Page 73 of Where Wild Hearts Dance
She buries her face into my neck.
“Are you tired?”
“A little.”
Her stomach groans and I remember how she seems to live for food. “You’re hungry.”
She nods timidly.
In that case, I’m taking her to the best restaurant in the city.
We pull up to the loading bay of New York’s most discreet and exclusive hotel. I called ahead so I’m pleased to see they’ve heeded my warning to clear the entire ground floor kitchen so we can pass through unseen.
A back elevator takes us to the penthouse. A doorman is waiting for us, his eyes averted, as briefed. He holds open the door to the penthouse and I slip a hundred into his palm before carrying Contessa over the threshold. I won’t ever marry so this is the closest I’ll get to carrying my bride into our new life together. Because, little does she know it, but Contessa is mine now, and this is just the beginning.
I lower her feet to the thick pile carpet and she stretches her arms overhead like a cat. I watch her, my knuckle pressed to my lips. She’s the most beautiful thing I’ve ever seen.
She turns to face the dining table in the center of the room and her mouth drops open.
“Is that all for us?”
I walk over to the table and lift silver cloches off the trays. “For you. I already ate.”
“I can’t eat all of this.”
I chuckle darkly. “I don’t expect you to, but I didn’t know what you’d want so I ordered everything on the menu.”
Her eyebrows shoot up her forehead, but she still lifts a plate and helps herself to a bowl of pasta, severalhelpings of coq au vin and an entire bowl of green salad.
I pull out a chair opposite and rest my arms on each side.
“So, what other clubs do you own?” she says, between mouthfuls.
“I have four. Arena, which you know, Kiki’s on the upper east side, The Sawmill in Brooklyn and Cairo’s in the East Village.”
“Are they all fronts for mafia meeting places?” She flicks a glance my way.
“They’re not fronts for mafia meeting places,” I reply, a lazy smirk crossing my lips. “They’re fronts for other things, actually. But each venue has meeting rooms and we do occasionally host business discussions to which members of the family are invited.”
She continues eating, unfazed.
“And you have the barbershop…”
“Yes.”
“Do you own any other frontages—sorry, businesses?”
I narrow my eyes considering how I can make her pay for that later, then my face softens. “There is one other business I own, which isn’t a front for anything. It’s a genuine family business. It was given to me by a friend of Gianni’s. It has nothing to do with mafia business, and it means a lot to me.”
That gets her attention.
“Oh? What is it?”
“A restaurant in Little Italy. La Trattoria. It’s tiny,and the chef is old-school—barely speaks a word of English—but he’s a genius in the kitchen.”
Her brow furrows into a frown and her gaze disappears for a second. “I think I know it.”
“Yeah?”
