Page 68 of The Proposal

“Why are we going to the club?” she asks.

“To have a couple of shots.”

Her pretty green eyes widen. “It’s midmorning.”

“So?”

“It’s too early to be drunk.”

“Nobody said anything about getting drunk,Bellezza. Just enough to take the edge off … trust me, you’ll thank me when we arrive at our second stop.”

“Second stop?”

“The tattoo parlour.”

“You are taking me to get my tattoo?”

“If you still want it.”

“Yes … yes I do.”

“I wanted to wait until Lucia had left before I took you.”

“Why?”

“Because you and I know she would’ve been all over that shit. Your father would kill me if I allowed her to ink her skin permanently.”

“But you’re allowing me.”

“You’re my wife. He has no say over what you do anymore.”

She leans in, pressing a soft kiss to my lips. “Thank you,” she murmurs as she settles her cheek against my chest. I pull her closer when she releases a contented sigh. I know a tattoo won’t erase her pain, but for now, at least the tears have stopped.

As soon as I exit the vehicle, I straighten my suit jacket and reach for Arabella’s hand, helping her out of the car. The club won’t open for another hour, but some of my staff will already be here.

Pushing through the front door, I abruptly stop when one of the security guys steps out of the shadows. “We’re not open—” His words die on his tongue when he sees that it’s me. “Mr Mancini, I apologise. I wasn’t expecting it to be you.”

I nod and continue forward with my wife’s hand still clutched in mine. When I reach the bar, I move behind it and grab a bottle of black Sambuca from the top shelf and two shot glasses.

One of the bar girls rounds the corner and does a double take when she notices me. “Mr Mancini.” Her eyes brieflyflicker to Arabella before moving back to me. “I … umm … is there something I can get for you?”

“Nope,” I reply, holding up the bottle of Sambuca in my hand. “We’ll be in the VIP area. Please make sure we’re not disturbed.”

Arabella’s eyes widen as I return to her side, gesturing for her to follow. “That was a little rude,” she says, falling into step beside me.

“How? I said please.”

She rolls her eyes as I shove the bottle under my arm and reach for her hand, leading her up the stairs to the roped-off area where I usually sit with my men.

When we reach the table in the back corner, I pull out her chair and take a seat opposite her.

Placing the shot glasses down, I fill them both. Once I slide hers across the table, I lift mine and wait for her to do the same.

“Salute,” I say, clinking her glass with mine.

“Salute.”

We both down the alcohol in one go, and I welcome the smooth warmth as it slides down the back of my throat. I chose this drink purely for Arabella. Its sweet, aniseed flavour, reminiscent of liquorice, seemed like the better option as opposed to something harder like tequila.

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