Page 9 of I Would Die For You

“Stefano,” I gasp out softly.

He shakes his head. “We’re going to break all the rules, you and me.”

“Yes.”

There’s nothing else I can think of or want more right now.

“Come on a date with me, Kaya.”

Chapter 4 Kaya

Stefanocould’veaskedanythingof me in that moment, and I’d have said yes.

This is how I find myself the next evening waiting for him in front of Demos, for him to take me out on a date.

I can’t remember the last time I’ve been out on a date. Maybe it was prom? But Tommy Bentley who took me that night literally did just that after—there’d be sex involved, he knew it, so was it really a date? I’ve never been ashamed of the fact I like sex. In my senior year of high school, this fact came with the label ‘slut’ even though I’d slept with just two boys at the time. Jenna Malone blowing the entire football team under the bleachers didn’t get that tag because she didn’t put out any hole for them to fill.

But I enjoy sex. Must be why I found being a prostitute not such a terrible thing despite being sold into sexual slavery. Don Giacomo had a lot to do with this—something in me knew he’d uphold his end of our bargain; he’d let us go once our debt was cleared. I’ve seen it happen, girls at his brothels being released back into free society. Only a few chose to leave, most taking on some other job in his organization.

I know how to please a man, how to let him best fuck me for his pleasure…yet going with a man on a date? First time, and the jitters are getting to me as I stand on the wide, clean and surprisingly free from litter curb in this part of Turin.

Doubt is assailing me. Did I choose the right attire? I had no clue what we’d be doing, so I settled on a little black dress that bares most of my upper back and my legs from mid-thigh down, the straight cut flowing around my body and not drawing attention to the fact I don’t have much of a waist given how my body tapers down from my wider-than-my-hips shoulders. Shoes are sensible three-inch wedges as I’m sure we’ll be walking along the uneven paved and cobblestone walkways to wherever he’s taking me.

I was right to think we’d be walking, because there’s Stefano turning the corner of the block on foot and not alighting from a car, strolling toward me with the gait of a man who could belong on any high fashion runway in nearby Milan. He’s got slim-cut jeans on sheathing his long legs, loafers on his feet—and thank the Lord no socks!—a well-cut pale gray shirt opened a few buttons at the top and baring the golden olive of his skin. Everything is brought together by the light blue-gray sports jacket molding to his broad and muscular rounded shoulders.

His face is a vision of male beauty, a morning stubble carrying over into this evening on his strong jaw and hollowed cheeks, the long hair swept back again from his wide forehead, and that sensual mouth pulling into a smile when he sees me from a few hundred feet away.

How did I not notice he’s got a bit of a crooked smile? One side lifts up a little more, making him look absolutely adorable.

Yet, this cute lilt can’t hide the ruthlessness I can see on his chiseled features, the power radiating from his big body. People part along his path, most without even turning to look at him, as if they can feel a force stronger than them is in the vicinity and they better steer clear.

I’m a little out of breath with all these revelations coursing inside me when he stops in front of me, a quizzical lift of his brow alerting me to the fact I’ve missed something in the past few seconds.

“Sorry,” I mumble. “I…You clean up well.”

Mortified is what I am in this moment. What’s wrong with my mouth? Doesn’t it have any filter?

To my surprise, Stefano throws his head back and laughs, the same rich, gleeful laugh he bestowed onto me last night.

“You are a portrait,” he says.

“Picture,” I respond around a smile. It’s so funny to hear him butchering the English language.

He shakes his head. “Either way, you are lookingbellissima.Ciao, ama.”

Ah, so that’s probably what I missed. The greeting.

“Hi, Stefano.”

He leans forward then, kisses me on the left cheek then the right. It’s almost air kisses so light it all is.

“Do you mind walking?” he asks.

“Not at all.” I point at the wedges.

“Good choice.” He chuckles.

His hand lands gently in the small of my back, and we start our way into the center of San Salvario, where Stefano’s arranged for us to have dinner at a café which serves meals on a beautiful terrace opening into the secluded interior courtyard of what looks to me like a Baroque castle. So many buildings in Torino resemble palaces, I still haven’t figured out which are actually just normal buildings.

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