Page 174 of Forced Vows

"And you love it."

I do. Almost as much as I love him.

When we get to the restaurant, the smells coming from inside make my stomach rumble again.

Ignoring the other people waiting in a line near the host stand, Miceli steps right up to it. "Miceli De Luca."

That's all he says. His name. But the man nods quickly and says, "Your party is this way."

As we go by the host stand, someone says, "We don't take reservations." I don't hear any more of the conversation though.

The maître 'd seats us at a table on the terrace near the red velvet rope separating it from the sidewalk and leaves.

The table is set for two. "I thought he said our party was already here?"

Miceli shrugs and looks at the menu.

"I just heard that waiter tell the person calling they don't take reservations," I lean forward to whisper to Miceli.

He glances up briefly to meet my eyes. "They don't."

"But you said we had a reservation. You gave that guy your name."

"We do."

"You're not making any sense."

"When I call for a table in a Manhattan restaurant, one gets set aside for me."

"It must be nice to be king."

"Right now, I am the prince and it has its perks."

But he will be king. Once Severu De Luca becomes the next godfather, my fiancé will become a don. King of New York.

I have to stifle a giggle at the thought.

Irish mobsters don't think in terms of royalty. Boss is more than a title, it's a position and it comes with power and influence.

But my uncle is right. The Italian mafia is more formal than we are.

My pasta is being set down in front of me when a commotion behind me catches my attention.

I turn to look and gasp. "That's…"

I don't say the name of the celebrity aloud but I can't help staring.

"Yes, it is. Now, turn back around and eat your food, Róise."

Suitably chastised for my gauche behavior, I do as Miceli said. I know better than to rubberneck, don't I? How many times has my family been gawked at when we eat in public?

Uncle Brogan might not be a king, but he's as notorious as any member of the Royal Family. And we are by association.

Miceli's expression isn't judgy though. He's smiling at me. "Do you want to meet her?"

I shake my head. "Not really." The truth is, I'd rather be here, alone at the table with him.

Which makes me a lot less brainy than my grade point average implies.

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