the start of La Bohème.”
Assuming she still wanted to go with him after the display he just put on.
“Are you going to explain what all that was about?” Her voice was harder now, the uncertainty replaced by anger. No, anger was the wrong word. It was more like sorrow. Or pain. “Who’s Nicole?”
…
Luca’s jaw dropped, and Zoe’s stomach plummeted right along with it. His obvious shock was all she needed to clue her in that whatever this was about, it wasn’t going to be good.
“She doesn’t know?” he asked.
Dante glared at his brother. “This isn’t the time. Or the place.”
“Then what is?” Luca put an arm around Dante’s shoulder and leaned in so he could lower his voice, but not enough that Zoe couldn’t make out what he was saying. “If she means anything to you, tell her. You owe it to her. And to yourself.”
He gave Zoe a nod that was half apology, half escape and headed in the direction of the kitchen, leaving her alone—well, alone in a restaurant full of people—with Dante.
Can you say awkward?
Dante cleared his throat and stuffed his hands in his pockets. “We should go,” he said again.
The hair on Zoe’s arms and the back of her neck prickled. “Is that all you have to say to me? You barked at that innocent waiter. Over a cake. Don’t I deserve some sort of an explanation?”
“You do, but not here.” He took her elbow, gently guiding her toward the door. “Let’s walk.”
On any other night, her heart would have done a hop, skip, and a jump at the suggestion. What was more romantic than an evening stroll through one of the most romantic cities on earth? Walking along the Via Sacra, watching the boats on the Tiber River. Getting lost in the maze of narrow cobblestone streets in Trastevere, with its colorful houses, centuries-old piazzas, and ancient statues lit by streetlamps.
Tonight, however, she was too keyed up to appreciate the atmosphere. Neither one of them spoke for a few blocks. The longer they walked, the more uncomfortable it became. A couple of times Zoe almost caved and opened her big mouth. But she bit her tongue, determined to give him the benefit of the doubt. This was clearly difficult for him. He’d talk when he was ready. What were a few more minutes in the grand scheme of things? She owed him at least that much.
Finally, just as they were approaching the Spanish Steps connecting Piazza di Spagna with Trinità die Monti, he broke the silence.
“Sit with me.” He motioned to the wide, irregular stone staircase that was a popular gathe
ring place with both locals and tourists.
She nodded, and they found a spot partway up the steps off to one side, somewhat removed from the hustle and bustle of the street below, which was crowded with families enjoying after-dinner gelato, teenagers flirting and smoking cigarettes, and vendors trying to sell everything from flowers to selfie sticks.
“Nicole was my fiancée,” he said after a long moment. He didn’t look at Zoe as he spoke, staring out into the moonlit night almost as if he were in another time, another place, totally removed from her and everything else around them. “She died almost a year ago.”
“I’m so sorry, Dante.” Sorry. Such a small, insubstantial word for everything she wanted to express. She reached out to put a hand on his knee, hoping the physical connection would make up for the inadequacy of her words, but he brushed it away.
“Don’t.” He waved off a street vendor approaching them with a basket of trinkets. “I don’t deserve your pity.”
“How can you say that?”
“It was my fault.” Dante ran a shaky hand through his windswept hair, still not daring to look at her. “Nicole would still be here if it wasn’t for me.”
Zoe stared at the man beside her, so near physically but so distant emotionally, lost in his sorrow and self-accusation. Yes, she’d known him for not even a month, but that was long enough for her to know that the man wouldn’t intentionally hurt anyone, especially not someone he loved. And it was obvious from his demeanor—the slumped shoulders, the haunted expression, the rough, halting timbre of his voice—that he had loved Nicole. Very much.
A pang of sadness hit her right in the chest. Not just for Dante and his loss, but for herself. Had she ever loved anyone that way? Would she?
She tried again to touch him, twining her fingers through his longer, stronger ones. This time, she breathed a sigh of relief when he didn’t pull away. “I don’t believe that.”
“We were celebrating her birthday,” Dante continued, almost as if he hadn’t heard her. “A week late, because I was away on business. That was why I ordered the rum cake. It’s an Italian tradition. I didn’t know the chef had used a strawberry-infused rum.”