Page 16 of Vicious Vows

“Ready?” I ask, drawing her hand away from her leg, and she nods at me. We slide across the back seat of the limo and out the door, and I lead her to the restaurant. It’s a ritzy little place I discovered years ago when searching for a good place to open my first business. I loved this entire block for my casino, but this little gem stole my heart and I opted for the casino’s current location in Lower Manhattan rather than upsetting one of my favorite eateries.

“This place looks expensive,” she says, sweeping her eyes up to take in the marquee. It is expensive, one of the oldest restaurants in the city. The two-story building has yet to be taken over by developers who have managed to secure the rest of the block and drive property values up. I’m sure given enough time, they will pounce on this little place and destroy it too with their gentrification.

“It is, and the food is to die for.” Micah shudders as if my comment is a threat or a warning, but I don’t honestly think anyone has died for this food, at least not here Stateside.

The bell above the door jingles as we walk in, and the maître d’ smiles brightly at me. “Right this way, Mr. Santoro.” He takes off into the dining room which is full of customers, some of them looking shocked to see me. I’m used to it.

The owners of this place and more than half the staff know me by name. Perhaps it's because I’ve been here quite frequently, or maybe it’s because I made it a point when I was searching for real estate to leave this little place alone. The owners were so grateful they offered to let me eat here free for life, but I know the value of a meal and a hard day’s work. Just being honored with the ability to enjoy this venue is enough.

We follow the man to my table, a round booth on a raised dais in the back corner, complete with a curtain to draw for privacy. I watch people staring as we pass and can’t help but notice the view myself. Micah always wears her jeans and T-shirt, partly because it’s the only outfit she has that belongs to her. Mostly because despite my having purchased a few things for her, she disdains them as if they don’t even exist. This week will change that.

“Bring us a bottle of house wine and the special,” I tell the maître d’ before he walks away, and Micah and I settle into the booth and get comfortable.

She’s quiet, sipping the glass of water already placed on the table in preparation for our visit. I called ahead to let them know we’d be here, and as usual, they’ve gone all out to make this special. There is a vase of roses, mints on our plate for after dinner, and the silverware is polished to a high sheen.

“You’re doing fantastic work.” I’m not afraid to offer compliments when they’re due, and she doesn’t seem shy about accepting them. That may or may not be a weakness on her part. It’s left to be determined. Overconfidence can be a detriment at times if one isn’t too careful.

“I know…” She sets the water down and stares across the table at my face. We know absolutely nothing about each other save the obvious, so I’m sure she has questions to ask. And we’ve had a lot of sex, taken a few meals together after a long day, and chatted in passing about work. But we haven’t really talked about deeper things. I search her expression, wondering what she’s thinking, and she sighs softly.

“What are you thinking?” The waiter returns as she pensively sips her water. He sets two glasses on the table and an ice bucket with a bottle of wine. He merely nods, not wanting to interrupt our conversation, and when he passes, she finally speaks.

“What sort of businesses are you running? I mean, outside of the drug smuggling and the casino?” Her fingers linger on the stemware set before her, hugging it loosely as condensation begins to form on the outside. I take the wine from the bucket and uncork it, then fill her wine glass and mine as I answer.

“Well, we hold interest in a financial firm, trading stocks and such. We also own a chain of restaurants in the greater New York area. But the casino is the main source of income. Why do you ask?” The glasses full, I set the wine bottle back into the ice bucket and put the cork in it. Micah suddenly looks dissatisfied, as if my answer doesn’t please her or if she was expecting me to say something else. She takes a deep breath and lets out a sigh, then picks up her wine and has a drink.

The dining room offers little privacy to have a truly intimate discussion without the curtain pulled, but I don’t think that’s what she’s expecting. I sip my wine as I wait for her to put her thoughts together again. Until now, she’s been very forthright about her thoughts and says things without letting her brain filter them. Tonight, however, she is acting differently. Like she wants to say something but doesn’t know how.

“You’re really good at what you do,” I lead on, hoping to stir her to words, and she smiles. She’s so beautiful when she smiles, and I take a moment to truly notice that. Micah has this ethereal beauty to her, like she’s stepped out of a portrait painted by the brushstrokes of a master artist.

