Page 117 of On Ice

I’m not huge on PDA, but I feel compelled to touch him. I reach across the table and touch his hand that rests near his plate. He immediately turns his hand over and grasps my fingers. We stare at each other and something inside of me aches at the wariness I see in his eyes. He’s fearful of fully trusting me. I can see it clearly. He’s not nearly as cold and hard as he pretends. Even though he’s used to life in the mafia, it must wear on him that so many people hate him, or want him dead. It has to be a horrible feeling to not know who you can trust.

He clears his throat. “How about we just enjoy the nice meal we’re about to have? I’m thinking too far ahead, which isn’t necessary.”

“Okay,” I say softly. “But I want you to know, I’m really happy you came tonight. I’ve never had anyone do anything like this for me. It means a lot to me that you cared enough to make this much effort simply to cheer me up.”

“I like it when you’re happy.” He shrugs.

I smile because I believe him. There was a time when I’d have thought he was mocking me. But now I know he truly is trying his best to please me. “So, how did Isabella’s date go?” I ask, changing the subject. His sister joined a dating app, much to the chagrin of her family.

Luca’s brows pull into a scowl. “I don’t know why she won’t just date Italian men. I know so many good men she could marry. She’s the most bullheaded person I’ve ever met.”

I can’t help but laugh. The entire Barone family is bullheaded. Honestly, Luca is the worst of them all. But he looks irritated at my grin, so I quickly say, “Why doesn’t she just date Marco? I swear there’s a spark between them.”

He shakes his head. “I’ve said this to both of them many times. Marco says she’s like a little sister to him. He’s lying. I suspect he likes her, but she’s so dismissive of dating anyone in the mafia, he’s too prideful to let her know his feelings. As far as Isabella’s side of things, I know she has a crush on him. She’s had one since she hit puberty. But she’s scared he’s going to get himself killed.”

Since that’s a constant worry for me too, I’m not sure how to respond. But I’m saved from having to say anything when the first course arrives. The waiter sets down a small plate ofhamachi crudo, each slice arranged like petals around a center of bright citrus and tiny herbs. It’s almost too beautiful to eat, but when I do, the flavors are clean and bright against the lingering richness of the wine.

The next course is risotto with black truffles, the aroma rising in an intoxicating cloud when the server shaves paper-thin slices over our plates. The rice is perfectly al dente, each grain distinct yet part of a creamy whole.

“Good?” he asks.

“This is delicious.” I smile at him and he smiles back.

Around us, the restaurant hums with quiet conversation and the gentle clink of silverware against fine china. The sounds feel distant, as if Luca and I exist in our own bubble, insulated from everything beyond our table.

The main course is dry-aged ribeye for Luca and branzino for me, the fish deboned tableside with surgical precision. The fish’s skin is crisp, the flesh beneath moist and delicate, garnished with herbs and lemon. Beside it sits a small mound of fingerling potatoes roasted with rosemary and garlic. Every bite is perfect, comforting yet refined.

We eat in companionable silence for a while, the food and wine working their magic on my tense muscles and bruised ego. I hadn’t realized how hungry I was, how much the loss had hollowed me out. Luca seems to sense this, keeping the conversation light.

By the time dessert arrives, a dark chocolate soufflé for me and espresso for Luca, I feel almost human again. The ache of defeat hasn’t disappeared, but it’s been tempered by good food, exceptional wine, and the undivided attention of a man who I’m rapidly falling for more and more.

Outside, the night air is knife-sharp after the restaurant’s warmth. Luca’s driver appears with the SUV, and as we slide into the leather backseat, Luca’s hand finds mine in the darkness. His fingers are warm, his grip firm and reassuring.

It hits me suddenly that the man I used to fear and want to escape is now who makes me feel safe. I’m lonely when he’s not near and happiest when I’m in his arms. He’s burned into my heart. He’s dangerous and unpredictable, but I’m in love with him. It’s a shock to acknowledge it, but I think I’ve known it for a while now. Why else was I unable to stay away? I think from the first moment I met Luca, I knew I’d need to belong to him.

What I don’t know is how Luca feels. I know he likes being around me, and the sex is beyond amazing. But does a man like Luca want love? My love? Does he want me in his life permanently? The idea he mightnotwant that causes a wave of anxiety to jolt through me.

If I tell Luca how I feel, will he send me away?

Chapter Twenty-Eight

Luca

The keycard slides into the slot with a soft click, green light flashing as I push open the door to the suite. Evan follows me inside, his broad shoulders momentarily silhouetted against the hallway light before the door swings shut behind us.

“Make yourself comfortable,” I say, shrugging off my overcoat and draping it over a nearby chair.

The Peninsula’s Royal Suite unfolds before us, living room flowing into dining area, floor-to-ceiling windows showcasing Manhattan’s glittering skyline. Everything is tasteful luxury: cream-colored furniture, dark wood accents, subtle gold trim. The kind of room that doesn’t need to announce its exclusivity because it’s evident in every detail.

Evan moves to the windows, his reflection ghosted against the city lights. “Some view,” he says, but his voice lacks the appreciation I’d expected. Something’s off. He’s been quiet since the restaurant, retreating into his thoughts during the ride.

I pour two fingers of scotch from the crystal decanter on the sidebar, then cross the room to join him. “You still thinking about the game?” I ask, offering one of the glasses.

His fingers brush mine as he takes the drink. “A little.”

I study his profile as he sips the scotch, the strong jaw, his perfect nose. He’s hard for me to read tonight. He was in a good mood earlier, now he’s in his head. He looks uneasy, and that bugs me. Not because I spent a lot of time and money cominghere to please him. His mood bothers me because, lately, his bad mood becomes mine. His depression sinks into me and then I’m also depressed. I’m in tune to him these days, and it’s new and unsettling for me.

“Then what is it?” I ask, keeping my tone light.

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