The Ruler - A Mafia Romance

2

He did a better job of ignoring his phone for the next few days, but he still wore his smartwatch, and the screen lit up all the time. When I was able to catch a glimpse without making it obvious, I saw Luna’s name on the screen—his boss.

So I guess he was telling the truth about work.

I kinda felt bad, but I also kinda didn’t.

For lunch, we decided to try Rosticceria Da Cristina, a famous spot known for their arancini. Sicily was the birthplace of some genius culinary creations like granita, cannoli, and, of course, arancini. We had something similar in Rome, called supplì, not nearly as fried and with a different consistency. We grabbed one of each flavor, ragu with parmesan, peas, and mozzarella, and then pistachio, which contained pistachio pesto, cooked ham, mozzarella, and pistachio grains. There were a couple of other options, but each arancini ball was as big as my palm, so we picked one more, the eggplant option, and then sat at the outdoor patio seating since we’d chosen to do their takeaway option rather than dine in their restaurant.

My bar-top chair faced the restaurant, while Enzo’s was pivoted the opposite way, the plate between us on the slender bar table that stretched all the way down for others to use too.

Enzo took the first bite, savoring the taste as he mulled over his opinion of it. “It’s good.” With dark hair and green eyes, he was a handsome Italian man with a nice smile. I noticed him the second we were in the same room together. And a lot of women noticed him when we went out together. It never used to bother me, but it bothered me a lot more now because our relationship seemed to have crashed on the rocks, no matter how hard I steered the ship back to sea.

I tried the pistachio and loved the combination of flavors, especially how crispy the outside was in comparison to the casserole-like concoction of rice and pesto and ham. “Ooh, this is worth the hype.”

We tried the different flavors together, each rated them, and for a moment, it felt normal again. The two of us on an adventure, our only concern ranking the authentic cuisine in front of us, not worried about work or projects or anything else but this moment.

My hand went to his muscular thigh, an absent-minded and programmed gesture of affection, something he used to do to me but stopped months ago.

He didn’t react to the touch, taking another bite of the arancini like he didn’t notice my hand—or the act of possession didn’t mean anything to him anymore.

Or maybe I was unfairly overanalyzing every little thing he did because I was riddled with insecurity.

I didn’t recognize myself anymore. Desperate for his validation. Searching for any sign of desire on his part. Needing something he didn’t seem to want to give. I was a beautiful woman who could find his replacement within a day, but I felt like the most undesirable woman at his side. Unwanted. Unworthy. Unremarkable.

With my hand on his thigh, I could feel his phone vibrate in his pocket over and over. His watch was going off too—Luna’s name on the screen.

He quickly wiped his hands off with the napkin. “Sorry, I’ve got to take this.”

I withdrew my hand. “It’s okay, I understand.” I tried to play nice after I’d snapped at him the other day. We never talked about the confrontation, and it kinda just went away in the silence. I hadn’t directly accused him of infidelity, but I had indirectly. And then I’d gone through his phone, which I still felt guilty about. Guilty because when he said work had been overwhelming him, he’d been telling the truth.

I expected him to answer the phone right where he sat, but he left the barstool chair and walked down the alleyway past Rosticceria Da Cristina and then turned down another alleyway, like he didn’t want me to see or hear him.

A wave of suspicion grew inside me, gnawed at my stomach, and then I felt a surge of rage that felt like a tidal wave. But I took a breath, swallowed it back, told myself I was being irrational and spiteful because things weren’t where I wanted them to be.

I looked down at the plate of arancini and took another bite, even though I’d lost my appetite. I wiped the crumbs of the crust from my mouth and looked up the uphill passageway, waiting for Enzo to reappear.

But instead, I saw a man turn from the other street and begin his walk down the slope to the restaurant. In a black T-shirt that squeezed his thick arms that were covered in dark ink, and dark jeans that were low on his narrow hips, he headed to the side door underneath the sign, moving at a speed full of intention. With dark short hair and eyes the color of espresso and a distinct shadow on his jawline, he looked like an Italian model who hawked sunglasses for Tom Ford, somewhere on a yacht near the Amalfi coast, his skin coated in sunscreen that smelled like s*x. I saw a flash on his wrist from a watch before he stepped through the open door and approached the counter.

The kitchen had ovens against the walls and a center table covered in different kinds of rectangular pizzas people could order by the slice and have reheated in a flash. And all the guys working there gave a loud roar of excitement—like they knew the guy who’d just walked in. They clapped and cheered, and the beautiful man walked right past the counter and joined them near the ovens. He smiled—and I’d swear to the pope that my entire body quivered.

The guys greeted one another with those embraces men did, when they clapped their hands together and then pulled each other in for a slap on the back. The beautiful man was the tallest and the most muscular, a f*****g bull in a field of dairy cows. Words were exchanged, along with uproarious laughter.

I couldn’t tell what the relation was or why I cared. Perhaps he used to work there. Maybe stopped by for a visit? But even if he did work there, it was a bit presumptuous to help himself to the kitchen like he had every right to be there.

He leaned against the counter, crossed his arms over his chest, and spoke with the guys with that same charming smile. We were at a distance from each other and divided by a window, but I could still see the sharpness in his eyes, like he was attentive, smart, and assertive.

I made a lot of assumptions solely based on his appearance, but the longer I stared, the more I found. Utterly hypnotized by a man I could only describe as the best-looking guy I’d ever seen in my life, I kept my eyes glued in place. Captivated like he was the subject of an award-winning photograph whose attractiveness was enhanced by the angle or the lighting or the pose, I couldn’t look away.

But he must have felt my stare, even at this distance, because he suddenly shifted his gaze to me.

My breath was squeezed from my lungs just by his stare alone. Whenever an awkward moment like this happened, when I caught someone staring at me a little too hard or I let my gaze linger on someone longer than I should, my eyes shifted away like it never happened. But the command in his stare was so powerful that I lost the ability to control my own body. I was paralyzed, at the mercy of a stare so unbelievably confident but never on the threshold of arrogance. Someone might interpret it as hostile, but what I felt was intensity. The kind of intensity that, if it came from the sun, would burn you blind.

It lingered for seconds, but each one of those seconds felt like a minute, and the accumulation of the entire moment felt like a lifetime.

One of the guys said something to grab his attention, and his eyes left mine. He smiled at whatever was said and pushed off the counter before they headed into another room.

An indescribable wave of disappointment filled me when he left my sight. I mourned for the loss of someone I didn’t know. Grieved the death of a life I’d never had. It was just a look, barely a moment, more a fraction of a second, but it was more than Enzo had given me in months. Undivided attention, feeling seen . . . being wanted.

I didn’t even notice when Enzo returned to his chair. Didn’t notice him come back because my eyes were still on the window where the beautiful man had disappeared. But Enzo didn’t seem to notice that my attention was elsewhere because he was just as focused on the arancini as I’d been on the stranger.