“I really enjoy what I’m doing. I love the feeling of my fingers across the keys. Each keystroke feels satisfying. If I were typing novels or writing blogs, it would be no different. My fingers love the rhythm and tap of the action, and it’s quite soothing.” I watch her fingers twitch as she talks. I can see that about her—the tactile need to feel the keys beneath her fingers.

“But…” I probe, feeling like there is more that she hasn’t shared yet. I set my wine glass down and wait. The waiter brings a basket draped in a white cloth which I know is full of garlicky, buttery rolls fresh from the oven. I smell the savory scent, but I don’t take my attention from her. She smiles at the man, and henods knowingly again, saying nothing, then jets off toward the kitchen.

“My dad wants me out.” Her words are tart, sticking to the roof of her mouth. She washes them down with a gulp of wine and stares into the swirling burgundy liquid. “He is scared of you for good reason. I’m scared of going to prison for what I’m doing. I love doing it, but it’s unethical.”

“Unethical? To steal from men who rob and kill?” I chuckle, but she bristles, squaring her shoulders. I sigh. A woman with a conscience is a good thing. I have to remind myself of that because she will raise my son. And while this line of work isn’t so conducive to a moral compass, without at least the sensitivity for human life, we’ll be raising a serial killer, not a criminal mastermind.

Her eyes remain trained on her wine glass, but she rolls her lips together, probably forbidding her mouth to speak a retort she knows will upset me. Why is she holding back now? This fiery little minx has no problem riling me up and pissing me off. Though, I adore that she is so innocent and pure. I was that once—young, naïve, innocent… Then I grew up and realized the world is going to put rules around you every second of every day. Rules are made for the weak, the ones who can be shepherded.

I break rules because I can. Because I found a path that was better for me, one that allows me to live a life most people only dream of. The rules were broken for a man like me before I was even born. I was brought into this system before I knew it existed.

“You rob and kill and steal…” She draws her gaze up from her glass to my face. There’s a sobriety there that makes me pause and question the very fabric of my existence. A conviction sodeep, I want to be different—better—for her. She makes me feel that way.

“And I protect those who work with me and for me and those I care about.” I state the last fact as I look her in the eye. Yes, I care that she’s making me a very,verywealthy man, though I was wealthy before this all started. And yes, I care that she stole from me and owes me more than she’ll ever imagine. Being shown as vulnerable was a huge hit to my influence in this city.

But there’s something more about Micah I can’t put my finger on, and that’s the part that makes me truly weak. Not the information she has on my organization, not the fact that she can put a knife to my throat while I sleep and I’ll never be the wiser until I wake in pain and bleeding. But because she’s worked her way into my thoughts when my mind is unoccupied and my heart when I’m not otherwise distracted.

“I suppose that may be true.” Her eyes sink again. She doubts that I can protect her from my enemies and the authorities, but I didn’t get where I am only because my father died. If he didn’t think me capable, he’d have handed the reins over to an uncle or cousin. I know what I’m doing. My men don’t get caught because I train them, and if they do get caught, I have men on the police force to help with that.

“Let’s dance,” I tell her, sliding my hand across the table to take hers. Her fingers are cold and damp from the condensation on her glass. Her eyes widen and then darken.

She glances around the dining room nervously and scoffs. “No one is dancing.” I watch the blush creep into her cheeks and her tongue draw across her lower lip in protest.

“Come,” I order, slipping off the bench. She stands with me, her cheeks flushed a deep pink, and I pull her against my body and begin to sway to the light music playing in the overhead speakers. “You have nothing to worry about,mia cara. And if you are feeling guilty about the funds, we can help alleviate some guilt. What if I give ten percent of all the profits to some charity, something you choose?”

Assuaging guilt was my father’s specialty. His Robin Hood mentality of taking from others to fuel what he deemed philanthropic pursuits of arming civilians and helping them self-medicate with recreational drugs was a cornerstone of his life. And it was the only reason my mother stuck with him. She saw the redeeming quality in his work where no one else could.

“Anything I want?” she asks, now relaxing in my embrace. The music grows louder, and I see another couple with beaming smiles rise from their table and begin dancing too. Micah’s eyes sweep out over the sea of people lost in their own conversations and dinners, though her ear is tuned to my voice. She has such poise and grace, it’s hard to believe I’m the lucky man who married her—even if it was something she had little choice but to accept.

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