Page 96 of King of Omen

‘I appreciate the offer, but I think I’ll pass,’ I murmured.

When he slid a hand behind my head along the banquette, I froze away from him.

‘Hey,’ he protested.

That’s when his mate, standing across from me, locked limbs.

His eyes were trained somewhere to the rear of us.

I smelt the smoky essence first and was inundated with dread, tensing for what was about to come.

Seconds later, a deep, rumbled voice confirmed what I’d feared.

‘Clown 1 and 2, get the fuck out of here.’

The growl brooked no argument.

I twisted around with a huff to see Lorenzo looming over my table, eyes flashing, hands crossed, unyielding, glowering and like hell frozen over.

The two surfers stared at him for a moment, their smiles faltering.

‘You know him?’ the himbo muttered to me.

‘She’s my wife,’ Lorenzo snarled.

I let out a slow, irritated breath. ‘Hell.’

‘One more glance in her direction and e sei morto,’ Lorenzo added with amped ill-omen.

By now, Mauri and his brooding menace had joined the party, and together, they scowled over us like a pair of Italian gods of retribution.

Lorenzo’s meaning was clear, and the message was received with ire.

The surfer bros got up and slunk out, shooting daggers at him as they went.

Lorenzo turned his head to me, his icy glare locked on me. His arms crossed, a storm of emotions churned in his eyes.

I decided to ignore him, stratospherically pissed off.

Still, his hot stare stayed on me. I sensed him move, sliding his beautiful frame into the booth across from me.

He whispered to Mauri, who stalked to the bar.

Minutes later, his consigliere placed a second top-up of the wine I’d been drinking on the table and furnished Lorenzo with the same before stepping back into the shadows, eyes on us both.

I huffed, sucked my teeth and bristled.

With an inhale, I pulled a book out of my tote, a romance suspense series whose author I was a major fan of and pretended to read.

The silence between us was heavy and charged, every moment torturous, yet Lorenzo persisted with his silent warfare.

He dominated the space across from me, head back, arms spreadeagled, one thick thigh crossed over his knee, sipping his wine. His eyes only left me to death stare at anyone passing by who dared glance my way.

His insistent presence was suffocating, but I refused to acknowledge it.

For a while, we sat in our self-imposed impasse in a battle of wills, serenaded by the occasional clink of glasses and the murmur of the crowd around us.

The strain across the table ratcheted as my mind seethed with dark thoughts. I couldn’t forgive him for accusing me of betrayal, but I didn’t want to keep fighting.

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