Page 20 of Cage of Thorns and Blood

That was always the plan, but these days a part of my mind seems to be a throwback to our ancient past as cave dwellers keep saying there should be a new plan.

Fuck her. Keep her. Put a baby in her. Make her mine.

Jesus Christ, I need to get a grip.

Once I've taken my seat beside her, I order my driver to take us to the restaurant and try to act as if I’m not having an existential crisis.

“You look beautiful,” I tell Renata truthfully.

“You don't look half bad yourself,” she says in reply with a cheeky smile.

Her damn perfume drives me half mad, and it fills my car as we drive. It's heady but not cloying. It's one of those scents that's very distinct and warm, but in no way makes you feel sick or will give you a headache. My mother used to wear a perfume that made me want to vomit every time I rode in the car with her. It was something strong and musky. This is so different. It’s juicy, like Renata.

Her hands are folded over her lap, and I notice she's wearing a three-diamond ring on her right hand. I wonder if that's her engagement ring and if she's wearing it on her opposite hand now. She doesn't strike me as the sort of woman who would do that. She got more than enough money to buy herself a new ring if she wanted one when she got divorced. And I can't see her wearing her ex-husband’s ring out of any sort of sentimentality.

She glances at me and then down to her hand. “It was my grandmother's ring,” she says.

That makes sense. The style doesn't really suit her taste, if I compare it to the other jewelry she’s wearing. The necklace around her throat is big, chunky, and modern. Her earrings are the same, and almost look like something from an art gallery. The ring is traditional, and now that I look at it again, I can see it has a vintage appearance.

“I loved my nonna on my babbo’s side,” she says.

Her words strike me as incongruous. Not that she loved her grandmother; there's nothing strange in that. She's saying it, however, as if her grandmother is the only person she's ever really loved. She's saying it as if her loving someone is an unusual thing, a rarity. I don’t say anything to her about it, but I file the information away for later.

We arrive at the restaurant, and our driver parks right outside the front door. I jog around the car and open the door for Renata. We head inside the small, warm space and the owner, Luigi, greets me enthusiastically with a hug and a slap on the back. I've been coming here for many years, since being a young child when my father first brought me.

“It smells absolutely delicious in here,” Renata says with a soft groan.

Although I'm aware that her groan is for the food, it goes straight to my dick. We are shown to our table, which is tucked away in an alcove by a window. It's practically hidden from the rest of the room, which gives privacy and has a view out over the street. Not that this is an especially pretty part of town, but it's a nice evening, and the street is tree lined. Opposite is a small cafe bar with people sitting outside sipping at drinks.

Luigi seats us and whisks away, returning a moment later with two menus. “Would you like some wine?” he asks.

“I would love a glass of Prosecco please?” Renata says.

I order a beer for now, and then we both sit in silence for a moment as we read the menu.

“What's good here? What would you recommend?” Renata looks at me over the top of her menu.

“It's all excellent,” I say. “I can definitely recommend the braciole,” I add.

She hums under her breath.

“The other thing they do very well is pizza. Best pizza I’ve had outside of Naples.”

Her eyes light up at that. She glances back at the menu and reads for a moment, then she looks back at me. “I love pizza,” she says. “I feel like I should order something a bit more sophisticated, but I really do love pizza.”

I laugh and shake my head at her. “Order what you want. I love the pizza here too. Why don't we have a pizza each and share a big salad and maybe some nibbles? Maybe some olives and grilled artichokes.”

She claps her hands together lightly, and the action reminds me of a child. Something about seeing her like this, a moment of unbridled happiness, makes my heart ache a little. It makes me realize how very few times I've seen Renata this way.

Fuck her, use her, discard her and teach her a lesson for screwing your best friend, asshole.

Or, I argue with myself, keep her, make her mine, whether she wants it or not.

“I would love that,” she says with relish. “Seriously that's my favorite kind of food. Little bits to pick at here and there, and then pizza as well. You can't go wrong. I’ve always wondered why we Italians never took up the Spanish or Greek habit for a mezze style meal.”

“They do in Venice,” I tell her.

“Really? I've never been.”

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