Page 13 of Tormented Oath

He orders something expensive in perfect Italian, and I pretend to study the menu, using it as a shield against the intensity of his stare. But I can feel his gaze like a physical caress, heavy with ten years of hunger.

"You haven't changed," he says softly, voice rough with something that makes heat pool in my stomach. "You’re still beautiful enough to stop a man's heart."

I look up, meeting those dangerous blue eyes. "Everything's changed."

"Not the important things."

He leans forward, invading my space like he has every right to do so. His cologne hits me—expensive and masculine andhim.

"You still bite your lip when you're nervous, still tap your fingers when you're planning something, still make me want to lock you away where no one else can see you."

The last part is said so quietly I almost miss it. Almost.

I force my fingers to stay still against the menu. Damn. I'd forgotten he could do this—turn the air electric with just a look, just a word.

"And you're still intense to a fault." I set the menu down, letting some of my old attitude show despite how my pulse is racing. "Tell me, do you stare at all your dancers like you want to devour them, or am I special?"

"You know exactly how special you are, Ava." The way he says my name sounds like a prayer and a curse. "You always have."

The wine arrives before I can respond, and I'm grateful for the interruption. I watch him go through the tasting ritual, his hands moving with precise grace. Every gesture screams controlled power, but there's something else there now—barely leashed hunger. It makes me shiver again.

"To unexpected reunions," he says, raising his glass, his eyes burning into mine.

I clink my glass against his, careful not to let our fingers brush. "To new beginnings."

The wine is excellent, of course. Everything about this evening is excellent, which makes what I have to do even harder. I take another sip, letting the alcohol warm my blood, trying to ignore how he watches my throat as I swallow.

"So," he says, voice dropping to an intimate register, "are we going to talk about why you're really here?"

My heart skips, but I keep my face neutral. "I told you. I need a job."

"In my club?" His eyes pin me in place, possessive enough to make my breath hitch. "In my city? After ten years of nothing?"

"Chicago's a big place." I shrug, aiming for casual despite the electricity crackling between us. "I didn't know it was your club until today."

"Liar." He reaches across the table, trailing one finger down my wrist. The simple touch sends sparks shooting up my arm. "You always were good at that—telling just enough truth to make the lies believable. But your body could never lie to me, could it?"

If he only knew.

I lean forward, letting my coat slip slightly. His eyes darken as they track the movement. "Maybe I just wanted to dance."

"Maybe." His voice rough. "Or maybe fate finally brought you back where you belong. With me."

The possessiveness in his tone should terrify me. Instead, it awakens something primal in me, something that reminds me of how it felt to be his. I reach for my wine glass to steady my hands. "Aren't we all just searching for somewhere to belong?"

His laugh is low, dangerous. "Not anymore." He leans forward too, close enough that I can feel his breath on my lips. "I found what I was searching for. And this time, I'm not letting you run away."

I meet his gaze across the candlelight, feeling like I'm drowning. Because this—this intensity, this magnetic pull between us—this is exactly what I was afraid of. This is what the Fiori family was counting on.

And God help me, but I'm already falling.

The sommelier brings a second bottle of wine, and I watch Stefano's expression darken slightly as he waves him away. There's a new tension in his shoulders that wasn't there before, like he's bracing himself for something.

"Tell me what happened," I say softly, surprising myself with how much I want to know. "With your family."

His jaw tightens, and for a moment I see a flash of raw pain before it's buried again. "It was quick. Professional." His fingers tighten around his glass. "One night, my father and brothers were at a business meeting. The next morning, Chicago had a new crime family in power."

The clinical way he describes it makes my heart ache. I remember his brothers—Darren with his easy laugh, Antonio with his quick temper. Both of them had treated me kindly, even though I was just the daughter of con artists.

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