Page 24 of His Fantasy Bride (Things To Do Before You Die)

“Good. Let’s go.”

He’d sent his car away for the night, and they walked to the restaurant. They strolled side by side, and he held her hand, but they didn’t speak. It was only ten minutes, one of the advantages of living so central. Not that she’d ever be able to afford this area even with a steady job. Once she moved out, she’d be facing a lengthy commute to work each day. But it would be nice to have her own place and a real bed.

The restaurant was not what she expected—or wouldn’t have been if she’d expected anything—and it came to her again how little she knew of Vito.

The place was down a backstreet, cozy with low, dark beams and red-checked tablecloths. The hostess appeared to know him and led them straight to a table in the corner, away from the other diners. The best table in the house, if she wasn’t mistaken.

“Do you come here often?” she asked.

“Not for a while. It was my grandfather’s favorite restaurant when he was in London. He’d meet me here for dinner as often as I could get up to the city. The food’s good.”

It certainly smelled good, the air heavy with the scent of garlic and herbs, and fresh bread, and her stomach rumbled. “Sorry, but I’m starved. Dancing always makes me ravenous.”

“And sex. Anything else make you hungry?”

At the word “sex,” heat flushed through her. Maybe they should have banned talking about it as well as doing it.

Don’t think about sex.

“Lots of things. Most things. I have the most amazing appetite and luckily I never put on weight.”

He frowned. “In Sicily you hardly ate at all. I thought you were worried about your weight.”

No, it was the guilt that had killed her appetite. Plus, back then, she’d wanted to appear a woman in control ofallher appetites, rather than the sex-starved glutton she no doubt seemed right now. Hard luck—he’d wanted to see the real her after all.

“I’m hungry now.” She picked up the menu and hid behind it. “I’ll have the goat cheese ravioli to start, and then the Osso Buco.”

He smiled. “That was what my grandfather always ordered here. I’ll have the same.” He ordered for them and added an appetizer of stuffed garlic bread. “To keep you going until the food arrives,” he said as the waiter walked away.

Another waiter filled their glasses with deep red wine, and she sat back, strangely content. “So talk to me,” she said. “Tell me about yourself. It occurred to me that despite spending so much time together, I don’t really know you.”

“I was thinking the same.”

She took a sip of her wine; it was delicious, rich with flavors of vanilla and blackberries. “So, spill.”

“What do you want to know?”

“Everything. Tell me about your family.”

“You really don’t want to know. They’re a little…unusual.”

“Then I definitely want to know.”

“Okay—” The waiter placed the basket of garlic bread between them, and she leaned across and tore off a piece. Not simple garlic bread; it was topped with sun dried tomatoes and parmesan and tasted of Sicily, dragging back memories of warm lunches under the winter sun.

“My family comes from Sicily, as you know. They lived on that land for generations. But my grandfather was never content to be a farmer and he started a business when he was hardly into his teens. He was what we’d call today an entrepreneur.” He paused and drank some wine, watching her as she nibbled on the bread. “He was also a ruthless bastard. Sicily was barely civilized back then, and there was plenty for the taking if you were willing to accept the risks and not worry too much about collateral damage.”

“Was he part of the mafia?”

He grinned. “No. He was a loner. Didn’t like the organization or the hierarchy. Though, he did have a partner in the early days. That ended badly.”

Hah, and she was betting she knew who that partner was. Luca and Theresa’s grandfather. “Obviously, he was a success,” she said, not wanting to get on the subject of the Scarlesis.

“Si.And he loved it. He married my grandmother, and they had a single son—my father. He followed Grandfather into the business, and for a while it looked like he would also follow his father’s somewhat non-PC footsteps. He married my birth mother when he was only twenty. She was a local girl he got pregnant, but who by all accounts he loved. She died giving birth to me.”

She reached across and touched his hand. “I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. I never knew her. For a while my father threw everything into the business. If my grandfather was ruthless, my father was doubly so—my grandfather told me all of this years later. Then when I was ten, I—”

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