I grudgingly accept it and force a smile on my lips because here we are, boyfriend and girlfriend, going out on a date for the first time.
I take a long drink of wine and try to pretend like I don’t notice all the people staring.
“Is it always like this?” I ask, taking a small bite of a lamb shank braised in Guinness with lentils, pearl onions, and rosemary jus. It’s like an explosion of flavor right in my face and I’m reminded of how there’s a whole world beyond anything I’ve ever experienced before created and catered toward men with money and power and influence, just like Calvino.
He shrugs and sips his drink, another whiskey, absurdly expensive. Fortunately, he owns the restaurant, so money doesn’t matter, not that it would either way.
“Not always but it’s rare that I come out with a partner.”
“They’re watching like you’re a celebrity though.”
His lips tug sideways. “You’re saying I’m not?”
I lean forward, smiling back, letting his gaze linger on my mouth. God, I like when he looks at me like that.
“I’m saying you’re the brother of a gangster that owns a bunch of clubs and restaurants. You’re not exactly on the cover of People.”
“I could be if I wanted.”
“Do it then. I’m sure the accompanying puff piece would be hilarious. Ten Ways to Make Your Enemy Sink into the Ocean: An Interview with Calvino Manzini.”
“I’d focus more on my restaurants than my family business, but that’s an interesting angle.”
“I’m just saying, you’re not famous, so why all the staring?”
He sighs and runs a hand through his hair. His smile fades as he pushes around his strozzapreti—house-made pork sausage, tomato passata, Tuscan kale, chili, fennel, pecorino Romano, insanely delicious—before shaking his head.
“In certain circles, I’m notorious. Not famous exactly, but well known. It’s hard to hide in this world now and everyone seems to want to know about my business and my family, so some people are more aggressive about it than others.”
“Are you saying there are fucking mafia stans following you around?”
He grimaces and shakes his head. “No, more like tabloid bottom feeders, and they truly are the lowest of the low. They stalk me because they know I won’t kill them whereas anyone else in my family will.”
“Why won’t you? Seems like something you’d do.”
“I’m the clean one. Haven’t you figured that out yet?”
I give him a sharp glare. “Don’t patronize me, asshole.”
“All right then, little thief. I have three brothers, and all three get their hands dirty. A long time ago, my father decided that having one brother outside of the family business, doing something legal, would be beneficial for everyone. I’m that brother. I’m the clean one. I run a legal, above-board business and I stay away from the filth as much as I can.”
“I find that incredibly hard to believe.”
He shrugs and leans back, studying me. “I don’t expect you to believe, but I do expect you to accept it.”
“There’s that asshole bossiness again.”
“You need to understand something. When I take you home to my family, they’re going to try to pick you apart and rip you to pieces all for fun. If you can’t even accept the most basic things I’m telling you, how can you expect to survive that?”
I glare at him and sip my wine to cover my frustration. He has a point and I hate that I just stumbled into this trap. There’s no reason to be so combative, except for I like doing it—I like pushing back against him just to see how he’ll push back, like a little game of tug of war, except the stakes are so much higher.
“Fine, you’re the clean one. I believe you. What, now I can do whatever I want and you won’t kill me?”
His lips curl. “I won’t kill a bottom-feeding tabloid scumbag, but I will break you if I need to, little thief. Who’s going to miss another girl from West Virginia?”
“I love it when you talk like I’m nothing more than human garbage.” I twirl some hair around my finger and bat my eyelashes at him. “Really gets me hot.”
He laughs and shrugs. “Anyway, those assholes have their uses, like this for example.” He leans forward and talks softer. “Now smile like you’re having fun and laugh like I said something funny. Remember, Gracie, you want to fuck my brains out. You’re dripping wet just thinking about how I’m going to use your body when we get back home. Fucking laugh.”
I show my teeth in a snarl and laugh much too loudly, and he sneers at me and I hate him for it but love the anger that ripples beneath the surface. Our conversation is a fencing match, back and forth, parry and riposte, attack and defend.
The night goes like that. We discuss safe topics: the club, the city, movies and TV. We have a similar taste in shows, which surprises me—I sort of figured he’d be more into the blood and guts stuff, but he enjoys sitcoms and Ancient Aliens as much as I do. Despite that, we spend half the night bickering, he sneers and glares and I roll my eyes and pretend to laugh, and soon he’s whisking me away into the night again.