Page 6 of Mafioso's Muse

The manager nodded.

‘Much appreciated,’ Nigel said. ‘Make sure you come have a drink with us later. I’ll introduce you to our creative director.’

Vaughn planned on being busy for the rest of the evening. ‘Enjoy.’

He returned to his office to listen to his voicemails. There were a number of family and business calls, followed by one from his mother. She wanted to know if he was coming to dinner on Friday. There might not have been a drop of Italian blood in her veins, but she had taken to Italian culture like a duck to water. Family was everything to her. Lucky for her, because she was part of one of the largest Italian families in the state: the Merit Group.

One big, chaotic, violent, and suffocating family.

After an hour of making calls and reassuring his mother that he would be at dinner on Friday, Vaughn returned to the bar for a scotch. He took it straight off the top shelf and poured it neat, savouring the burn as he scanned the room over the rim of his glass. His gaze snagged on a figure standing alone in front of the far wall, studying the mural. She wore a knee-length cocktail dress with an open back, her dark hair twisted into a low bun. It was clear from her figure that she was a dancer, presumably one of Nigel’s.

Vaughn watched as she stepped slowly along the wall, a pink clutch in her hand, studying every inch of the artwork. After a few minutes waiting for her to turn around so he could see her face, he grew impatient and ventured out from behind the bar, heading to the other end of the wall. From there, he could see her profile, a softly pointed chin and high cheekbones that shimmered. Her lips curved slightly in concentration as she studied the art. She was beautiful from that angle.

The woman glanced suddenly in his direction, her gaze falling to the tattoo on his neck before she quickly looked away. She pretended to study the art again, but he saw her swallow, clearly aware of his eyes on her. Eventually, she looked back in his direction. She was captivating from all angles.

Intrigued, Vaughn ventured closer, stopping when he saw her tense up slightly. He tried to respect people’s boundaries when it was practical to do so. There were many circumstances in his life where it wasn’t.

He didn’t say anything at first, studying the mural alongside her, appreciating the vivid colour and intricate details with fresh eyes.

She was first to break the silence. ‘I was trying to think where I had seen this artwork before.’ She shook her head. ‘Then I remembered the bar was called Titian.’

She had one of those gentle voices that are pleasant to listen to. ‘Don’t beat yourself up. Most people have no idea who Titian is.’

A small smile came and went on her face.

He glanced sideways at her. ‘Assumption of the Virgin, 1516 to 1518.’

A nod. ‘The detail and colour are… breathtaking. I don’t remember having the same appreciation last time I saw his work.’

‘Too small, perhaps.’

She nodded again. ‘Wall-sized is definitely better.’

He took a sip of his scotch. ‘You from Vic Ballet?’

She turned to face him, and he took a moment to appreciate the front view. The way the fabric of her dress hugged her curves had him taking another drink.

‘I’m in the chorus.’ Her eyes moved over him. ‘Would I be right in guessing that you’re one of our generous supporters?’

It was clear she had no idea who he was. Perhaps she didn’t watch the news. ‘This is my bar.’

Her eyebrows lifted. ‘Oh. Congratulations.’

‘On owning a bar?’

‘On owningthisbar.’

He was aware of how intently he was watching her, but he was having difficulty looking away. She had a mesmeric presence about her, which was a new experience for him—and a worry. ‘How long have you been in the corps de ballet?’

Her eyebrows rose slightly. ‘He speaks the lingo. You know about ballet as well as art?’

‘It’s all art, isn’t it?’

She nodded slowly. ‘I suppose it is.’

He took another drink. ‘What’s your name?’

‘Willow.’ When he didn’t respond straight away, she asked, ‘Are you going to tell me your name, or should I guess?’

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