Page 26 of Bad Little Bride

I break our stare first, my attention lasered on the front of the private restaurant, counting steps in my head to have something to focus on. It works fine until we step inside the cocktail room, and Enzo removes my light overcoat, passing it to the gentleman who appears.

I push a foot ahead, but Enzo needs no effort to keep up, his form looming inches behind me every step of the way. I step up to the bar, curling my fingers around the thick golden trim.

This being an establishment that didn’t so much as ask for our names as we walked in yet greeted Enzo with a bow of respect tells me my age is a non-issue. This place is without a doubt owned and operated by someone from the underground, likely ran as a cover for something else, so when the woman behind the counter offers a smile, I order a shot of Macallan 1824.

She lifts two glasses, pouring and passing them over.

I frown, but then Enzo reaches beyond me, claiming one for his own. I half expect him to take them both and pour them out into the abandoned glass beside us, but he doesn’t.

“To the first of many nights with you,” he whispers against my ear.

His words and the passion behind them are unexpected and momentarily freeze me in place, but then his glass comes down, slamming onto the bar and yanking me out of it.

Rather than throw mine back as he did, as I originally intended to do, I take my time, spinning the shot once, twice, and then slowly pour it into my mouth, savoring the burn as it slides down my throat.

The bartender pushes two glasses of white wine toward us then, but before I can wrap my fingers around the stem, Enzo’s find their way to my shoulders. His palms dance their way down my arms, and I fight the wave of goosebumps threatening to appear in their path. He bends, dragging his five-o'clock shadow across my jaw and then neck. I shiver, despite myself, and I swear his lips curve against my skin.

“Are you ready?” he rasps, arms wrapping tight around my middle from behind, tucking me into his large frame like I’m precious and he can’t get close enough. Hugging me to him and burying me in the warmth of his embrace.

Or if this were real, that’s what it would feel like.

“Ready?” It’s all I can manage to say.

His fingers lace with mine, and he shifts me slightly, so my right shoulder is pressed to his right pec. His dark eyes snap to mine, and he lifts our linked hands to his lips.

My gaze snaps to the contact, and I suck in a sharp breath.

The ring on my ring finger isn’t the big-ass, bougie diamond I pretended to want. In fact, I can say for certain it’s not a diamond that was in those cases at all.

The band is rose gold with a single, square diamond in the middle. It’s princess cut and almost dainty. It’s so…me.

It’s exactly what I would have chosen.

“This was the closest I could get in your color.”

My eyes slice to his, my lips parting, but he gives the slightest shake of his head. Enzo lowers his chin, his lips coming down on the diamond, his tongue sneaking across my knuckle at the same time.

“You’re early,” a deep voice reaches my ears.

I attempt to look toward the familiar voice, but Enzo’s hold on me tightens, keeping me still a moment longer. Slowly, he frees my hand, but the arm wrapped around my body doesn't move, even when he shifts so he’s more at my side than my back.

Gorgio Mitchell, member of the eastern district, stands there, half-empty glass of whiskey at his lips.

“Gorgio.” Enzo reaches out, shaking the hand of the man I’ve met several times, as one of my father's associates…the kind of associate you trust nothing about but are forced to play nice with when necessary. “You know Miss Revenaw.”

The man pins his big blue eyes on me. To a stranger, they’d be mesmerizing, but I know what kind of man lurks beneath them. There is a reason my father kept him on a leash he held the handle to in Salvador’s absence.

“Oh, yes.” Gorgio smiles, and it’s as calculating as ever. “Like my son, I could never forget the little ballerina. How are you this evening?”

“Boston Revenaw.”

My name comes from the left before my response and Enzo’s fingertips flex against me.

Philip Mitchell, the very son Gorgio just mentioned, saunters up with confidence, his solid black suit perfectly fitted, not a blond hair out of place. He slides his hands in his pockets and tips his head, a smirk pulled across his lips.

“Philip.” I say his name like a tease and a playful warning. The guy was born a flirt, and he is definitely laying his charm on thick, even without a word. “Back from your summer abroad so soon?”

“Hopped on the red-eye the minute I heard you’d be here.” He doubles down on the flirting, his grin growing mischievous, but before mine can take shape, Enzo steps in front of me.

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