Page 29 of Salvatore

She bolts toward the door, whipping around to point frantically at Sal’s back. Holy shit, she mouths.

Something in my expression causes him to glance over his shoulder, in time for poor Autumn to crash into the raised breakfast bar separating the kitchen from the living room.

I lurch forward. “I’m okay,” she says, clutching her side as she limps out the door.

Sal meets me with a frown when the door slams shut behind her. “What the fuck’s wrong with her?”

“She’s just nervous,” I say. You see, she’s not used to seeing hot guys She stares at vaginas all day. “She’s actually a well-respected midwife.”

“You serious?”

“Um. Yes.” I reach for my coat, draped over the armchair of the couch. “Shall we?”

“Here. Let me.” He takes the coat from my grasp and helps me into it. My heart flutters. Despite what he claims and what I’ve experienced, I’m convinced he’s a true and honest gentleman.

It doesn’t take long to discover how wrong I really am.

Sal takes us to an elegant restaurant in the city, originally founded in Little Italy. “This is lovely,” I say as we step inside.

“The atmosphere is great, but the food is even better,” he murmurs against my ear, stroking my back gently.

The maitre d’ straightens when he notices us. Sal’s caress remains gentle against my spine, but his expression isn’t as endearing. It’s that one he most frequently demonstrates, a quiet lethality few could pull off.

“Good evening, Mr. Romero,” the maître d tells him as he draws closer.

Sal holds out his hand. “Just a table for two tonight, Suvio.”

The man releases a breath, appearing relieved. I’m not sure what’s happening, but I know this isn’t the right time to ask.

“This way, please,” he says. He leads us to a quiet booth at the rear of the dimly lit restaurant. It’s large with dark leather seats, its mere size enough to swallow us whole.

I smile at him and at the other man who appears with two leather-bound menus. Neither seem to notice me, their full focus on Sal.

“Do you want wine?” Sal asks me.

I smile. “I thought you said you didn’t drink.”

He smirks. “I said I rarely drink. But I always take my pasta with a glass of red.” He looks to the waiter, who materialized from nowhere. “A blend of your best.”

Sal tosses his menu to the side and slides across the leather booth, dissolving the small distance between us. His arm seeks my waist. I quiver at his touch. “Are you cold?” he asks.

“No. Just a little nervous,” I admit.

The corners of his mouth lift. “You have nothing to worry about. Not with me next to you.”

“I know,” I answer.

I want to keep looking at him and that smile he offers. But shyness has me averting my gaze. I catch sight of the maître d as he hurries to speak to the staff, appearing anxious. “Is he all right?” I ask, when he dabs his forehead with a handkerchief.

“Business isn’t what it used to be here. The restaurant might be shutting down,” he tells me.

I scan the room, and with the exception of another booth similar to ours, the place is packed and there are several people waiting at the entrance. “It looks like a popular place,” I say.

“It’s because it’s a weekend.” He takes a sip of his water. “You need more than two good nights to keep a restaurant this size running in New York.”

“I suppose,” I reply, although I admit I remain very much confused. As I skim through the menu, the array of dishes along with the exorbitant prices overwhelm me. I place it aside and motion to his abandoned menu. “Are you going to look through the selections?”

“Don’t need to.” His brown eyes spark with heat. “I already know what I want.”

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